The New Gastronomes

My mother responded the way most mothers would upon hearing my description of the latest stuff-I-ate-and-loved.

The seemingly lethal dish? Unpasteurized, curdled, moldy sheep’s milk, washed down with the fermented juice of rotten grapes.

When described in such a way, I’d have to agree with my mom: the classic pairing of Roquefort with Sauternes has never seemed less appetizing. But over the course of our eight months at UNISG, we’ve come to understand and appreciate the processes that give cheese, wine, and other products their unique flavour. Without the transformative powers of decomposition, fermentation, and inoculation, our gastronomic world would be much blander.

While the prospect of eating rotting or fermented meat is likely to trigger your gag reflex, any high-quality cut of meat or salame has, to a certain extent, been in such a state.  An animal’s body stiffens after slaughter, but with time, enzymes break down the proteins in the muscles along with other molecules. Often referred to as “dry-aging,” this process essentially involves the decomposition of the animal carcass. But when carefully executed in a controlled environment, it causes the meat to tenderize and develop a depth of flavour not found in its raw form. As the aging has already primed the meat for maximum organoleptic delight, neither elaborate seasoning nor cooking methods are needed: some salt, freshly cracked black pepper, and smokey char will suffice.

Non-prime cuts of meat undergo a different sort of change: fermentation. Various bacteria are responsible for transforming the mixture of ground meat, fat, and spices into a salame. The acidic environment that the bacteria create make the salame safe to savour long after it’s been made. And don’t let those white fuzzy surface molds fool you: they actually are consuming the oxygen that would otherwise cause the salame to become rancid.

Two staples of Asian cuisine – miso and kimchi – also exist thanks to the work of microbes. While there are many different types of miso, they all involve some combination of cooked soybeans and moldy rice. During the ensuing fermentation—which can last for weeks or even years—enzyme-producing microbes break down the rice’s starch and beans’ proteins into simple sugars and amino acids, creating the sweet and umami sensations that miso is renowned for.

Cabbage becomes considerably more interesting when left to ferment with spices and fish sauce—itself another example of the “edible rotten”—to create kimchi, the essential element of a Korean meal. It also raises the question, who came up with that? The same could be asked for all of these products. Seriously, who first said, “You know this fresh meat? Let’s stuff it in pig intestines and see what happens.”

Legends abound: Tokaji Aszú—Sauternes’ Hungarian relative—was supposedly discovered during a moment of peace during the many wars between the Austro-Hungarians and Turks. When the Turks returned home to observe Ramadan, so did their Slavic rivals. These famers-turned-soldiers found that their grapes had been ravaged by a fungus. Luckily for them, it was botytris cinerea, now known as the “noble rot.” Luckily for us, they decided to press the grapes anyway, and their descendants have been making the golden nectar ever since.

In reality the credit shouldn’t be entirely attributed to such fortunate accidents of questionable veracity: the powerful combination of necessity and ingenuity undoubtedly had a hand. The need to preserve the abundance of the milking season, harvest, or slaughter bred innovation. With time, the recipes and production methods have been perfected, and the resulting products are now revered as traditional and emblematic. Chemistry and history and biology and culture all melded into that one perfect bite: Yes, you definitely should eat that.

“Why don’t you grow herbs on your balcony in Italy?” my husband asked me. Well, maybe because everything I grow turns into brown, leafless cadavers. This is a fact my classmate Mary can certify is true. Horrified over my poor mismanaged plants in my kitchen, she offered to take them home to her balcony to give them some love, care, and a little magic touch from her green fingers. A month or so later, they were flourishing again. I was impressed.

My grandpa knew how to grow things. My mother has told me how he always brought home tons of vegetables from his planting lot, in amounts that made my grandma whine a little bit; “All this spinach is invading the kitchen.” My husband and I also have a planting lot, but we don’t really have the problem of the harvest being too big. This summer we picked something like ten carrots, a few beetroots, a bunch of potatoes and one or two broccolis. This scarce amounts of beautiful tasting veggies was all due to my husband’s efforts; my role was minor and limited to picking some weeds.

