Thoughts About Food.

Food as emotion, cultural exchange, history and something I am ready to go to war for.

Food is an integral part of my life.

“It’S a FuNdAmEnTaL pArT oF eVeRyBoDy’S lIfE” you may be prompted to think after reading that opening statement.

Yes, I know we literally need it to survive and replenish our energy resources.
We need it for our brain to function properly and make it through the day without fainting unexpectedly.
But while the above is common knowledge and an undeniable part of existence, it doesn’t take into consideration the cultural and social relevance of a meal.
And this, my friends, is where my stubborn passion for food kicks in.

My relationship with food goes beyond nourishment.
It’s visceral, pathological, deeply engrained in my DNA.
Food is emotional for me. It is a priority, not just a mere tool for survival.
A good dish has poetic value, it provides a sensorial experience, it has the power to send you on a journey down memory lane. Essentially, food - when good, but also when bad - cannot be diminished to “something that keeps us alive”.

Maybe - actually surely - my nationality has to do with this obsessive attachment to food.
I have heard people joke about how Italians have tomato sauce running through their veins instead of blood, and as foolish as that obviously sounds, I do not see any other explanation for the fact that 80% of my life - the remaining 20% is reserved for sleep - revolves around chewing and swallowing delicious goodness.

No trip is a good trip if I don’t get absorbed into the local culture by savoring the autochthonous delicacies of the city I am currently visiting.
No matter how invested I am in exploring the artistic heritage of a destination I know nothing about, one thing I always make sure to do in advance is bookmark my Google maps with the highest rated eateries in the area - and, the moment my stomach starts growling, I drop everything, open the app and speed to whatever restaurant pinned in the nearest vicinity.

Additionally, I am very strict about my meal schedule.
Breakfast is between 6:30 and 10:00AM. Lunch can start anywhere between 1PM to 1:30PM and carry on until 3PM based on my current location. Dinner is reserved for 7:30PM onwards.
These time frames can shift once in a while, if the circumstances call for a variation.
Summers at the beach are one of the few occasions these intervals get altered.
Heat is a deterrent for hunger and the early evening is my favorite time for dipping in the crystal clear waters of San Vito Lo Capo - the Sicilian beach town I have spent every summer since the age of 7.
As adamant as I am about these customs, these rules were not stipulated by me or my family. They apply to most of my fellow Italians.
Matter fact, I am sure many of you have become frustrated at the closing times of the little bottegas and boutiques selling the precious knick-knacks and souvenirs you absolutely wanted to buy at 2PM under the scorching hot sun of Positano while on your instagrammable getaway from the claustrophobic heat affecting your town of residence.
Or the feeling of sheer panic caused by the closure of all restaurants on Christmas’ Eve and Ferragosto while on a romantic trip with your beau.

Plenty of foreigners have complained about these “irrational” closing times, but as you see, we Italians need time off to hunt down the best of ingredients, prep them and set the table to create the magical ritual the British call supper.
This process takes hours, days, even weeks at times, and the effort that goes into kitchen coordination is no walk in the park either.

I said at the beginning of this essay and I will say it again: food is an emotion.
And no, I am not talking figuratively. Food is literally a vessel of love. From the interaction with your neighborhood baker, the exchange with your favorite fishmonger or the last minute trip to the produce stand, down to the choice of wine to pair with the dinner, every piece in the chain of actions needed to prepare a meal requires meticulous attention. It exudes passion and care.

For this reason, Friday and Saturday are my favorite days of the week.
They mean farmer’s market. And farmer’s market means I will have the chance to spend time selecting the finest amongst hoards of stretched, handmade mozzarella coming straight from Naples, the best of mountain mushrooms carefully handpicked by the fruit seller himself, the top-tier slice of tuna cut just for me by the ex-con, tattooed, one-tooth having fishmonger I am loyal to.

And then, after struggling to carry home all of this succulent components, I turn on some jazzy tunes, clear my light blue formica table and I start prepping my lunch.
Glass of wine, rigorously white and bubbly - Metodo Classico if you will - in hand, nibbling on some preserved roasted artichokes, I spend the next hour or so serenading myself.

