2015. Another year down!

Posted on 18 December 2015 by Jessie Garland

It’s that time of year again. Behold! Some of our favourite discoveries and images from 2015. It’s been an eventful twelve months.

Archaeology happened. Sites were surveyed, excavated, photographed, investigated, disseminated and ruminated upon. Clues were followed and mysteries unravelled. Adventures were had. Memories were made.

Kirsa learned not to let other people set the total station up for her, lest they make it too high and force her to stand on tip-toes. Image: K. Bennett.

Excavating a pit feature on site in full protective gear. Image: K. Bone.

We really brought the glamour back to archaeology this year. This site yielded our largest assemblage for the year and ended up being one of the most interesting sites we’ve investigated in Christchurch, encompassing entrepreneurship, early artefacts, political machinations and many other aspects of the city’s history. Image: K. Bone.

Archaeologists captured in the wild. This is one of our more recent excavations, which revealed a layer of burned artefact material across the site. Figuring out the story behind it is going to be fun. Image: C. Dickson.

In which Fran found a foundry floor and frantically forged ahead to figure out the foundations of her find. Image: H. Williams.

We did a lot of work in Lyttelton over the year, including a site that yielded a large collection of artefacts. It’s one of the more unusual ones we’ve worked on in a while, excavated as it was underneath a house that had been raised onto pylons above the archaeologists. Image: P. Mitchell.

Throwing shade. Image: K. Webb.

The Manchester Street fire tank! This was built in 1885 for the Fire Brigade and held 114,000 litres of water to be used by the brigade during their fire fighting endeavours. Image: H. Williams.

One of the more complicated houses we recorded in 2015. A house was built on the site in the 1860s, followed by a 13 room house built in 1871 by Wyatt the grocer, who lived there until the 1890s. Eventually, in 1893 the whole house was dismantled and rebuilt on 1890s foundations using some of the original 1871 material, leaving a mixture of 1871 and 1893 materials and styles in the house to baffle future archaeologists. Photo: P. Mitchell. Drawing: K. Webb.

The oldest building we recorded this year, a cottage constructed in 1851. Image: F. Bradley.

Sometimes, buildings archaeology can have strange effects on people. Case in point, all it takes to bring out a historian’s inner gangster is a little heritage related graffiti. Image: F. Bradley.

In which two muddy archaeologists prove themselves to be peace loving and a giant nerd. Image: K. Bone.

Many animals were encountered over the year, from cats and dogs to these curious goats. Image: H. Williams.

I already regret including this photo. Image: J. Garland.

I already regret including this photo. Image: K. Bone.

Site work was just the tip of the iceberg. Discoveries were discovered. Exhibitions were exhibited. Analysts analysed things. Photographers photographed even more things. Researchers researched all the things. Need I go on?

A rather unusual walking stick, featuring a sheep foot masquerading as a handle, complete with small metal shoe at the hoof. Image: J. Garland.

A rather unusual walking stick, featuring a sheep foot masquerading as a handle, complete with small metal shoe at the hoof. This was found underneath the floorboards of a turn of the century house in the city. Image: J. Garland.

Part of a huge rubbish pit filled with bottles discovered in Rangiora. Quite an unusual assemblage, this one. Image: M. Hennessey.

An Italian Buildings patterned plate emerging from the earth. Image: J. Garland.

An inscribed brick, found to have possible connections to the great-great-grandfather of one of our archaeologists. Image: H. Williams.

Analysis got a little unconventional at times. We persevered. Image: J. Garland.

Beard analysis! Microscope also used to identify archaeological textiles. We do actually do some work on occasion. Image: Underground Overground.

Castanets! Or musical wooden owls, if you prefer. Image: J. Garland.

A Christchurch trade token, used as a form of substitute currency in the city in the 19th century, when actual currency was a bit scarce. Image: J. Garland.

A Christchurch trade token, used as a form of substitute currency in the city in the 19th century, when actual currency was a bit scarce. These aren’t common finds at all. Image: J. Garland.