My point is this: it’s hard to grow things. It’s a skill and something that needs to be practiced. This practice was something that my grandpa had got – in school. Doing my internship trying to set up a school garden in cold winter land Sweden, I’ve learned that in the 19^th and 20^th century Swedish schools commonly had a school garden. It was written into the school curriculum that kids were to be taught how to grow. The reason was mainly because big farmers and factory owners had realized that well-fed workers worked better. Since food was a scarce resource, being able to grow your own food made the difference between good and bad health.

In the 1960s and 1970s agriculture had become industrialized and knowing how to grow was no longer seen as necessary. The pedagogical aspects of school gardens weren’t of any importance. Now in the year 2012, the pedagogical purposes are usually the main argument for school gardens. They are seen as a pedagogical tool that can be used to teach kids about nature and sustainable development. Students gain knowledge by doing things with their hands, which can’t be taught in the classroom.

I wish someone had taught me in school how to grow things. Maybe I would then have had a flourishing green balcony in Italy full of tasty herbs. Now I guess I have to learn the hard way – by doing, failing and doing again. So in the end I’ll give my husband this: I regret that I didn’t make a bigger effort whilst being in Italy.

Love. That’s what I found in Puglia. No, not with an Italian man, but with an apreachaloupe. If you’re not sure what that means, you’re probably not alone. Part apricot, part peach, part cantaloupe, all rolled into one succulent fruit, the apreachaloupe, a.k.a. the loquat.

So when did we meet? Our love story began at 2:33 a.m, May 18^th, after a gluttonous 15-dish meal coupled with several different types of Pugliese wine. As the mountain of empty dishes was being pulled off our table, a metal bowl was plopped in the center. Peeling my overstuffed body off the wicker chair, I peeked into the bowl. There they lay: bruised, dented, with a slight orange hue. Maybe the effect of multiple glasses of wine made the loquats look more luscious than, in fact they were. Nonetheless, I was intrigued.

“Umm, guys?” I asked, “What are these?” My friend peered into the bowl and almost threw up at the sight of something else edible, replying, “I can’t look at anymore food.” After struggling to button back up my tightly fitting jeans, I walked over to my other classmate as she chomped into the mystery fruit. The clear juices trickled delicately down her fingers and onto the red-checked tablecloth. As my eyes widened with curiosity, she finished chewing and said, “It’s a loquat. You’ve never had one? Come on, try it.”

One bite is all it took. I held the plum-sized oval fruit in my hands and peeled back the tender layers of pale orange skin. My once overstuffed stomach seemed to begin clearing a space. I opened my mouth and gnawed into the pulp as if it were going to be as tough as a well-done steak. The supple body caved into my hand and out popped three glossy brown seeds that tumbled to the ground. The refreshing fleshy center was slightly sugary with an aroma of honey and flowers. The essence of apricot, peach, and cantaloupe revealed themselves as I continued to taste. The texture and tang was similar to a medium-ripe peach with a slight resistance, but which then dissolved like an overripe cantaloupe. The only problem was that my whole affair ended three small bites later.

I craved more. As the rest of my class sat comatose, finishing up glasses of zesty primitivo wine, I scurried from table to table and snatched their leftovers. My treasure consisted of handfuls of fava beans, three peculiar radishes, and 14 loquats, all nestled, hammock-fashion, at the bottom of my shirt. Since the weight of my snacks slowly stretched my shirt to a comical length, I decided to ask for a plastic bag. While other couples sat over their candle-lit dinners, I waddled through the dinning area, shirt sack and all, to ask the waiter for a plastic bag. The waiter checked out my haul, raising his eyebrows at my odd request, and nodded yes.

Not only did the waiter bring me a plastic bag, but he also gave me a tin-foil package. As he winked and turned away, I dumped my produce into the plastic bag and uncrinkled the tinfoil package. Inside were four more loquats and some extra carrots, all bundled together. It was a sweet gesture: he must have watched me as I stole fruit off my friends’ tables; I found it only semi-embarrassing.

As the night came to a close and we all shuffled out, my jam-packed bag of fruit and fava beans was the butt of many jokes; however, I couldn’t have been more pleased. For the continuation of my week-long trip in Puglia, when I felt dehydrated or craved a stomach cleanser from the rich cuisine, my new love came to my rescue.

Months later, you may wonder how our relationship is holding up. Well, it’s difficult to write about my little apreachaloupe, but like most affairs that come to an end, our summer loving has alas concluded. However, when next July rolls around, you can guess who I’ll be biting into.