This love language is not exclusively reserved for myself.
My close friends and lover know how passionate I am about food. How important it is in my life. They reap the benefits of my healthy obsession too.
In particular, my long time friend Giulia.
She lives close to me, a block or two away. We have been friends since high school, and while we were separated for years, our bond always remained the same.
She loves food just as much as me, however she is not known for cooking much.
Her proximity to my house, though, allows her the luxury to text me whenever, requesting some of her favorite meals I made.
She usually brings the wine (or beer depending on the occasion) and we spend hours savouring morsel after morsel, laughing or having heartfelt conversations about our lives and our aspirations.
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While my close circle knows the meaning behind each bite they ingest, not many others have the pleasure to experience my cooking. It is reserved for those I deeply care for.
But while this behavior may be innate to my people and subsequently myself, I inherently internalized the use of food as a system of love through the women that came before me. My grandmothers, my mother, my aunts.

To this day, before visiting the humble grounds I came from, the first thing I am asked is “Is there anything particular you would like me to prepare for you?”.
More times than not, I am sent back with bags of typical eats. Crates of juicy oranges or cedars, ripe pumpkins, my favorite spinach and ricotta mock-balls (meatballs but meatless) stored inside second hand Tupperware that is not originally Tupperware (you know, the typical butter case filled with anything but butter).
Last time I took a trip to see my parents, my grandma placed a paper bag full of Tortellini she made especially for me in my hand and said “I heard you craved some”.

Even though I never said that, that was her way of telling me she loved me and was thinking of me.

On the other hand, my mom - who is perpetually on a diet - makes sure to feed me multiple courses during every meal. And when I complain about the excessive amount of food, her answer is “Home means eating well. Then you go back to Milan and not eat any of these things”.
That is also her way of proving that she cares for me just like when I was a baby, despite my 30 years on the planet.

If the famed reality of Italian food isn’t enough to convince you to grow a love for the ancient practice of cooking, I suggest you visit remote small towns during the spring-summer, when fair season is in full force.
Extensive tables are set up in the center of the village, task forces of old ladies are pulled together to concoct pastas, barbecued meats and bake pies to feed thousands of villagers inebriated by the sharp smell of gallons of boiling tomato sauce.
The exhilarating energy will convert you.

I can go to war for food. In fact, I have.

I recall a very specific episode that happened in 2013. I was living in Weil Am Rhein, South of Germany, at the time. Thankfully, I was able to escape to Paris on the 1-hour TVG from Basel fairly often. And La Ville De L’Amour was where the offence ended up happening.

This one time I was invited to a friend’s birthday party in the neighborhood of Villejuif.
After a particularly rowdy night, a bunch of us slept over and decided to collectively have Sunday lunch before parting ways.
My patriotic vein kicked in and I offered to make pasta for everybody, however I was up against a French girl who bravely decided she was going to be the one cooking said pasta.
After vehemently suggesting against it, I surrendered to her feisty request and accompanied her to the supermarket where she started picking up fairly questionable ingredients and placed them into our basket. Pasta, cream, mushrooms.. up to here, nothing too out of the ordinary - except, if you know me, cream.
Next came the faux-pas that turned her into my nemesis: she picked up chicken.
I looked at her suspiciously and asked if she planned on making a second course. She said no. I switched lane and met her at the cashier.

Once back at the house, I purposely removed myself from the kitchen. I knew better. My italianity would have kicked in and I would have ruined the chilled atmosphere too soon.

I was not ready for what would come next.

We all sat down at the table, family style.
A group of maybe 10 or 11 people, some sleepless, some well rested, some still crinkled from the slumber.
She started fixing plates with sauceless tagliatelle, overcooked. As I stuffed my mouth with crunchy baguette, I was trying hard to hold back any negative comment. Frankly, I wanted to see how far this would go.
In the blink of an eye, she slapped a mixture of cream, mushroom and chicken on top of the pasta.
My blood froze. This was blasphemy. It was the 2006 World Cup all over again. Zizou vs Materazzi. I felt personally attacked. It was an insult to the whole Italian population.
For one, you do not put the sauce on top of the pasta, you mix it directly in the pan so that its rugged texture can absorb the flavor. Secondly, you do not mix chicken and cream.