One of the more interesting stories we came across in Papers Past this year. Image:

Many, many treasures were discovered through the delight that is Papers Past. This is both one of the more interesting stories we came across this year and one of the most recurring. The Mystery of the Severed Hand was, apparently, one for the storybooks. Image: Press 14/06/1905: 8.

This, on the other hand, is easily the most sexist thing we found this year. Fair warning, may induce speechlessness and incredulous laughter. Image: Observer 29/04/1882: 100.

Even more artefacts. A very tiny sample of the stuff we’ve worked with this year. Image: J. Garland.

We held several exhibitions throughout the year, including the online 'Pieces of the Past' and 'Boom or Bust', shown here. Image: J. Garland.

We also held several exhibitions throughout the year, including the online ‘Pieces of the Past’ and ‘Boom or Bust’, shown here. Image: J. Garland.

It’s been quite the busy year, really. We need a nap, or we might fall over from exhaustion.

Whoops. Too late. Image: K. Bennett.

From everyone at Underground Overground, Merry Christmas and a happy new year to you all! We’ll see you in 2016 (the blog will be back in February).

A matter of perspective

Posted on 11 December 2015 by Jessie Garland

Early photographs are the best. They encompass everything from the utterly absurd to the momentous to the mundane. They provide us with a window into the past that is rare and wonderful (especially from an archaeological perspective), putting faces to names and shapes to cities. We are indebted to those who took them, the pioneers and innovators who experimented with chemicals and light and hid under big black sheets in an attempt to freeze time into a single frame. Yet, most of the time, they’re no more than a name scribbled on the back of a photograph, if that. We so very rarely get to meet these photographers, to look behind the images in front of us to the people through whose lens we are now viewing the past.

Father Christmas from Gimblett collection CCL.

A seasonally appropriate and completely wonderful photograph of Father Christmas visiting Heathcote School in the early 1900s. It is quite possibly the best thing I have seen in a long time. Image: Christchurch City Libraries, File Reference Gimblett-0011.

A wee while ago now, we excavated a site on Oxford Terrace with several phases of occupation and activity, including the 1870s-1880s use of the section by a commercial bonded warehouse. We excavated rather a lot of artefacts from the site, some of them associated with the bonded warehouse and some of them associated with the occupation of a cottage on the section from its construction in 1851 until the mid-1870s. Over the decades, this cottage was occupied by a range of people, including a butcher and tailor (but not a candlestick maker). Just one of these occupants, however, was responsible for most of the material culture we found in association with this phase of activity on the site. Through a combination of product types and manufacturing dates (and historical records), we were able to trace the assemblage back to Mr Samuel Charles Louis Lawrence, photographer extraordinaire and resident of Oxford Terrace from the mid-1860s until the early 1870s.

An old photograph of Oxford Terrace west, showing the 1851 cottage (the building with a verandah) and a photograph of the site as we excavated it. Image:

An old photograph of Oxford Terrace west, showing the 1851 cottage (the third building from the corner with the verandah) next to Walton and Warner’s bonded store and a photograph of the site as we excavated it in 2013. Image: (above) Andersen 1949: 320; (below) M. Carter.

Mr Charles Lawrence, as he was known professionally, arrived in New Zealand in the 1860s and promptly set himself up as a photographer on Oxford Terrace West, next to Walton and Warner’s bonded store. We know that he offered a variety of photographic styles such as carte de visite, cabinet, miniature and “every description of picture taken in the most artistic style” (Southern Provinces Almanac, cited by Canterbury Photography). He appears to have become quite successful: he was advertised as “photographer by especial appointment to his excellency Sir James Fergusson” in 1873 and moved into larger premises, known as the Central Photographic Rooms, on High Street in 1874.

He was something of an innovator as well, as evident from a legal dispute described in the newspapers in 1888. Lawrence took F. H. von Schoeneberg to court for the sum of £25 over patent claims to a new camera front that they had developed together. As one account of the court case stated, “they had drunk laager beer over it, and talked religion over it, and the existence of God or a hereafter had been denied over it” (Press 18/05/1888: 6). As a side note, he appears to have been involved in another unrelated court case in 1871 regarding a group of photographers breaching the Distillation Act through the home use of stills to distill water for their photographic enterprises. They were let off with “the understanding that they were to memorialise the Commissioner of Customs for licenses” (Star 18/08/1871: 3).