Time is money! If it’s so, I’m a loser. I drive two hours a day each way, back and forth, from Cremona to Pollenzo to be present in the master program. Sometimes I think I’m crazy, but when I come back home and my two years old daughter says: “Pà! Ciao! Vieni! Giochiamo!” (Daddy! Hi! Come! Let’s Play!) I’m more than happy to drive 440 kilometers on a foggy highway.

When UNISG chose me to be one of the students in the master I was more than happy, but as an Italian guy from a small village in the Po river valley, my happiness was just a thin laugh and a hidden smile!

I live on a farm situated in this rainy valley and my parents are the kind of small farmers idolized by the Slow Food movement. The kind who “struggle against evil modernity,” trying to produce food in a better, healthier and more sustainable way. They think, and I think, that nowadays agriculture is taking the wrong direction, very far from respecting the soil, the nature and the environment. And if all of us want to talk about how incredible this natural and organic wine is, how special this free-range (!?), grass-fed (!?), sustainable (!?), zero miles (!?) meat is, or how this coffee made by indigenous people fills us with joy, we need to respect all good farmers and good producers. This idea doesn’t mean going back to a past of poverty or doing backbreaking work in the fields as our great-grandparents did. The aim is to use the tradition and the past and raise them up (linked with modern technologies) to a higher level and to a more efficient reality.

I’m not the kind of person who presses people to buy food that is organic, sustainable or at the farmers’ market (wait, yes I am!), but I’m sure that we have to take some short steps forward into thinking about what we’re buying and eating.

I know that in a University’s blog what I say shouldn’t be too serious or stressful, but this is what prompted me to choose the UNISG master program. The idea behind the master is to add knowledge of culture and communication to food, because one of the most difficult things to do with food is to communicate what the sacrifices and the work around it are, and not just show the product itself. That’s why food is a filter—a filter through which it is possible to link different cultures, societies, human beings, and lives. A filter that allows me to link a product with the hands that made it, with the animals that are used for it, their lives, our lives.

To filter means to be able to understand, to choose and to select what’s in front of us. It means doing this through a process, through gentle impact and not through confrontation. In this sense, food is what allows us to go within and understand a culture, a thought, a life, a space, a face, and a smile. “Mangiare coscientemente è vivere liberamente” (Eating consciously is living freely), that’s what we wrote at the entrance to the dairy at our farm, and that’s what I want to teach to my daughter. That’s why I think that food is a filter.

Business men, they drink my wine,
Plowmen dig my earth,
None of them along the line,
Know what any of it is worth.

Having just returned from Christmas break, the time off from school was a much appreciated opportunity for me to think about the considerable amount of time already spent at UNISG and the few weeks of classes we have left, the great people and ideas I have had the pleasure of encountering, and, last but not least, what to write in this post.

It might be a little early to draw definite conclusions, but one thing I know have learnt and I hope to continue to learn is the appreciation of food. Not that I did not appreciate food before, but I was like the business- or plowmen in Bob Dylan´s “All Along the Watchtower” quoted above; I did not know what it was worth. Or rather, what it was not worth.

Being back in my home country, Denmark, with the Slow Food mantra of good, clean and fair still ringing in my ear, it became evident immediately that after a year in Pollenzo, life as a consumer would never be the same. Too many reservations when buying groceries not living up to the newly found standards that very quickly have found their way into our everyday lives, too many questions lingering in my mind when ordering at restaurants, or even at home-cooked dinners. It involves biting my tongue when tasting rancid olive oil, uninteresting wine, imported vegetables, and industrially produced meat.

Most of the produce and products I previously considered high quality or even delicacies to me are now at best mediocre. Many of the dishes I used to love I now look on with skepticism. Desirable produce in the Slow Food sense is certainly easier to find in Mediterranean areas than in Denmark, especially during winter. But that is not all. Realistically, I know that as a student at UNISG, I have to consider myself lucky to be around some of the best products in the world every day, with a group of individuals all agreeing on our search for, if not perfection, then at least high quality, reflecting the values most of us have made our own.

