The Rise and Fall (and Rise Again) of Chocolate

Few foods have traveled through history as intriguingly as chocolate, a delicacy that has stirred not only the palate but also the imagination, faith, and nerves of those fortunate enough to encounter it. While it never quite achieved the reverence afforded to cocoa drinks by Mesoamerican civilizations, where it was often seen as a conduit to the gods, chocolate nevertheless forged its own path in the Old World as an energizer, a medicine, and a surprising source of theological turmoil.

Long before energy drinks or protein bars lined supermarket shelves, chocolate was the go-to pick-me-up for travelers, intellectuals, and the ailing. Its rich composition made it an ideal restorative after a journey through rugged terrains or a bout of illness. “For those who suffered from turbulent travels or a weak stomach,” a steaming cup of chocolate could do wonders, replenishing the body’s lost vigor and soothing digestive woes. In an era where meat and dairy often proved too heavy for some delicate constitutions, chocolate was more than a treat; it was sustenance.

As a lightweight yet nourishing foodstuff, chocolate was often included in the diets of those who found other foods hard to stomach. And, as an added bonus, it offered a little something extra: a subtle yet unmistakable boost to the nervous system. Intellectuals of the time praised it for its ability to “excite and strengthen” the mind, fueling long hours of scholarly work. It was, quite literally, brain food. This mild stimulant was believed to enhance concentration and fortitude, making it a regular companion for thinkers as well as the weary.

The Italian merchant Francesco Carletti, who experienced the charms of chocolate firsthand while in Mexico, noted its curious ability to captivate. He found himself unable to imagine a day without it, confessing that after drinking chocolate, he liked it so much that it became a near-necessity. This addictive quality, while subtle, was seen as one of the country’s finest offerings, a gift cherished by both clergy and the nobility alike.

But as the taste for chocolate spread across Europe, a more peculiar debate emerged, one that brought chocolate out of the kitchen and into the realm of ecclesiastical law. As chocolate became a staple of both the wealthy and the pious, an unexpected controversy brewed. In a world where fasting—particularly during Lent—was a serious religious observance, the question arose: did drinking chocolate violate the ecclesiastical fast?

The question was more than an idle theological curiosity. If chocolate, a drink so rich in energy and nutrients, could sustain the body like solid food, was it fair to call it a mere beverage? The stakes were high, as fasting was central to religious life, especially in New Spain (colonial Mexico), where spiritual discipline was rigorously observed.

In 1591, Dr. Juan de Cárdenas delivered a bold verdict: “drinking chocolate completely breaks the fast.” His reasoning? Chocolate was so nutritive that it could be considered akin to solid food. In a sense, Cárdenas was affirming what many chocolate lovers already knew—this drink was no mere refreshment, but a meal in itself. His ruling ignited a theological firestorm that would rage for decades.

As the debate rumbled on, Spain became the battleground for a formal treatise to settle the matter once and for all. The arguments were meticulously crafted, combining religious doctrine with a pragmatic understanding of chocolate’s dual nature as both sustenance and indulgence. The final conclusion, which made its way to the highest levels of church authority, was as inventive as it was diplomatic: chocolate, though consumed as a liquid, was undeniably food. It could not, therefore, be allowed during fasting.

This ruling didn’t diminish chocolate’s status, however. In fact, it may have only enhanced its mystique. A drink so robust, so full of vitality, that it could challenge the very nature of ecclesiastical fasting? Surely, this was no ordinary indulgence. It was a divinely inspired creation, both gift and temptation, sustenance and luxury, all wrapped up in one tantalizing cup.

The Vatican’s Intervention

The theological debate over chocolate reached its peak in 1662 when the question of its permissibility during Lent became a topic of great contention. The church, as always, had the final say when it came to matters of fasting and salvation. Enter Cardinal Lorenzo Brancaccio, who was tasked with settling this sticky situation. In a ruling that reverberated through kitchens and convents alike, Brancaccio classified chocolate as a common drink rather than a meal, meaning that its consumption during Lent was, in fact, allowed. Religious observants could now enjoy their cocoa without guilt, and chocolate officially dodged the label of sin. A drink that tantalized the senses, yet somehow kept the soul intact—this was the delightful paradox of chocolate.

But as one controversy cooled, another simmered: How could such a complex, potent substance be pinned down into a singular category? Was chocolate a medicine, a stimulant, or something else entirely? The answer, much like chocolate itself, was rich, layered, and far from simple.

