Representing Italy Through Food 9781474280419, 9781474280440, 9781474280433

Table of contents :
FC
Half title
Title
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
List of figures
Notes on contributors
Acknowledgments
Editors’ Introduction: Presenting food, representing Italy Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin K. Eckert
PART ONE (Re)presenting iconic Italy
1 And at last, the farmers win Massimo Montanari
2 Authenticity all’italiana: Food discourses, diasporas, and the limits of cuisine in contemporary Italy Aliza S. Wong
3 The Slow Food Movement and Facebook: The paradox of advocating slow living through fast technology Ginevra Adamoli
PART TWO Representing Italy in literature and film
4 Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine: Recipes for political history Ernesto Livorni
5 Inspector Montalbano a tavola: Food in Andrea Camilleri’s police fiction Elgin K. Eckert
6 There’s a mobster in the kitchen: Cooking, eating, and complications of gender in The Godfather and Goodfellas Peter Naccarato
7 In cibo veritas: Food preparation and consumption in Özpetek’s “queer” films Elgin K. Eckert and Zachary Nowak
PART THREE Marketing, packaging, and advertising Italy
8 Producing consumers: Gendering Italy through food advertisements Diana Garvin
9 “A kitchen with a view”: The modernization of gender roles in Italy through Barilla’s 1950s and 1960s advertising campaigns Antonella Valoroso
10 Semiotics of sauce: Representing Italian/American identity through pasta sauces Maryann Tebben
PART FOUR Global representations of Italy
11 Italianità in America: The cultural politics of representing “authentic” Italian Cuisine in the U.S. Ken Albala
12 Leggo’s not-so-autentico: Invention and representation in twentieth century Italo-Australian foodways Rachel A. Ankeny and Tania Cammarano
13 Italian food in Israel: Representing an Imagined Mediterranean Nir Avieli
14 Afterword: Italy represented Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin K. Eckert
Index

Citation preview

Representing Italy Through Food

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Representing Italy Through Food EDITED BY PETER NACCARATO, ZACHARY NOWAK AND ELGIN K. ECKERT

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square London WC1B 3DP UK

1385 Broadway New York NY 10018 USA

www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2017 © Selection and Editorial Material: Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, Elgin K. Eckert, 2017 © Individual Chapters: Their Authors, 2017 Petter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak and Elgin K. Eckert have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Authors of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4742-8041-9 ePDF: 978-1-4742-8043-3 ePub: 978-1-4742-8042-6 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Cover image © Nikita Savostikov/Shutterstock Typeset by Fakenham Prepress Solutions, Fakenham, Norfolk NR21 8NN To find out more about our authors and books visit www.bloomsbury.com. Here you will find extracts, author interviews, details of forthcoming events and the option to sign up for our newsletters.

This book is dedicated to Daniel Tartaglia in recognition of his commitment to the study of Italian food and culture at the Umbra Institute, Perugia.

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Contents List of figures  ix Notes on contributors  xi Acknowledgments  xv



Editors’ Introduction: Presenting food, representing Italy  Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin K. Eckert  1

PART ONE  (Re)presenting iconic Italy 1 And at last, the farmers win  Massimo Montanari  17 2 Authenticity all’italiana: Food discourses, diasporas, and the

limits of cuisine in contemporary Italy  Aliza S. Wong  33 3 The Slow Food Movement and Facebook: The paradox of advocating slow living through fast technology  Ginevra Adamoli  55

PART TWO  Representing Italy in literature and film 4 Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine: Recipes for political

history  Ernesto Livorni  77 5 Inspector Montalbano a tavola: Food in Andrea Camilleri’s police fiction  Elgin K. Eckert  95 6 There’s a mobster in the kitchen: Cooking, eating, and complications of gender in The Godfather and Goodfellas  Peter Naccarato  111 7 In cibo veritas: Food preparation and consumption in Özpetek’s “queer” films  Elgin K. Eckert and Zachary Nowak  125