Account of legal patent dispute between Charles Lawrence and H. F. von Shoenberg. Image: Press 18/05/1888: 6.

The artefacts we found at the site of Lawrence’s cottage included many of the types of artefacts that we find on domestic sites all over the city – such as tea and table wares, food containers (condiments!), alcohol bottles, personal hygiene items, pharmaceutical bottles, smoking pipes and shoes, as well as slightly more unusual artefacts, like decanters and toothbrushes. Some of the material reflects the 1860s-early 1870s date of use and discard, with manufacturing dates ranging from the late 1850s through into the late 1860s. Some of it provides evidence for the presence of children at the site: we found several pairs of children’s size gaitor boots (ankle boots with elastic sides), which could easily have belonged to Charles Lawrence’s children (although, being difficult to date, they may have belonged to earlier residents of the site).

Selection of artefacts likely to have been associated with Charles Lawrence’s occupation of the site. Image: J. Garland.

Unfortunately, what the assemblage didn’t really provide was material culture related to Charles’ photography business, with one exception. The only evidence we found of his photographic pursuits took the form of bottle from London based firm R. W. Thomas, who made all manner of chemicals and other sundries used in the practice of photography. We could speculate about the rest of the artefacts found – perhaps some of them could have been used to serve refreshments to or entertain clients who came to the Oxford Terrace house to have their photographs taken. We don’t know. Maybe some of the artefacts could have been used as props in his images, everyday objects used to make the studio staged photographs seem more real.

R. W. Thomas bottle from the site on Oxford Terrace. Image: J. Garland.

R. W. Thomas bottle from the site on Oxford Terrace. R. W. Thomas operated as a photogrraphic merchant from 1851 until 1894, becoming R. W. Thomas & Co. and then R. W. Thomas & Co. Ltd in the 1880s. Thomas sold all manner of photographic equipment, from dry plates, dark tents and cameras to the chemicals and products necessary for the development of the photographs. Image: J. Garland.

Fortunately for us, several of Charles Lawrence’s photographs have survived. Some of them are accessible through the Alexander Turnbull Library collections, others through the Canterbury Photography blog. They show a range of figures from a long since lost Christchurch, some of them known to history, some of them now just faces without names. They capture men, women and children looking off into the distance, staring inquisitively, uncertainly, decisively at the viewer, posing artfully against plinths, armchairs and walls. They do not, however, include any of the artefacts that we found on the site, in a turn of events that is disappointing but not surprising.

Photographs taken by Charles Lawrence in the 19th century. Notice the same arm chair and table popping up in different images, along with the same curtain, arranged in different ways. The different styles of clothing are also fascinating, although perhaps not indicative of everyday life (one would wear one's best to have a portrait taken, after all). Images: Canterbury Photography.

Photographs taken by Charles Lawrence in the 19th century. The different styles of clothing are also fascinating, although perhaps not indicative of everyday life (one would wear one’s best to have a portrait taken, after all). Images: Canterbury Photography.

The photographs themselves are interesting artefacts of life in 19^th century Christchurch, though, when you look at them closely. The people in them are fascinating, from their clothes – spanning fashions from the 1860s into the 1870s – to their hairstyles, their expressions, their poses. There’s even one example of the classic ‘Victorian ghost mother’, in which a mother sits, covered in a rug for the sake of (ineffective) camouflage, holding on to a child in order to, presumably, stop it running away.

In which a child sits on the lap of a ‘camouflaged’ figure. Image: Canterbury Photography.

If you look closely enough, you can even see behind the scenes of the image, to the parts that make up the sum. Maybe because I’ve been looking at them with the photographer in mind more than the subject, thinking about his premises on Oxford Terrace and the process behind these images that he’s taken, it’s easy to see the pieces that make up the image. You can see the same props popping up in different images, the same plinth, the same balustrade, the same armchair. You can imagine the studio – perhaps not the carefully framed room visible in the images, but a collection of separate elements, artfully arranged to create the illusion of a whole when viewed from just the right angle. You can even imagine Mr Lawrence with his camera set up, directing his subjects to stand or sit just so, before capturing their likenesses with glass and chemicals and light.

