Why Italians Love to Talk About Food (46 page)

In Aleksandr Herzen's words: “A sense of respect for themselves, for the individual, is particularly developed in the Italians; they do not simulate democracy, as the French do, it is inherent in them; and by equality they do not mean slavery for all.”
¹
In Italy, self-respect and satisfaction with one's place in the world are not dependent upon social status: it is a fairly well developed feature of the national character. One might say a lack of class conflict is characteristic of Italy. Obviously, there are exceptions: in particular, periods dominated by ideology have not infrequently given way to demonstrations of intolerance and antagonism. Even in the most ruthless times, however, antagonism and class struggle were kept within the bounds of relatively civil behavior, hardly ever leading to excesses, persecution, or atrocities. One need only think of the characters in the books of Giovanni Guareschi and the Don Camillo and Peppone series of films (released between 1948 and 1969). Relations between a diehard Communist and a shrewd priest, bound by an invincible mutual liking in spite of the most intense hostility, offer an excellent key for understanding the history of Italian society.

The roots of this moderate tendency toward conflict can be found in a widespread sense of pride, developed over the centuries thanks, among other things, to direct access to sources of survival: food products, warmth and sunshine, water, land. Such wonderful conditions ensure the individual a considerable degree of independence, with all its attendant joys: self-sufficiency, freedom from slavery, a profound historic memory, and a sense of aesthetics regarding both feast days and everyday moments.

By Andrei Bourtsev

This self-sufficiency comes with a critical attention to detail. The average Italian has a range of convictions for which he is prepared to burn at the stake. And these convictions do not have all that much to do with politics or ideology. The creed of the average Italian refers, above all, to the realm of food—a more personal, more accessible sphere of creation and individual self-expression.

This kind of creativity does not demand expensive foods. Those who know cooking are characterized, on the one hand, by a low regard for the “expensive,” and, on the other, by a defense of the romantic notion of poverty, almost as if following the direction outlined by Leo Longanesi:

 

Poverty . . . is still the country's only vital force and whatever little or great that is still standing is only the result of poverty. Beautiful places, artistic heritage, ancient dialects, rustic cuisine, civic virtues, and artisanal specialties are preserved only by poverty. Where it is overcome by the addition of capital, that's where we witness the complete ruin of every moral and artistic patrimony. Because the poor have ancient traditions and live in centuries-old places in a poverty that has ancient roots, while the rich are recent, impromptu, the enemy of all that preceded them and that humiliates them. Their wealth came easily, usually as the result of fraud, of shady dealings, always, or almost always, imitating something created outside of here. Thus, when Italy is crushed by the fake wealth that is already spreading, we will find ourselves living in a country whose face or soul we no longer recognize.
²

 

The gastronome Davide Paolini exalts the
poveracce
, mollusks (
Venus gallina
) considered inferior, known also by the names
telline
(tellins or cockles),
ostriche di pollo
(chicken oysters),
filoni
, and
schienali
. Found on the sand at the water's edge near Rimini, they are cooked in seawater and are sold in kiosks on the beaches of Romagna. According to Paolini,
poveracce
are the culmination of culinary perfection: “Anyone who does not agree that this is a dish truly fit for a king deserves to eat farmed bass, Cuban lobsters, or the ubiquitous sashimi, made of fish fed with powder, for the rest of his life.”

Those who really love Italian food do not aspire to be showy or flashy. Improbably beautiful food arouses suspicion in the connoisseur. He knows that there are cooks who specialize in preparing photogenic food, and that a dish created for a photo is unfit for eating: it is bad even before it is sprayed with glue or shiny lacquer to make it glossier.

Anyone who loves Italian cooking also knows the society and is profoundly democratic. He knows that even the less elite social groups (fishermen, seamen, farmers) are highly versed in matters of culinary art. They are separated from the culinary establishment only by language barriers. The food lexicon is made of predominantly local dialects: in any location, cooking ingredients and preparation methods are better known to the farmer or fisherman than to any city dweller. The locals can discuss food only in their language, which is not covered by any manual. All you have to do to learn is listen well and make a guess.

There's no doubting that the Italians have an egalitarian attitude toward food. Here the poorest people are invited to banquets on feast days; food is distributed in the main piazza; tripe is served in luxury restaurants; the best restaurant is defined in accordance with the principle “where the truckers stop”; and a coffee or a pizza is left
in sospeso
(on
account) for someone who can't afford it (see “Pizza”). All this is authentic and natural, like the relations between the waiter serving the meal and the
pizzaiolo
who makes the pizza.

Be careful, though: there is a certain threshold beyond which this respect suddenly disintegrates. As soon as the fundamental principles of the culinary code come into question, all hell breaks loose! A rigidity bordering on fanaticism, a fundamentalist intolerance, then emerges in the tolerant Italians. This is where democracy ends, or is at least transformed into majority rule. Here is a list of the Italians' rigidities, with which foreigners are easily at odds:

 

They will try to discourage unusual combinations of certain dishes or certain ingredients.

They will avoid serving you a cappucino, unless it's early morning.

They will try to dissuade you from having tea after a meal.
³

They will make it difficult for you to get a cheese sandwich for breakfast.

No one will be happy to serve you spirits (vodka, grappa, gin, cognac) before the end of the meal.

No one will agree to bring overcooked pasta to the table to please a foreigner.

No one will let you have lunch either before 12:30 or after 2:00 in the afternoon.

They will not want to bring you wine that is not suited to the specific dishes you ordered; you will have to insist strongly.