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PART THREE  Marketing, packaging, and advertising Italy 8 Producing consumers: Gendering Italy through food

advertisements  Diana Garvin  141 9 “A kitchen with a view”: The modernization of gender

roles in Italy through Barilla’s 1950s and 1960s advertising campaigns  Antonella Valoroso  165 10 Semiotics of sauce: Representing Italian/American identity through pasta sauces  Maryann Tebben  183

PART FOUR  Global representations of Italy 11 Italianità in America: The cultural politics of representing

“authentic” Italian Cuisine in the U.S.  Ken Albala  205 12 Leggo’s not-so-autentico: Invention and representation in twentieth century Italo-Australian foodways  Rachel A. Ankeny and Tania Cammarano  219 13 Italian food in Israel: Representing an Imagined Mediterranean  Nir Avieli  239 14 Afterword: Italy represented  Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin K. Eckert  263 Index  267

List of Figures 8.1

8.2 8.3 8.4 8.5 8.6 8.7 8.8 9.1 9.2 9.3 9.4

Collective Beer Advertising Campaign “Chi Beve Birra Campa Cent’Anni,” “August Shivers,” Rome, 1930 (La Cucina Italiana [August 1930]) 145 Cirio, “Bride and Bonnet,” Rome, 1931 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1931) 148 Buitoni, “A Surprise at Home,” Rome, 1931 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1931]) 150 Barilla, “Everyone Benefits,” Rome, 1937 (La Cucina Italiana [May 1937]) 151 Ente Nazionale Risi, “The Angry Scale,” Rome, 1959 (La Cucina Italiana [March 1959]) 153 Foglia d’Oro, “Margarine Scales,” Rome, 1959 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1959]) 155 Gradina, “Well done! With Gradina.” Rome, 1957 (La Cucina Italiana [February 1957]) 157 Sesia, “A Court of Gourmets,” Rome, 1958 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1958]) 160 Cover of the 1939 Barilla calendar 166 Barilla noodle ad, 1956 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni 167 Barilla noodle ad, 1958 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni 169 Barilla noodle ad, 1958 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni 170

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9.5 9.6 9.7 9.8 9.9 12.1

12.2

12.3

List of Figures

Barilla noodle ad, 1960 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni 172 Still frame from the ‘Bettina’ TV commercial, 1968 174 Barilla spaghetti ad, “Revealed Cook” print advertising campaign, 1965 175 Still frame from the “Mina” TV commercial, 1965 177 Barilla pasta, 1984 print advertising campaign 178 “Just Five Simple Ingredients and Leggo’s Tomato Paste”—a Leggo’s advertisement from The Australian Woman’s Weekly, October 23, 1957 225 A table comparing the language used in recipes from the Leggo’s Tomato Paste Good Cook’s Book (1970) with The Leggo’s Italian Cookbook (1975) 227 “When in Australia, Gina Still Does as the Italians Do ...” —a Leggo’s advertisement from The Australian Women’s Weekly, May 11, 1977 228

Notes on Contributors Ginevra Adamoli a PhD independent scholar whose areas of expertise cross food communication, newly emerging technologies, and social movements. Her dissertation revolved around the role of Facebook as a political tool for citizens pushing genetically modified organism laws in the United States. She currently serves as the social media services manager for idg, the world’s leading technology, media, data, and marketing services company, where she oversees community programs. In addition to her daily job she writes papers around food studies and cultural identities within the virtual world. She is originally from Lucca, Italy, where her family produces extra virgin olive oil. Ken Albala is Professor of History at the University of the Pacific. He is the author or editor of twenty-four books on food including Eating Right in the Renaissance, Food in Early Modern Europe, The Banquet, and Beans: A History. Albala was also editor of Food Cultures Around the World, The Sage Encyclopedia of Food Issues and of the journal Food, Culture and Society. He now edits a food series for AltaMira Press, and is the director of the University of the Pacific’s masters in Food Studies. Rachel A. Ankeny is an interdisciplinary teacher and scholar whose areas of expertise cross three fields: history/philosophy of science, bioethics and science policy, and food studies. She currently has several grant projects examining food ethics, animal welfare, and other topics in food studies. She is currently Professor in the School of Humanities and the Associate Dean Research and Deputy Dean in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Adelaide, Australia. Nir Avieli is a senior lecturer at the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, Ben Gurion University, Israel. He is a cultural anthropologist interested mainly in food, tourism, gender and masculinity and has been conducting ethnographic fieldwork in the central Vietnamese town of Hoi An since 1998. His book Rice Talks: Food and Community in a Vietnamese Town is a culinary ethnography of Hoi An. He is currently writing a book titled Food and Power: A Culinary Ethnography of Israel. Nir convened the International Conference on “Food, Power and Meaning in the Middle East and Mediterranean,” held at Ben Gurion University in June 2010.