More photographs taken by Charles Lawrence. Notice the same arm chair and table popping up in different images (including some of those above). The balustrade in the right hand image shows up several times in other photographs on the Alexander Turnbull website as well. Images: Canterbury Photography.

Charles Lawrence continued to work as a photographer in Christchurch until the 1880s, when he went bankrupt and moved to Ashburton. He died there in 1891. He is survived by the footprint he left behind him in the archaeological record and the faces of the past that look back at us through his lens. One man and his camera, connecting present to past and past to present with the click of a shutter.

Jessie Garland

Our thanks to Natasha Wells, for pointing us in the direction of the Canterbury Photography blog, and our thanks to the author of that blog, who kindly allowed us to use some of Charles Lawrence’s photographs in this post.

A crumbling mystery…

Posted on 4 December 2015 by Jessie Garland

North and west elevations of the house.

Regarded as Christchurch’s oldest home, this two storey farm cottage was built in 1851-2 for Mr. Parkerson, a surgeon. It was built with 600 mm thick scoria stone blocks quarried from Lyttelton and roofed with Welsh slate.

Exposed wall structure in upstairs bedroom.

600 mm thick south wall of original stone cottage.

Stonemason’s minor blunder hidden in the cupboard under the stairs.

The layout of this cottage is unusual, and some have suggested it was a common design back in Norfolk, England. Downstairs, the two rooms are orientated around central back-to-back stone fireplaces, with a chimney that runs up through the centre of the house, and there’s no central hall.

Central fireplace in the east downstairs main room.

Central fireplace in the west downstairs main room.

Oddly enough, this small cottage has two mirroring staircases at either end of the house, each leading to two small upstairs bedrooms. But perhaps the most bizarre aspect about this building is the absence of a connecting doorway to allow the occupants to access both ends of the house.

Staircase at east end of house.

Staircase at west end of house.

Upstairs main bedrooms once separated by a brick wall (which collapsed in the earthquakes).

Original casement windows in upstairs bedroom.

Exposed early split lath used to constructed a wall in the west downstairs main room.

The layout of this mid-19th century stone cottage presents us with whole new set of questions about the mysterious ways our ancestors lived, and will help us understand the development of Christchurch’s domestic architecture.

Francesca Bradley

Let’s paint the town, shall we?

Posted on 6 November 2015 by Jessie Garland

So much of the archaeology that we deal with on a daily basis, particularly from an artefacts perspective, is associated with the everyday domestic lives of Christchurch’s 19^th century residents that it becomes quite easy to forget about the other industrial and commercial aspects of life in the city in the 1800s. Every now and then, however, we are reminded that – as is the case today – there was another side to Christchurch that was just as important, if not quite as archaeologically obvious.

On that note, while working through a box of artefacts recently, I came across several stoneware jar stoppers with DAVID STORER AND SONS / GLASGOW impressed on the top, circling the image of a bell. As it turns out, David Storer and Sons were oil and paint manufacturers operating during the latter decades of the 19^th century. They made all kinds of paint, oil and varnishes, from olive and linseed oils to white lead paints, yellow ochre paints and several types of varnish. Presumably, some of these were intended as artist’s paints, while others were made for more utilitarian or structural purposes (still artistic in a way, though, right?).

David Storer and Sons stoneware lid. Image: J. Garland.

Their products show up in shipping manifestos and advertisements from the 1870s well into the 1890s, despite a plethora of notices in 1887 that the company ‘failed’ (i.e. went bankrupt). I have no idea what happened after this point or how their products continued to be sold in the 1890s – the aftermath clearly wasn’t as sensational or newsworthy as the failure. The lids that we found are likely to have belonged to one (or several) of the builders, carpenters and painters located on the site during the latter decades of the 19^th century. The paint, oil or varnish contained within those jars could have been used to paint houses, furniture, cabinets, paintings, fences, machinery and who knows what else.