If Brancaccio resolved the theological dilemma, the scientific debate surrounding chocolate’s medicinal properties was a more tangled affair. In an age when humors and the elemental qualities of foods—hot, cold, wet, and dry—dominated medical thought, chocolate was an enigma. With its intricate blend of indigenous and European ingredients, it defied easy categorization. Was it hot or cold? Was it energizing or soothing? Depending on how it was prepared, chocolate could morph into nearly anything—a shape-shifting tonic with seemingly endless possibilities.

Doctors of the time marveled at its ability to heal, yet found themselves baffled by its complexity. Most agreed on one thing: chocolate was a “hot” drink, meaning it fueled the body with energy. However, its curative properties changed from recipe to recipe, making it a medical wild card. Should chocolate be considered a medicine for the kidneys, a remedy for stomach ailments, or a treatment for sores? Why not all three? For every ailment, there seemed to be a chocolate-based concoction ready to cure it—if only anyone could agree on how.

Perhaps nowhere is this medicinal ambiguity better illustrated than in the dizzying recipes devised to cure specific ailments. Take, for instance, the curious case of chocolate as a remedy for kidney stones and old pains in the side. Far from the simplicity of a modern prescription, this early recipe reads like something from a wizard’s grimoire:

• Begin with a bunch of mecasúchil and a vanilla of tlilxochitl (vanilla from orchids), throw in fifteen grains of mecasúchil, five tzinquayo chiles, and twenty roasted cacao beans.
• Grind it all on a metate (a stone slab used for grinding).
• Then, take a bowl of xocóatl (a bitter chocolate drink) and steep as many matlatin flowers as a walnut overnight.
• In the morning, strain the mixture and grind three fistfuls of raw taquatzin butts (a type of local vegetable), dissolve it into the xocóatl, and drink it hot at dawn on an empty stomach—repeating for six days.

Yes, six days. And the blue flowers? They were said to “remove heat from the kidneys,” encouraging urination and offering relief from kidney stones. Whether this concoction tasted like salvation or a nightmare is anyone’s guess, but the promise of a cure was enough to make it worth the effort.

The blend of local plants, spices, and chocolate made for a potion that was part superstition, part science. And as intricate as these recipes were, their effectiveness remained shrouded in uncertainty. The many elements combined in each formula left people guessing—was it the chocolate, the chili, or the mysterious blue flowers that worked their magic?

An Overindulgence in Danger

For those who fancied themselves purveyors of good health and moderation, chocolate came with a wealth of warnings. It was most definitely contraindicated—a word that in itself carries a tone of medical authority—for those prone to bile, pregnancy, and chronic weakness. It seems that the fragile constitutions of these individuals were thought ill-prepared for chocolate’s decadent richness. Indeed, chronic overconsumption, the naysayers insisted, could usher in a host of digestive woes: from stomach pains to more catastrophic internal blockages. Chocolate, they warned, hindered digestion, the linchpin of 17th-century medicine’s humoral theory. In short, it was an exquisite danger.

However, in practice, this advice was tossed to the wind, or at least into the chocolate pot, particularly in New Spain (modern-day Mexico), where the locals savored their cocoa with reckless abandon. Their love for the drink was impervious to warnings. Here, chocolate wasn’t just a treat, but an elixir of life that flowed almost endlessly, without a trace of fear.

No historical figure better exemplifies the chocoholic’s gospel than Thomas Gage, a 17th-century Englishman and a convert to the cult of chocolate. Gage’s routine was less a diet, more a testament to a daily devotion. “In twelve years,” Gage proudly declared, “I have constantly used it.” He outlined his regimen as one might a divine ritual: a cup in the morning, another before lunch, a third after his meal, and yet another in the late afternoon. To top it off, Gage indulged in a final cup at eight o’clock at night, ensuring that chocolate fueled not only his stomach but his nocturnal study sessions.

To miss a cup, as Gage’s body soon learned, was to invite calamity: weakness, fainting, nausea. In a most curious twist, chocolate became both the savior and the captor of his wellbeing. It sustained his health, warding off the specters of fevers and congestion, as long as he remained loyal to his cups.

Gage was not alone. Many Europeans—particularly the Spaniards—sought out the middle ground between the perilous excess and its life-affirming moderation, turning chocolate into a panacea for nearly all ailments, real or imagined.

While chocolate in the Americas had ancient roots as both a ceremonial and medicinal beverage, its journey to the Old World began with tentative steps. In the 16th century, cocoa made its entrance into Europe as something more akin to an exotic drug than a delectable indulgence. European explorers, intrigued by the rich elixirs served by the Aztecs, brought chocolate home—initially as a curiosity, not a staple.