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Notes on Contributors

Tania Cammarano is a PhD student at the University of Adelaide who is researching the history of Italian food and foodways in Australia. She has a Master’s degree in Gastronomy and has presented papers on different historical aspects of Italian food at conferences in both Italy and Australia. Prior to embarking on an academic career, she wrote about food for News Corp Australia and AAP, amongst others. She has taught food writing at the University of Adelaide, and is currently teaching in the Higher Education program at William Angliss Institute. Elgin K. Eckert is on the faculty of the Umbra Institute and teaches courses in literature, creative writing, Italian cinema, and cultural studies. She previously taught at cuny Brooklyn College and Harvard University, where she received her PhD with a dissertation on cultural memory in Andrea Camilleri’s Montalbano series. Her scholarly publications include articles focused on her research interests in areas such as cultural memory in literature, the history and representations of the Sicilian and American mafia in narrative and cinematic fiction as well as issues in narratology/narrative theory. Diana Garvin is a visiting scholar in the Women’s, Gender, and Sexuality Studies Program at Boston University. She is a culinary historian who uses food to investigate the history of those who did not write it. Her dissertation on the Fascist foodways of Italy and Italian East Africa has been supported by the Oxford Cherwell Studentship, the clir Mellon Foundation, the Wolfsonian Foundation, the Julia Child Foundation, and the American Association for University Women. Critical Inquiry published her most recent article “Taylorist Breastfeeding in Rationalist Clinics” in their Spring 2015 volume. Ernesto Livorni is Professor of Italian and Comparative Literature, and Affiliate of Comparative Literature, at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. His scholarly publications include Avanguardia e tradizione: Ezra Pound e Giuseppe Ungaretti (1998) and T. S. Eliot, Montale e la modernità dantesca (forthcoming). He also translated into Italian and edited Ted Hughes, Cave-Birds: Un dramma alchemico della caverna (2001). He has published articles in Italian and in English on medieval, modern and contemporary Italian literature, English and American literature, Italian-American literature, and comparative literature. Livorni is the founding editor of L’Anello che non tiene: Journal of Modern Italian Literature. Massimo Montanari is a professor of Medieval History at the University of Bologna, where he also teaches Food History and directs a European master’s program in “History and Culture of Food.” He is widely seen as one of the main specialists in this field and has taught courses and held



