Eating Is A Serious Matter

Lessons From Kneeling at the Altar of Taste.

Many years ago, I flew from Belo Horizonte to Sao Paulo in Brazil. On the plane I sat next to an Italian businessman and we got chatting. Arriving in Sao Paulo we decided to split a cab from the domestic airport to the international airport where we both had connecting flights. At our destination, the Italian, I don’t recall his name, paid for the taxi. In return I offered to buy him something to eat while we waited for our flights. The only place open was a Pizza Hut. We walked in, sat down and I asked what he’d like. “I don’t eat pizza,” he said. “You don’t eat pizza?” I asked. “But you’re Italian.” He clarified. “Exactly. I don’t eat pizza outside of Italy.”

That incident occurred over twenty years ago and only now, after travelling through Italy, have I come to understand what he meant. And it goes further than pizza. I’ve compiled a long list of things that I’m no longer eating outside of Italy. Tomatoes, mozzarella, oranges, sesame seeds, prosciutto, nectarines, balsamic vinegar. Over the last two months, I’ve eaten all of these things and it has been, in every case, as if I were trying something new and exotic for the first time. In a way I’m relieved, as it explains why my attempts to cook recipes from The Silver Spoon Italian cook book have always ended in flavourless dross. If you attempt to cook Italian recipes without Italian-grade ingredients, you are inviting disappointment into your life.

I love both food and cooking and I’ve thought long and hard about the disparity in the quality of the products I grew up with compared to those I’ve tasted in Italy. How is it that I can eat a lemon, peel and all, in Italy and have it sing and buzz in my mouth, a delicate mix of sweet and sour? How is it that a cherry tomato can explode in a burst of sweetness that makes my eyes roll back in my head and sets my legs trembling? And sesame seeds. I always believed they were virtue signalling addendums, adding nothing but “crunch”, here they are nano-grenades of flavour. But the biggest surprise of all has to be mozzarella. Who knew how good it could taste? How subtle its texture? I was raised to believe that mozzarella was an adhesive, useful only for affixing cubes of ham and pineapple to pizza bases.

What are we doing wrong in Australia? Is it the long distances required to transport our produce from paddock to plate? Does this require it to be harvested before it ripens completely? Are our ancient soils unable to inject flavour into our produce? Are we prioritising convenience over flavour? Or do we just not care about what we eat?

In Italy they care. And I know they care because of the conversations I’ve had with strangers across the country. The nonnas at the corner store in Lajatico who saw me umming and aaahiing over a piece of focaccia and approached me to explain how much I needed, and if I was going to eat it the next day then I really should get some fresh tomatoes and cheese to go with it, but if it was for the same day then just some olive oil would do. Or the lady working the cash register at the corner store in Colico who refused to sell me stock cubes, (literally snatching them from my hand), when I confessed that I was intending to put them in polenta. You only need water and salt I was sternly told. Not wishing to escalate the situation, I quietly returned to the shelf the milk, butter and cheese I was also intending to add.

And it’s not just Italy, I saw the same level of passion in Spain. I was sitting outside the Asturias Bar near Madrid’s Atocha train station. Two men sat at the nearest table, getting slowly and elegantly sloshed even though it was only 11am. Seeing me eyeing up the bowl of tapas that arrived at their table, one of them stood up and before I knew what was happening, he was standing beside me with a spoonful of his food. “Try it,” he said one hand cupped under the spoon he extended towards me. Refusal was not an option and in broad daylight I let this drunk, grown man spoon-feed me a mix of chickpeas and tripe. It was delicious. He leant down and whispered into my ear, “It’s not the best tripe in Madrid but we know the owner, so we feel obliged to come here.” He’s almost apologetic as he tells me this. He returned to his table and over his glass of wine told me I needed to travel to Alicante (four hours drive from Madrid) if I wanted to eat “really good rice” and that if I wanted good jamon iberico I had to go to Extremadura. The merits of jamon iberico are a common theme in Spain.

At a delicatessen the day before a lady waiting in line provided an unsolicited explanation of, not just where the best jamon comes from, but what breed of pig was best, what that pig should be fed and how long the jamon should be matured for. She then assured me that there was absolutely no problem taking jamon as carry-on luggage!

The best food I have tasted on this trip has been simple – grilled sardines, raw lemons, tomatoes and cheese arranged on a plate - but its role is complex, intricate. It binds communities, unites generations, enjoins consumers and producers and sellers. Food is a link to a common past, a solid foundation for an unknown future. It is conversation, relationships, it is Friday nights and Sunday mornings, each with its own ritual, procedure and controversy. Food is cultural bedrock.

Till we meet again, old friend. I will miss you.

Academic studies show that the predicted behaviour of humans often diverges from actual behaviour. I am a case in point. If you ask me, I’ll tell you that food is important to me, that I care about what I eat, care about the quality of the food. And I believe that. But you can still find me in Coles or Woolworths, buying tomatoes that have the flavour profile of cornflour, or lemons that could be fired from a small-bore cannon with devastating effect. Why? Because it’s easy. It’s cheaper. I’m lazy. I’m a hypocrite. But I am hopeful that this trip has shaken me out of that state, by providing me with a glimpse of what food can and should be.

When I return to Australia, I want to seek out better quality produce, to not settle for the easy option of mass produced, highly processed muck. And despite my long rap sheet of herbicide, I am determined to start growing my own produce, to learn the secrets of what I’ve always deemed too hard. What I’m looking for is simplicity and authenticity, a few ingredients that when combined produce a meal that satisfies more than just the palate. Paradoxically, I want to eat food that I want to share, that I want to tell people about. And if I fail? Then I have no option than to pack the Silver Spoon and move to Italy.

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