But, as the decades wore on, chocolate’s popularity brewed, with Spain at the helm of its European expansion. By the late 1500s, it had begun to pop up in aristocratic circles, although its reputation as a medicine lingered longer than its reputation as a dessert. In Spain, however, the transition from medicinal remedy to social drink was well underway by the 17th century. Recipes from their colonies made their way into elite kitchens, each cup a canvas for creative experimentation. By the end of the century, chocolate had become Spain’s national drink, a title rivaled only by its beloved wines.

What had once been consumed cautiously, spooned with restraint, was now being consumed with gusto, sometimes in scandalous quantities.

The noble houses of Europe soon followed suit, transforming chocolate into a social delicacy as much as a personal treat. In the salons of the elite, porcelain cups of chocolate became a status symbol, each sip an indication of both wealth and worldly sophistication.

Take, for instance, a visit to the Princess of Monteleón’s house, where a French noblewoman recounted her experience at a grand soirée. “We were served a pleasant snack,” she recalled. The pièce de résistance? An exquisite array of chocolates, served hot and cold, in every variation. There was chocolate whipped with milk and egg yolk, a luxurious concoction fit for royalty. Accompanied by delicate biscuits, it was a sensory extravaganza.

For some, moderation was a mere afterthought. One unnamed woman indulged in six cups in a single sitting, a feat that would make even Gage blush. Others, it was noted, enjoyed the same ritual multiple times a day. Chocolate had firmly established itself as the drink of decadence, the focal point of Europe’s social fabric.

A Sip of Empire

By the 18th century, chocolate in Spain was no mere treat—it was a cultural phenomenon. Thanks to the flood of cocoa arriving from colonial outposts like Caracas and Guayaquil, chocolate became not just accessible, but omnipresent. No longer confined to the lavish kitchens of the aristocracy, it was a daily indulgence for people of all walks of life, enjoyed at street stalls and sold in the finest shops across Madrid. The sweet alchemy of cocoa, sugar, and spices was fast becoming as essential to the Spanish experience as siestas and bullfights.

In 1801, Spain imported a staggering 4,000 tons of cocoa, an investment that drained over two million pesos from the empire's coffers—a clear sign of chocolate's importance. This wasn't just a financial outlay; it was a testament to the nation’s deepening love affair with the velvety drink. A vivid account from the period paints a picture of a city engulfed in chocolate madness. Street vendors peddled it from corner to corner, while confectioners on Calle Mayor and Calle de las Postas were knee-deep in cocoa beans and sugary delights. Chocolate, it seemed, was everywhere except the oil and vinegar stalls, though one imagines they were only spared because cocoa hadn’t yet discovered a savory side.

The demand wasn’t just popular—it was royal. Their Catholic Majesties had an insatiable appetite for chocolate, sending annual decrees to their American dominions, insisting on the shipment of the finest cocoa and chocolate paste for the royal household. This imperial cocoa supply chain was as serious as a diplomatic mission, with strict instructions to ensure "that neither one nor the other species suffer any damage." The Spanish kings, it turns out, were not above micromanaging their chocolate, ensuring that their breakfasts were as rich and decadent as the empire they ruled.

The Spanish breakfast was a grand affair in itself, anchored by a hot cup of thick, luxurious chocolate and freshly baked breads for dunking. By the 19th century, chocolate had not only carved out a place in the daily routine but also cemented its role in the country’s culinary legacy. It was more than a drink; it was a tradition, a symbol of Spanish refinement that rippled outward to the rest of Europe.

In fact, chocolate’s journey from exotic curiosity to beloved staple was an international one. By the 17th century, it had conquered not just Spain but also its European neighbors. France, the Italian states, and even Flanders had fallen under chocolate’s spell. And while Spain’s influence was resented in anti-Hispanic England, chocolate proved irresistible even there. In these countries, the drink was not merely adopted—it was transformed, modified to suit local palates and culinary traditions.

Thus, chocolate became an edible metaphor for the Spanish Empire’s golden age. As the empire’s ships crisscrossed the globe, bringing cocoa from the New World to the Old, chocolate became a symbol of imperial grandeur. But it was also an unintended gift to England and Holland, whose colonial ambitions grew partly from their envy of Spain’s cocoa bounty. Soon, these nations would follow Spain’s lead, not just in drinking chocolate, but in shaping its future—tweaking recipes, introducing milk, and revolutionizing the confection as they knew it.

In its journey from the tropical plantations of South America to the grand courts of Europe, chocolate became more than just a drink—it became an emblem of power, indulgence, and, dare we say, rivalry. What began as a cup of liquid luxury in the Spanish court would, by the 19th century, be reshaped into the global obsession it remains today. So next time you unwrap a chocolate bar, remember: you're tasting history, one decadent bite at a time.

In-text Citation: (González de la Vara, 2018, pp. 291-308)