Realistically, I also know that at some point we all, or at least most of us, will go back to where we came from and will have to adapt to life as we knew it with a newly acquired taste for indigenous, endangered, organic, local, expensive specialty products handmade by small producers—so small you cannot see them—preferably running the family business for (give or take a few) 17 generations.

But what happens when the Bra comes off and the curtain falls, so to speak? Hopefully the (food-)-situations we find wherever we go will turn out to be less devastating than they sometimes seem to be. Otherwise, luckily, we—with the experiences and knowledge gathered in this past year—can contribute to changing our local foodways to become better, cleaner and fairer.

Sometimes I think we learn too much at UNISG. That is probably inevitable considering the range of subjects that we are taught – from nutrition to sensory evaluation to food history to food in pop culture to food justice to sustainability and…much more. I guess I was bound to develop a case of severe cognitive dissonance—a discomfort caused by holding conflicting beliefs at the same time—and it happened during our study trip to England. Let me explain.

We spent several days visiting several large and very successful organic farms. As we walked around the farms looking at the animals—not packed in stalls in barns but grazing in the acres of green pastures—our guides at these farms were careful to point out the sustainable agricultural practices that each farm uses to produce products that are high quality while preserving the vitality of the soil. These include composting, rotating animal grazing areas, and maintaining a diversity of habitat and animals.

Our visit included a tour of an abattoir where many of these animals end up. With pride they told us how careful they were not to stress the animals before slaughter. To maintain the quality of the meat, animals are allowed to rest in clean, comfortable and quiet stalls for a day after traveling to the facility, after which they are gently moved into the abattoir, stunned, and killed quickly. I had expected to be given the tour during a down time so that we wouldn’t be exposed to the reality of the preparation of the meat. Instead we watched and were allowed to photograph the workers through the entire process from whole cow to dressed carcass. What we observed was much different than the images of slaughterhouses that I have heard about or seen pictures of in the United States.

To be successful these farms and this abattoir need customers willing to pay a price that is generally higher than what would be paid for conventionally raised food. At Barbecoa (www.barbecoa.com), a restaurant of Jamie Oliver, they are doing just that. Jamie is a celebrity chef who has made quite a name for himself with his work around school lunch programs and his food revolution, encouraging people to cook for themselves leading to a better tasting and healthier diet. Jamie has joined with Adam Perry Lang, a United States chef who has worked with Mario Batali at CarneVino restaurant in Las Vegas and who has his own restaurant in New York City, called Daisy May’s BBQ. Adam is an expert in procuring and preparing great meat.

Barbecoa, which overlooks St. Paul’s Cathedral, is on the second floor of a downtown shopping mall, and we were thrilled to be going there for lunch. The restaurant has its own butcher shop, downstairs, that also sells meat, poultry, and game to the public. I was overwhelmed when I saw the profusion of carcasses of those various animals hanging in the cooler and, as we were told, “there is much more in the basement.” Meat abundance was also the theme of the menu, with 11-oz sirloin steaks, 9-oz rump steaks, 8-oz filet steaks, rib-eye for two, burgers, lamb skewers, lamb chops, chicken breast, pork chops, pulled pork shoulder, short ribs, and pit beef being the choices for the Main Plates.

Photo by C. Lepore

We had the great opportunity of meeting with Chef Lang and learning how he sources the meat used at Barbecoa. He passionately described how he visits all of the farms where their meat comes from so he knows how the meat is raised and can make sure that it is done in a sustainable fashion. Adam also regularly visits the abattoirs where the meat he buys is processed, essentially supervising the slaughter and preparation of the carcasses that will be delivered to the Barbecoa butcher shop. Assuring that the meat is of the highest quality and is handled properly throughout the path from farm to table is important to the chef and was evident as I bit into a thick hamburger that had the rich taste of well-aged beef.

Having a young daughter has made Chef Lang concerned not just about getting the best quality meat, but also about making sure that “the future world for her will not be put at risk by unsustainable farming practices.”

This is where it happened, where, between bites of hamburger, my brain short-circuited into that confusing zone of cognitive dissonance. It is very important for Adam and Jamie to source sustainably produced food and be a customer for sustainable farms like the ones we visited. While buying more meat from sustainable producers is the only way to keep them in business, offering an alternative to conventional agriculture, Adam needs to think beyond that if he really is concerned about his daughter’s sustainable food future. Encouraging people to consume large servings of meat is not going to lead to food security.

