that was without counting the different cuts of pork , of beef , of tender veal or mutton richly spiced and cooked long in clay to disguise its toughness , the venison , the hares and boars and rabbits , and then the cakes , the thick wheat or lentil stews , the soft messes of onions or leeks and roasted roots , the dried and candied and pickled fruits of last year , so that you kept eating , and kept on eating , beyond fulness , till eventually you felt surfeited and sick ; it was a heaven for the gourmet and a kind of hell reserved for the glutton , tarquin thought , only thresu , clearly , did not feel that way .