And, it got me thinking. Researching the life and times of David Storer and Sons led me to wonder about 19^th century paint in general: how it was made, what it was used for, whether we have other archaeological evidence for its use in Christchurch. It’s not something we normally think about, archaeologically, but – as it is today – it would have been everywhere back then.

A paint joke from 1890. One of the many strange results discovered during the research process. Image: Evening Star 3/11/1890: 2.

As it turns out, there were several types of paint available to New Zealand residents in the 19^th century, from lead and zinc based mixes to paint made from iron oxide, asbestos (yes, you read that right), hematite, rubber, potatoes and skim milk. Some of these were available wet, while others arrived in the country in powdered form (just add water!). There was luminous paint (used on buoys), sanitary paint (not what you think, or, at least, not what I thought…), disinfecting paint, heat sensitive paint and even fire-resistant paint. Several articles and advertisements detail experiments undertaken to see how well certain paints helped to prevent fires, most of them surprisingly successful.

Advertisements also suggest that a range of colours were also available, from yellow ochre to red and white lead paints, white zinc paints and ‘Prussian blue’ (apparently made from the ashes of horses hooves). Lead based paints were very common and, as you would expect, sometimes affected the health of those around them. One account tells the story of a whole family who suffered from lead poisoning thanks to a painter who lost his lead paint covered brush at the bottom of the rainwater tank and contaminated their drinking water.

The things you can do with milk. Who knew? Image: Bruce Herald 18/09/1900, p. 2.

Interestingly, New Zealand appears to have had its own paint manufacturing industry fairly early on, with the New Zealand Hematite Paint Company established operating in the 1880s with factories in Nelson and Collingwood. A Mr Louisson was making hematite paint in Timaru in the 1860s or 1870s (later bought out by the NZ Hematite Paint Company), and another paint manufacturing company based in Thames made oxide of iron paint in the 1880s. Smith and Smith, now a name synonymous with window glass repair, were also active as paint manufacturers and distributors from the early 20^th century onwards (often with slightly less than PC advertisements).

Despite the strong local industry, still more types of paint were imported from overseas, with shipments coming from America (Vulcan paint!), Australia and the United Kingdom. Scotland does appear to have had its fair share of paint exporters, with several advertisements for Scottish paints appearing in contemporary newspapers.

The uses of paint in urban life haven’t changed much over the years, although there are perhaps fewer articles now suggesting that we should paint all our ships with luminous paint to prevent collisions. Hematite paint was used on everything from railways to most metal structures (it was less corrosive than lead paint on metal). Sanitary paint, despite it’s name, was used for internal walls and “all outside work in wood, irons or stone, from a steamship to a golf ball.” Other uses noted included priming, machinery, bridges and barns, agricultural implements and branding sheep.

Some of the proposed uses for luminous paint in the 19th century. Image: Evening Star 17/03/1883, p. 3.

Unfortunately, when it comes to archaeological evidence of paint use in the past – other than the occasional container lid – material is scarce, especially on 19^th century buildings. Many buildings are, of course, repainted over the years (it would be very unusual to find the original coat of paint without any later layers over the top). Interior and exterior decoration of houses adapted to match the changing fashions of the last century and a half, so it stands to reason that very little evidence of 19^th century house paint remains, particularly on external walls and weatherboards.

Additionally, in our experience, a lot of 19^th century houses used wallpaper rather than paint as interior decoration. We occasionally find paint on skirting boards and trim (under several layers of later wallpaper and paint), but it doesn’t appear to have been used much on the internal walls themselves. Sometimes, we’ve come across instances where the floors or stairs of a building have been painted – often on either side of a rug – but it’s difficult to tell whether this is Victorian or not. Other times, we’ve seen paint used as a decorative element in the interior design – used to colour a ceiling rose, for example, or stencilled on to the ceiling.

A painted staircase. Note the unpainted strip in the center, where the rug would have gone. Image: K. Webb.

A painted ceiling rose. Image: M. Hennessey.