At UNISG we’ve learned that it takes seven pounds of grain to produce one pound of beef. World per capita consumption of meat is increasing each year. We are told that supplying that increasing demand for meat requires industrial agricultural systems that depend heavily on petroleum, water, and arable land, all of which are becoming more scarce and expensive. At the same time those systems degrade the soil and contaminate the water and air, and contribute a disproportionate share of greenhouse gases. What can we do to begin to change this picture into a more sustainable one? Eating less meat would be one important step.

There it is: my cognitive dissonance. I admire Chef Lang for supporting sustainable agriculture but cannot reconcile his daughter’s sustainable food future with the 11-ounce steaks and other large meat portions on the menu, along with the butchery that entices the public to eat even more meat.

I sigh and really enjoy my large hamburger while knowing that I should eat less meat.

We got lost along the way. The curvy Italian country roads that led to the rustic small farm all looked the same in the evening fog. I didn’t mind prolonging the wait a little longer. I was anxious. Excited, but slightly nervous. I was literally driving towards killing something. I had never looked something in the eye moments before I caused those very eyes to go blank.

The unhuman shriek was what shocked me. The squeal came before any sharp objects were even near the pigs. The farmer had casually reached for the pig’s leg as a cigarette hung from his lips. EEEEEEEEEEIIIIIII! As big a language gap as there is between humans and pigs, there was no mistaking the meaning of a scream like that. As nonchalant as the farmer was, the pig knew exactly what was coming.

After some maneuvering of the pig, a rope was knotted around its back leg. The pig kept on screaming as the rope was connected to a forklift. As the forks were raised, the pig was pulled backwards and up until it hung upside down.

Other animals roamed about, not seeming to notice the pig’s distress.

A blade was brought out. The sound pierced my ears up until the fleshy pink throat was slit with the razor that had taken many lives before. Blood spilled from the slash, splashing into a dirty bucket and splattering on us. Chickens ran to peck at blood-soaked grass. As the intestines slid out of a gash down the body, I silently thanked the pig for giving its life to satisfy our appetite.

The farmer continued to cut up the pig. I found myself feeling a mix of emotions. Freaked out by the dog gnawing at a discarded hoof, but also feeling a surge of giddy energy. I felt full of life and appreciative of it. I thought about my state as a human and our role in the food chain if we lived in the wild. Would I survive in the wild? Would I be able to capture and kill, or would I be the one squealing?

Since I’ve gotten back to New York City, people keep asking me what my favorite meal was, what wine I liked best, what experience was most memorable. As I sit at a restaurant in a concrete city, that Italian farm feels so far away and yet it is so tangible every time I take a bite of meat.

1. You forage behind the Agenzia during lunch break so you have greens for dinner.
2. You conclude that the Intimissimi shopping bag is the best size for bringing your lunch to school on your bike.
3. You try 15 different beers before 10:00 am.
4. You complain about HAVING to eat.
5. You complain that there’s not ENOUGH to eat.
6. You have met cheese producers from all over the world…in one day.
7. You have food justice class in the morning and olive oil tasting in the afternoon.
8. You come to the potlucks mostly for your Lebanese classmate’s hummus.
9. You meet new students from different countries and immediately ask them how they make their -“Pad Thai.”-

10.  You email Paolo, the master program coordinator, about your internship once a week.

11.  You have classmates who brew their own beer…and it’s good.

12.  You have classmates who practically run a bakery from their house…and it’s good.

13.  You still don’t know how to pack for the weather on study trips.

14.  You bike up the hill on the way home from school and tell yourself you deserve to skip the gym…

15.  …for the whole week.

16.  You are utterly scared about what will happen when you graduate.

17.  You don’t want to leave Piemonte.

18.  You vow indulgence is the key to a happy life.

Study field trips are always an occasion to learn more about typical products and their characteristics. As an Italian I thought that I knew a lot about olive oil. Thus, as much as I was looking forward to visit the two Tuscan olive oil producers, I would have never imagined I would learn so much about high-quality extra-virgin olive oil.