 

An amusing case was described by the restaurateur Mario Zurla, owner and chef of the famous Pappagallo in Bologna:

 

“What was the worst day in your restaurant?” I asked Mario Zurla many years ago. He replied: “The day the Americans liberated the city. Don't misunderstand me. I was eagerly awaiting the Allied victory, and when an officer came to tell me that the staff of the American Fifth Army intended to celebrate the event with a grand dinner at my place, I experienced one of the most exciting joys of my life. The officer advised me that they would see to the ingredients: for once I did not have to worry about ration cards or resort to the black market. Maximum liberty as to the menu. Tortellini in broth? I suggested. Very good, the officer said. Then I suggested roast turkey. That too was very good. I added some
bollito
,
cotechino
,
zampone
, and lentil purée. The officer approved without objection. And to drink,
what did they want? Hot chocolate, the American replied. I thought I would faint. Chocolate with tortellini, with
zampone
! It was like something from outer space! The officer realized that he had made a gaffe and immediately corrected himself: Oh, Mr. Zurla, if chocolate doesn't go well, we can have Coca-Cola with our meal. What reply could I make to this second gastronomic heresy? None. I said: As you wish. And out of love for my liberated homeland, I started cooking.”
⁴

 

Openly confessing his unpreparedness, the Russian critic Aleksandr Genis describes a similar incident in his biography:

 

Finding myself in Italy for the first time, after tasting everything I could, I finally went into a trattoria by the sea. The tiny octopus swimming in olive oil and vinegar enticed me. I ordered the dish, but before having time to taste it, I unfortunately remembered Hemingway. In Italy his characters often sipped drinks with exotic names: “Strega” and “Sambuca.” Not suspecting that they were liqueurs, I ordered them from the owner of the place. His face darkened, and he grabbed his throat with both hands, which did not stop him from shouting loudly, “White wine,
stupido
!” I understood without a dictionary, but I was too late to correct myself. Throwing his apron on the ground, the owner stalked out of his trattoria. I hope he didn't rush out to drown himself, though I never saw him again.
⁵

 

For Italians, these examples bespeak an ignorance so gross that it's nearly unimaginable. In cases like these, behaving democratically is impossible. The requests are senseless, not even worth talking about. But all in all, no one pays much attention to the combinations that occur to foreigners—particularly when these foreigners, Russians or Americans, say—are from another continent. They, in fact, can be given to combinations so arbitrary, so dissonant, as to leave Italians appalled:

 

This depicts food in the realistic way which only Americans ever attempt. Virginia ham glows in Technicolor from amid slices of pineapple. Steak sizzles among . . . mushrooms and cream billows over the chocolate cake . . . It all suggests the mood in which a perfect dinner should end. Sighing happily . . .
⁶

 

It is difficult to imagine how far removed an Italian reading this description is from “sighing happily.” In fact, one of the fundamental principles of a normal meal in Italy is that no other food is found on the table except that which everyone is currently savoring. The
antipasto has no right to remain on the table if it is already time to bring in the first course. If one of the guests has not yet finished enjoying the prosciutto and salami, all the other diners must endure their hunger pangs and then eat their pasta cold.
⁷
The first course will not be served to anyone until the remains of the antipasto are removed from the table. The antipasto is like an overture that introduces the meal: it must be taken away and forgotten before the other foods make their appearance.

Cheer up. At least some manifestation of democracy can be sought in the culinary code. Here are the few, yet pleasing, signs of indulgence: When talking to the waiter, the diner may ask to add olives to his pizza instead of the capers called for in the menu. The diner can also say what kind of water he wants at the start of the meal: natural or fizzy. A decision must absolutely be made, and quickly. Still, freedom, as Karl Marx taught, is the consciousness of necessity. No one will comply with a dinner guest who decides to sprinkle his fish sauce with Parmesan.

To summarize: Freedom is reserved for one's personal life. When it comes to clams, there is a higher law. As recompense, any restaurant will offer a diner the opportunity to dress his salad himself with oil, vinegar or lemon, salt—incredibly democratic. He must remember, though, that there are rules even in this case. Wisdom has it that to make a good salad, a miser should see to the vinegar, a sprendthrift to the oil, a wise man to the salt, a judicious man to the pepper, and then a madman to the mixing.

 

The principles of the Italian culinary code are rigid. Its language, though, is democratic: simple, clear, and joyful, it is accessible to everyone. This is why politicians love to use food metaphors so much. The language of food is widely employed to manipulate the behavior of voters during the course of elections. Politicians' advisers recommend a widespread use of the food lexicon, which so quickly touches both the intellect and the heart.

Even during a pre-electoral battle between the countries' two main parties in 2005, the former mayor of Rome, Francesco Rutelli, leader of the Margherita Party, shouted at his party's assembly in order to portray the situation of conflict and discontent that had built up within the Left in the most accessible way: “For three years I pulled the cart, I ate bread and chicory to deliver to Romano Prodi a center-left coalition capable of winning. This is our joint reality. This has been the battle for years.” “Bread and chicory,” in Rutelli's metaphor, referred to the bitter ration of the worker, not very tasty but life-giving, capable of strengthening the political machine. Rutelli's partner, Romano Prodi, on the other hand, though obviously perceived by Rutelli as a fellow politico, is known by the nickname of
“Mortadella”: a soft, fat salami, pleasant to the taste yet high in calories, which leads to flabbiness. This remark earned Rutelli the nickname “er Cicoria” (Chicory Man, in Romanesco dialect); and during a summit meeting of his party, on May 25, 2005, militants polemically distributed crusts of bread and chicory plants in Piazza dei Santi Apostoli in Rome.