Notes on Contributors

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seminars and conferences all over the world. He has written thirty books about several topics of food culture, some of which have been translated into English. Peter Naccarato is Interim Associate Dean for Academic Affairs and Professor of English and World Literatures at Marymount Manhattan College. His scholarly work is in the area of food studies, focusing on the role of food and food practices in circulating ideologies and sustaining individual and group identities. With Kathleen LeBesco, he co-authored Culinary Capital (Berg 2012) and co-edited Edible Ideologies: Representing Food and Meaning (SUNY Press 2008). With Rocco Marinaccio, he co-edited the Foodways special issue of the Italian-American Review (Summer 2015). Zachary Nowak is the associate director for the Food & Sustainability Studies Program at the Umbra Institute in Perugia, Italy, where he has taught courses on Italian food and history. He is the translator of Why Architects Still Draw (MIT Press 2015), the author of Truffle: A Global History (Reaktion 2014), and the editor and translator of Inventing The Pizzeria: A History of Pizza Making in Naples (Bloomsbury Academic 2015). He is currently a doctoral candidate in American Studies at Harvard University. Maryann Tebben is Professor of French and the head of the Center for Food Studies at Bard College at Simon’s Rock. Her research in food studies focuses especially on the relationship of food culture to national identity. She recently published an article on the evolution of French dessert in Gastronomica, and her book Sauces: A Global History was published in 2014. She teaches a literature seminar on French culture and cuisine and has presented numerous papers on food at national and international conferences, including a summer seminar sponsored by the Institut Européen d’Histoire et des Cultures de l’Alimentation and a multidisciplinary colloquium on the potato hosted by the Université François-Rabelais (Tours). Antonella Valoroso has research interests which include Italian theater and opera, nineteenth-century history and culture, images and representations of Italy and “Italian-ness,” autobiography and autobiographical literature. She has published articles and book chapters on Ariosto, Leopardi, De Filippo, Verdi, Donizetti, Puccini, Ristori, seventeenth-century sacred performances, Futurism, and 1960s avant-garde theater. In 2005, she edited the first modern edition of Ricordi e Studi artistici by Adelaide Ristori. She recently published an essay on the relationship between women and food in Eduardo De Filippo’s play Sabato, domenica e lunedì in one of Italy’s leading dailies, Corriere della Sera. She currently teaches courses about the Italian Risorgimento, creative

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Notes on Contributors

writing, nineteenth-century novel, and contemporary Italian culture and society at the Umbra Institute. Aliza S. Wong is Associate Dean of the Honors College and Associate Professor in the Department of History at Texas Tech University. She is a specialist in modern Italian history with a concentration on cultural history, race and identity, and popular culture. Her book, Race and Nation in Liberal Italy, 1861–1911: Meriodionalism, Empire, and Diaspora, is available from Palgrave-Macmillan. Dr.Wong’s research interests have extended to work on diasporic systems and she has both published and presented papers on the immigrant communities in Italy. She is a two-time Fulbright scholar and is currently working on a new project on Italian representations of the American Far West.

Acknowledgments T

he editors would like to thank the Umbra Institute for hosting the conference Italian Food: Fact & Fiction in June 2012, Francesco Burzacca and Anna Girolimetti, the academic and administrative directors at the Umbra Institute, and the rest of the staff at the Institute. At Bloomsbury, Jennifer Schmidt, our editor, and Clara Herberg, our editorial assistant, helped shepherd this work through the publication process. Finally, our peer reviewers deserve our thanks for their valuable feedback, which was crucial to the success of the project. Several other people—among them Louise Butler, Fabio Parasecoli, and Ken Albala—also gave insightful feedback that led to this project moving forward. Peter would like to thank Zach and Elgin for inviting him to be part of the editorial team and for their commitment to seeing this book published. He also thanks his colleagues at Marymount Manhattan College for their ongoing support of his scholarly work and Zachary Jensen for inspiring him during the final months of the project. Elgin acknowledges her colleagues and the staff at the Umbra Institute for their ongoing support; Sara, Martin and Luca for their love and encouragement; and Zach and Peter for all their work on this project. And Zach thanks Peter and Elgin for their dedication to making this project happen. Also his darling wife Jill, for always telling him that we would publish this book.

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Editors’ Introduction: Presenting food, representing Italy Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin K. Eckert

Spaghetti and pizza belong to a legacy that has spread throughout the world, just as books have, but unlike books these foods are immediately recognizable and accessible to all. They represent a culture of commerce and craftsmanship, based on taste and manual skill, that reconstitutes a body of knowledge through imitation and an element of reminiscence, despite the distance from the place where this knowledge originated. Cooking is perhaps an unlettered art, but it also survives thanks to remembered knowledge – the memory of what has not been lost as well as what will be recorded in writing – and it is thus a civilizing force.1

T

he etymologies of the Italian words for taste (sapore) and knowledge (sapere) suggest why we should, as scholars of Italy and Italian culture, attend to food. Both words share a grammatical root, which means not only “to taste,” but also “to perceive,” “to research,” and “to be wise.”2 Studying how the production, preparation, distribution, and consumption of food intersect with wisdom and (self)-knowledge in cultural representation come naturally. At the same time, such work aligns with a broader focus on representation as an essential tool for historical and cultural analysis. At least since the publication of Erich Auerbach’s influential study Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature in 1946,3 the focus of theorists has been on the issue of the representation of everyday life in different disciplines and