Even though I come from a country in which olive oil is an ingredient in many of our recipes, I did not know how to go beyond false marketing and recognize really great oil. I believe that these suggestions might therefore help a lot of people to buy the golden liquid that truly makes a difference of in taste.

• “Prima spremitura” or first-pressed oil does not mean anything when it comes to quality. As a matter of fact, in the European Union, all olive oil is produced from the first press, since additional pressings are forbidden by law.

• “Non filtrato” or unfiltered is not a proof of quality. Producers do not agree on the impact of filtration on the savory liquid. Some of them believe it is better to remove sediment, better preserving the oil, while others argue that it takes away some aromas.

• Italy is known for its olive oil, and Italian symbols, especially abroad, are very often used as a quality indicator on the label. It is necessary to understand that if the bottle does not explicitly state that the olives used were from Italy, an Italian flag or the words “Italian olive oil” do not mean that the olives were from Italian. In fact, they might come from other countries where the quality of the fruit is much lower.

• Olive oil is very sensitive to light, so it is a good sign if the bottle is dark because it means that the producer wants you to store your purchase in the best way possible.

• Directly linked to the previous suggestion, a beautiful golden color is not an indicator of quality. Actually, quality testers use dark glasses to taste olive oil, in order not to be fooled by the color. Color is not taken into account when determining quality.

• The information about the date of production is a sign of quality, since it shows that the producer wants you to know when the olive oil was produced and bottled. Olive oil does not age well. The younger it is, the better its taste and aromas.
• A high-quality olive oil made by a careful producer comes with a higher price. Do not buy oil costing less than eight euro per liter.

Finally a last suggestion about the storage of olive oil in your home. The fabulous liquid has three main enemies: light (as I already mentioned), oxygen, and heat. They destroy its health as well as its taste characteristics. So make sure the bottle is well closed, in a cool (but not cold) space, and away from the light.

There is something so fascinating about going places and actually smelling, touching and tasting them, that after you do it a few times you will never again travel any other way. During the master program in Food Culture and Communications at UNISG, we have gone on planned study trips to four regions in Italy, from one extreme to the other, including southern Puglia, up to Piemonte and Emilia-Romagna and, farther north, to Trento. We were also in the Loire valley in France and will fly to London for another week before the end of the academic year.

For each trip we have a programmed visit to producers and experts on the most outstanding traditional foods in the area. We get ready to spend time with them, to listen, see, taste, smell, drink and learn as much from the region as our senses can get. We memorize the aromas of cured meats, young and aged wines, the characteristic tastes of cow and goat cheeses, of cold-pressed olive oils, of coffee, chocolate, apples, figs and all the rest. We never stop taking notes and shooting our cameras, even while eating, unless we are fast asleep on hotel beds or in the bus rides between locations.

Everyone complains at some point because the trips can be exhausting, from the crack of morning to close to midnight, because our daily work and visit plans are really packed. And yet, we don’t seem to get enough of it. We have grown so fond of this way of looking at the world that we can no longer travel any other way, as we often do on our own on weekends or holidays. This is how I just visited Croatia and fell completely in love with it!

We drove about 8 hours from Bra to Porec, on the Istrian peninsula of Croatia. As soon as we crossed Slovenia and began descending towards the Croatian coast, the landscape changed drastically. From the greyish green of the naked plains covered with rain and fog in the Piemonte region, we found ourselves surrounded by native forests of brightly colored trees of falling leaves, fields of vineyards gaily showing off the richest autumn scale from deep greens and yellows, to oranges, reds and deep violets. Here and there were rows of olive trees which, against the colorful landscape layered over rusty red soil, seemed almost silvery blue.

During the next two days we savored the freshest oysters and sea truffles on the dock of a local fisherman by the shore; we had a 20-course dinner made up only of local small fish caught by the restaurant owner and cooked by his son; we tried four different game meats prepared in traditional recipes; we ate beans and grains hearty soups; gnocchi, risottos and scrambled eggs covered with grated white and black truffles and local pressed olive oils. We took several 10 to 30-minute rides to go from one place to another, through fields and hills and precious little towns, and for every meal we had brilliant local wines, reds and whites, flat and sparkling.

Yes. Travelling will just never be the same in our lives. We will continue forever planning and taking field trips, with our friends all over the world, as if this master at UNISG never ended!

by Marcela Caldas