Just HOW did she think this was ok?

Internally fuming, I still managed to shut up.
But then the unexpected happened. She pulled out an envelope of shaved coconut flakes, waved it in the air and, as if it was aged parmesan cheese, said “Est-ce que quelq’un en veux?” addressing the table mates.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I broke down and in a very disgusted tone I said: “I ain’t eating that”. Silence.
The room trembled. People stopped breathing, fork mid-air.
Momentarily, it was just me and her. An imaginary boxing ring materialized and hell broke loose. An angry discussion immediately disintegrated the peaceful, glee atmosphere of the after-party.
I won’t go into the details of the argument but you can imagine it didn’t end well. I never spoke to that girl again and shortly after the house was sold, dismantling all chances of a re-match.
Great memories though. Me and the friends that sat at the table still reminisce and laugh about that occasion whenever we gather.
It’s become a legend, a story for the books. They know not to mess with me and Italian food. The birthday boy sends me videos of Italians mad at food all the time.

Speaking of Italians mad at food, if you have not yet encountered this Facebook page and are in need of proper banter, please stop reading this and go check it now.
It will teach you everything you need to know about our relationship with food. It’s religion. It’s what keeps families together, friendship groups from dismantling and business transactions from going awol.
It is truly beyond me how anybody could live without food at the center of it all.

This brings me to another story where food almost got in the way.

It’s 2018, me and my two homegirls - one Italian, one Australian - find ourselves in my home city of Palermo during Manifesta 12.

The Australian chick, founder and editor of a renowned design magazine, was on a mission to participate in as many openings and previews as humanly possible without missing a beat.
The rest of us, interested in the art on show but more on holiday mode than looking to get a speedy degree the subject, after hours of walking from installation to installation under the burning Sicilian sun, stopped and almost telepathically spat out of our mouths: “Ok let’s go eat”.
Our poor Australian companion, eager to tick off all of the stops on her map, looked at us and said: “All you guys do is think about food”.

Puzzled and shaken by this verbal attack, me and the other Italian looked at the clock and said “What do you mean? It’s lunch time”.
Clearly unbothered by our devotion to food, the foreign party of the group, kept on walking to the next location.
What an outrage. How could she not want to stop and rest her limbs in front of an ice cold glass of wine and a yummy dish?
We settled on partying ways and rejoining at a later time of the day.
Democracy triumphed, but trust me when I say it things could have turned sour.

*ACTUAL DISH FROM THAT LUNCH*

Both of these tales contain elements for a comedy skit about Italians, as well as archetypical features to frame us as a whole.
However, each time I find myself debating about how important food is - whether as a social aggregator, a carrier of history, a tool to fully integrate into a new culture - I can’t help but wonder how can this be such a controversial subject.

I can safely say, eating is one of my favorite hobbies. A way for me to welcome people into my life, a moment of solace, a way to build deep, affective connections.
Food helps me balance my work day. It provides an escape from digital devices, an opportunity to walk out and air my brain out.
Food also challenges me.
Have you ever tried a new recipe? The pride you feel after getting it right after many failed attempts is unprecedented.
Just like the satisfaction of hosting a dinner and sending off the guests with a full stomach after experiencing a mouthwatering feast.

I mean, look at the length of this essay. The passion seeps through the words like the sweet smell of a sizzling garlic soffritto. I am devoted to food, like the inhabitants of Napoli are to Maradona.

I could go on and on about my love for food. Food as a communal practice, the art of balancing salt, fat and acid.
Food as a history lesson, teaching the layers of local cultural stratifications. The different eras. The dishes of the poor that become integrated in must-try mainstream cuisine.
The ingenious creativity of people who mix and match flavors, or the simplicity of pasta al pomodoro. No extras needed.

All of these things turn me on. Not in a sexual way - although why not - but in a sensorial frenzy that stimulates my curiosity and need to know more, try more and fend for Italian food like a wild beast protects its puppy.

There is a saying in Italy that goes something like “Those who cook well know how to make love well”. While I am not sure of the exact wording of this motto, or if I totally dreamed its existence up, I can absolutely stand behind its intrinsic message. Food is love.