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contexts. How we represent ourselves, our lifestyles, and habits (alimentary or otherwise) is intimately tied to our physical, political, and social conventions. Mimeses related to food, in particular, are a key to understanding the cultural memory of a group. As Jan Assman states in her essential work on that topic, cultural memory is a “characteristic store of repeatedly used texts, images and rituals in the cultivation of which each society and epoch stabilizes and imports its self-image; a collectively shared knowledge of preferably (yet not exclusively) the past, on which a group bases its awareness of unity and character.”4 Representations are the only way we can “know” people who are distant either temporally (in the past), spatially (in faraway countries), or socio-culturally (maybe in our own country, but in different groups). What they eat (or what we are told they eat through mimesis) tells us their stories. Taking Assman’s assertion one step further, Naccarato and LeBesco argue that “how a culture decides to represent itself tells us far more about that culture’s dominant ideological underpinnings (and the fun people can have in transgressing them) than some ‘naturalized,’ purportedly nonconstructed version of it does.”5 But as our memories are highly selective, “the rendering of memories potentially tells us more about the rememberer’s present, his or her desire and denial, than about the actual past events.”6 Modern Western society is inundated with representation: more books, more films, and more advertisements are produced than ever before.7 Digital media and handheld devices give us more immediate access to representations of the Other than was previously even imaginable.8 It should not be surprising, then, that Isabelle DeSolier insists that “the material culture of food includes not only food itself but also food media, such as television cooking shows, food blogs, and cookbooks. For the material world does not exist in isolation; the media play a key role in the relationship between people and things.”9 Clearly any study of cultural representations today must include the role that media (representations) play in shaping the world and our experience of it. Taken collectively, the chapters in this volume offer a reading of Italy (real and imagined) that utilizes not only traditional modes of cultural representations, but also extends this analysis to a variety of mimetic acts. The underlying thought that unifies these chapters is that understanding these mimeses is of vital importance as representations “teach” us about the world around us, our relationship to it, and our own sense of self. As such, by focusing attention on representations of Italian food and foodways, we learn something vital about historical and contemporary perceptions of Italians and their culture both within and outside of Italy. Given the richness of Italian culture and the breadth and variety of its cultural productions, one may ask why focus on Italian food and foodways in particular. Of course, Italian literary history abounds with examples of food representations from the earliest texts on: twelfth- and thirteenth-century



Editors’ Introduction

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burlesque poetry is full of descriptions of feasts (and famines). The “three crowns” of Italian literature (Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio) all place food at the center of their recounting. One of the most fanciful is Boccaccio, who conjures up an imaginary land where “a mountain, all of grated Parmesan cheese,” where there live “folk that do nought else but make macaroni and ravioli, and boil them in capon’s broth, and then throw them down to be scrambled for; and hard by flows a rivulet of Vernaccia, the best that ever was drunk, and never a drop of water therein.”10 Maestro Martino wrote the first “Italian” cookbook in the fifteenth century, and many other cookbook authors followed him. Regional dishes and regional products that circulated in the early modern period are not proof that Italian cuisine was fractured but rather that there was a common identity in Italy based in part on trade in shared food products, and circulation of recipes.11 Modern and contemporary Italian cinema also relies heavily on food as a semiotic pasta over which it can pour sauce-like messages. It’s hard to think about Italian movies without conjuring up the iconic example of Totò eating spaghetti in Miseria e Nobiltà or four friends attempting to eat themselves to death in La Grande Bouffe. Despite this long historical and cultural association of Italy with food, however, the contemporary identification of Italy with high quality food is relatively recent. In fact, historian John Dickie explains that in the eighteenth century, Grand Tourists—“wealthy young gentlemen, most of them English, [who] came to Italy to view the sites of the classical past”—recorded their impressions that Italy’s food “was generally poor, and eating in the Italian countryside was often a disgusting experience.”12 In fact, these foreign travelers were obsessed in the early modern period not with Italian food, but with Roman and Ancient Greek ruins. Similarly, British travelers, far from being enchanted by fresh vegetables and strong olive oil, disliked the dishes they were served. They frequently complained about the taste of garlic, the use of oil for frying, and the lack of the familiar cuts of meat.13 While Dickie acknowledges that it is difficult to determine the veracity of such assertions, such narratives themselves yielded tremendous power in shaping the real and imagined perception of Italy and its food as this present volume tries to make clear. The extent to which such perceptions have changed over time is highlighted by Fabio Parasecoli, who comments in the Introduction to his book Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy that often when people find out that he is Italian they immediately make assumptions about his own love of food and cooking. He notes, “The assumption that I have a deep and innate connection with good food points to the widespread notion that Italy is, indeed, a special place when it comes to eating and the pleasures of the table. The world seems to be so in love with Italian food that many tend to think of it as exquisitely traditional, almost timeless, untouched by the events that have shaped what many consider a broken food system.”14 As Dickie’s history makes clear,