The relatively infrequent use of paint in the interior of houses may have been partly a cost or fashion issue, but was probably largely a result of the materials used to form the walls. Lath and plaster, for example, is far more suited to wallpaper than to paint, as is scrim – both of which were often used on internal walls. Tongue and groove match lining could sometimes be painted, but is far more likely to have been varnished instead. In truth, it seems like paint would have been used most often on exterior walls – which, of course, we’re unlikely to see. It’s weird really – for something so visible, paint is strangely invisible in the archaeological record.

There’s so many aspects of life that we take for granted – both in the past and now – things that are all around us all the time, which form the fabric of our material worlds and set the scene for the stageshow of our lives (to get all melodramatic and Shakespearian on you). The relative archaeological obscurity of something like paint is especially ironic, given the purpose for which it is intended. It’s just not something I thought about, until an unknown Scottish company and a small stoneware lid reminded me to look for it. Yet another reminder that the smallest of objects can have the greatest of stories to tell.

Jessie Garland

The spice of life

Posted on 30 October 2015 by Jessie Garland

We’ve talked about food in the 19^th century before on the blog, but we’ve mostly focused on the weird and wonderful (because, let’s face it, therein lies the fun stuff). In reality, a lot of food in the 19^th century would have been bland and basic, especially for those of lower socio-economic status, who may not have been able to afford to buy the more flavoursome ingredients. In fact, much of it may have only been made palatable by the addition of the humble condiment, otherwise known as the saviour of tastebuds everywhere. The Victorians (and Edwardians) loved their condiments, from catsup to Worcestershire sauce, with an enduring appreciation that is more than evident in the archaeological and historical records.

Here in Christchurch (and, indeed, throughout the country) we find quite a lot of condiments on 19^thcentury archaeological sites. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes, many of them elaborately designed and decorated, from ‘gothic’ or ‘cathedral’ pickle jars to ‘swirly’ or ‘twirly’ salad oil bottles. Although we define the primary function of such bottles as ‘food storage’, condiments were also public objects, in the sense that unlike a lot of other food containers (jars, for example), condiment bottles were intended for use during a meal, at the table (much as they are now). As such, they were affected by the same philosophy of display and presentation that created decorated dinner sets and serving dishes: the things we put on our tables are almost always nicer than the things we use in our kitchens.

Several shapes and sizes of condiment bottles from an archaeological site in Christchurch's central city. Image: J. Garland.

Several shapes and sizes of condiment bottles from an archaeological site in Christchurch’s central city. Note the Mellor’s Worcester Sauce and Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce bottles at the front right. Image: J. Garland.

Most of the condiment bottles we find are unlabelled, and the only clue we have to their original contents lies in the shape of the bottle, a correlation that (as we’ve mentioned before) is based on several – sometimes erroneous – assumptions. We have, however, been lucky enough to find several condiment bottles here in Christchurch with surviving labels or embossed glass, letting us know exactly what they originally contained. These labels have included everything from J. T. Morton’s vinegar, the ever present Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce and its not-quite-so-famous relative, Mellor’s Worcester Sauce to Champion’s Vinegar, Olson’s Tomato Sauce, Weston and Westall’s Table Salt, George Whybrow’s ‘sublime’ salad oil and Crosse and Blackwell’s Mushroom Catsup.

Several vinegar bottles with surviving J. T. Morton labels. Some of them even still have corks and stoppers. Image: J. Garland.

Some of these are familiar to us. Lea and Perrins is still in business today, as is Crosse and Blackwell (as a side note, Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce began life as the ‘disgusting’ result of an attempt to make a spicy sauce – it wasn’t until after it had been forgotten for several years that it evolved into the sauce known today). Others are less familiar. Olson’s Tomato Sauce, which faded from mention in newspapers during the 1890s, seems to have been something of a forerunner to Watties, with “the red substance” produced in a factory in Auckland from the 1870s onwards. Mushroom Catsup (or ketchup, as it is now known), while still around today, is far more unusual now than it was in the 19^th century.

Selection of labelled condiment bottles found in Christchurch. Left to right: George Whybrow’s ‘Sublime’ Salad Oil, Olson’s Tomato Sauce, Mellor’s Worcester Sauce (this one has more than one label on it, suggesting re-use) and Crosse and Blackwell’s Mushroom Catsup. Image: J. Garland.