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such “timeless” associations of Italy and its food tradition are myths that are created and circulated by the kinds of representations that are interrogated by the contributors to this volume. In contrast to the eighteenth-century grand tourists, Parasecoli suggests that contemporary tourists are “often pleasantly surprised by their meals” and “end up projecting healthy amounts of romanticism on to dishes and ingredients, enriching Italian food with their own desires and longings.”15 He also emphasizes the role of cookbooks and non-fiction works like Frances Mayes’ Under the Tuscan Sun in “solidifying perceptions, expectations and biases about Italian food.”16 Taken collectively, Parasecoli argues, such representations of Italy and its food culture bring us into “the realm of the pastoral fantasy: far away and acceptably foreign, Italy is at time imagined as a backward but charming place where there is no room for the hustle and bustle of modern efficiency: where productivity is not a priority and life is different, sweeter. Visitors expect to get back in touch with nature and with themselves while rediscovering food as enjoyment and partaking, rather than a source of anxiety and the cause of extra pounds.”17 Of course, such perceptions about Italy, its people, and its food have been shaped to a large extend by its ever-expanding tourist industry.18 At the same time, there is also the long history of emigration that has contributed to Italy’s global reputation as a cultural and culinary landmark. And while the effects of Italian immigration can be seen across the globe, the example of its impact in the United States on both historical and contemporary perceptions of Italy, Italian culture, and Italian food is illustrative. Noting that food has been “the most eloquent symbol of collective identity for Italian Americans throughout memoirs, literature, poetry, and the visual arts,” Simone Cinotto underscores the extent to which “eating becomes an act of self-identification and pride for Italians and an occasion for asserting cultural and political claims.”19 As millions of Italians emigrated to the United States, they—like so many other migrant groups—used the production and consumption of food to create a unified sense of identity that emerged from the tables of the Italian American home and gradually circulated across national and international landscapes through a complex process of commodification and consumption of Italian foods and foodways. As Cinotto explains, “Immigrants did the work of group identification with the tools they acquired in the encounter with the goods, markets, and material culture of their host country and with the continuing circulation of foods, people, capital, ideas, and imaginaries between Italy, the United States, and the rest of the world.”20 Thus, the study of how Italian foods and foodways have and continue to circulate both within the country and across the globe is essential for understanding Italy, its culture and its people. There are also more pragmatic reasons to use food as a lens to investigate Italy. While Jacques Derrida is often credited with starting the so-called