It’s not all savoury, however. Sweeter accompaniments such as the fantastic calves feet jelly and Kirkpatrick’s jam have also been found in the city. Kirkpatrick’s, another New Zealand product (manufactured in sunny Nelson from the 1880s onwards), was famous throughout the country and overseas – with the ‘K’ brand winning awards in various exhibitions and expositions in the 1880s and 1890s. Calves feet jelly, despite the rather off-putting name (we do like to disguise where our food comes from now, don’t we?), was apparently a fairly mild tasting jelly marketed largely to invalids.

Bottle of calves feet jelly found in central Christchurch on site dating to c. the 1870s. Image: J. Garland.

Jams and jellies aside, most of the condiments we find would have been used to spice up savoury dishes and many of the advertisements we find for them in contemporary newspapers list foods like roasts, cheese, fish, mutton, gravies and soups as the things most likely to benefit from the addition of condiments. Interestingly, the word of choice to describe the flavour of the condiments themselves seems to have been ‘piquant.’ With ‘relish’ coming in a close second. Whether ‘piquancy’ was actually a flavour sought after by Victorian consumers or a buzz-word imposed by advertisers on those consumers, I don’t know. Possibly a little bit of both?

Advertisements for different types of condiment from the 19th and early 20th centuries. Note the frequent use of the word ‘piquant.’ Image (clockwise from top left): Auckland Star 20/01/1871, p. 2; Wanganui Herald 9/03/1918, p. 7; Press 31/05/1924, p. 6; Taranaki Daily News 13/12/1917, p. 5; Nelson Evening Mail 16/09/1914 p. 2.

Advertisements for condiments are actually really interesting, not just because of the fascinating insights you get into Victorian and Edwardian food (and there were some amazing recipes, seriously) and other things (I stumbled across an amazing rant about puns, for example) but because of the ways those advertisements reflect the world around them. For example, 19^th century adverts emphasise the tastelessness of foods, the tried and trusted nature of the products, the familiarity of the tastes, but by the early 20^th century and the advent of World War I, there’s a notable shift to an emphasis on the economic advantages of using condiments.

Advertisements for Lea and Perrins Worcestershire Sauce that emphasise the economic advantages of using the condiment. Even the advertisement on the left, which leads with the “quality” of the product, still makes reference to how “a little of this sauce [can] go a long way.” Images (left to right); Press 2/09/1916, p. 5; New Zealand Herald 31/10/1918 p. 8.

This is particularly relevant to archaeology, since condiments have been considered signifiers of wealth – or at least economic status – in archaeological assemblages before, because they are inessential items. You don’t need condiments to survive, but they make the foods you do need to survive more palatable (although it could be said that a lot of material culture is inessential, if you wanted to be technical about it). The logic follows, therefore, that the presence of condiments indicates the ability to afford extra ‘luxury’ items. Yet, as those advertisements from the early 20^th century indicate, we have to consider the theory that condiments actually reflected a lower economic status household or, at least, the practice of economy within a household. People could easily have bought simpler and cheaper foods, because they knew they could spice it up with condiments, rather than more expensive food that required no such additions of flavour.

It’s something to think about in our own culinary habits now, I think. Especially in a culture and an era in which so much emphasis is placed on the health benefits (and social status, to a degree) of fresh ingredients and ‘good quality’ non-processed foods, despite the plethora of processed foods and sauces that surround us every day. What would our condiment consumption say about our society now, I wonder? What does yours say about you? Is it a flavour issue, a preference of taste? Is there an economic benefit to our consumption of condiments? How much do our tastes reflect the changing culture, influences and social context in which we live our daily lives? How much do they reflect our past? The remnants of our colonial heritage are evident in more than just our buildings or our flag (ooh, topical!) – they’re present in our food as well. Even more than that, they’re present in our tastes.

Think about it. Honestly, what does your taste in food say about you, and your history?

Jessie Garland

Christchurch uncovered

Exploring Christchurch's past through archaeology

Author Archives: Jessie Garland

2015. Another year down!

A matter of perspective

A crumbling mystery…

Let’s paint the town, shall we?

The spice of life