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“archival turn,” it was actually the anthropologist Michel Rolph Trouillot who first called historians’ attention to the archive and its limitations. Trouillot was able to bring what archivists have always known to a larger audience: archives are constructed, not only brick by brick but also ideology by ideology. The winsomely small number of records that make it into the off-green folders and sturdy acid-free boxes reflect a subjective winnowing. The wheat too often is what those in power believe, while the thoughts, hopes, and curses of the poor (frequently not written down at all) are winnowed out like so much chaff.21 Food, however, gets into the archives. In the monumental Medici Archive, now being completely transcribed and archived online, the search term “wine” for example turns up in 562 document synopses.22 Many of these will be the bane of the historian’s existence: the extremely dry daily minutiae of government. But sifting with a different kind of sieve, we can find fragments of everyday life that let us paint a picture of a peasant farmer’s routine. He complains about his neighbor’s poplars shading his vines, debates the amount of wine due to the landlord, or offers a certain bottle to the local judge (perhaps for future judicial favors). It’s rare to find an instance where a subaltern is asked their thoughts on something, and yet food’s omnipresence in the archives lets us make some guesses about their mental worlds.23 This sort of reconstruction works because food, as Maryann Tebben comments in this volume, is an expression—a semiotic system as well as a nutritional one. Tebben highlights the semiotic fluidity of sauce, but the ability to carry signs is not limited to sauce. As the contributors to this volume show, a dish of pasta, birds of prey spiced with garlic, and even couscous are Italian dishes that mean something.24 While the historians writing in this volume are tracking the changes in these meanings over time, the other contributors are examining what these semiotic entrees say about both contemporary Italy, but also about how Italy is imagined and represented outside of the peninsula. Food as bearers of Italianness is not simply an abstract question for welleducated gourmands: it is a daily question worth billions of dollars. An article in a leading Italian business magazine discusses the damage done to the Italian export balance of trade by so-called “Italian sounding” products. These are counterfeit “Italian” food products sold with almost-Italian names like “Rosecco” (U.K.), “Parmesao” (Brazil), and “Mozzarella Company” (U.S.A.). These names, rather than reflecting a general food category, mask a potentially lower-quality food, which catches the coattails of an Italian brand’s collective reputation. They also narrowly avoid running afoul of European “protected denomination/origin” laws for foods, as they do not blatantly use the protected food products real names, only those sounding like them. The numbers that the author of the article cites are stunning: in France there are twice as many Italian-sounding products on the market as originals, in Germany and Holland almost triple. Italy, which according to a farmers’

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association makes 21 percent of the EU’s denomination of origin food products, has had a constant agricultural trade deficit for more than a decade, and loses millions of euros a year to Italian sounding products abroad.25 While tragic for the producers of the “genuine” (if that word actually means anything when used in reference to food) food articles, this enormous market in counterfeit Parmesan, Chianti, and prosciutto di Parma shows how important the connection of food to Italianness is for people around the world. It also shows that the representations of Italian food that are the concern of the vast majority of people—in the preceding case, the producers of the “real” parmesan cheese, the producers of Parmesao, and the consumers who puzzle over the two—are not solely limited to high culture. The analyses in this volume are not directed solely at famous literature, Renaissance paintings, or the grapes sculpted into lintels. There is an attention to representations that are more plebian, but far more widespread. As mentioned above, while a number of the chapters are historical, this volume also engages contemporary Italian food culture as a global phenomenon, and looks to what its future could be.

The volume Taken collectively, the chapters in this volume explore how representations of Italian food and foodways construct, promote, and/or challenge historically and ideologically specific images of Italy and Italian culture. By examining how Italian food and foodways are represented across media (from literature to film, from cookbooks to social media, from marketing campaigns to product advertisements) authors address key questions that are central to understanding Italian culture, in general, and its food and foodways, in particular: What qualifies as “authentic” Italian food and foodways? How do claims to “authenticity” reveal conflicts between a supposedly static culinary past and Italy’s historic food dynamism? What role do representations of these foods and foodways across various media play in shaping how Italian culture is perceived by Italians and non-Italians alike? What does an analysis of these representations reveal about the fundamental connections between a culture’s foodways, and the values and ideologies that it promotes? In tackling these questions, this book explores the many facets of Italian food and foodways and the various ways they are represented, socially constructed, and performed by people in Italy and around the world. In doing so, it helps us understand the enduring power of Italy, Italian culture, and Italian food. The three chapters in Part I, (Re)Presenting Iconic Italy, focus specifically on iconic representations of Italy and Italian foodways in order to understand



Editors’ Introduction

7

their historical roots, to examine their ideological function, and to consider their role in imagining (and re-imagining) contemporary Italian culture. In “And at last, the farmers win” Massimo Montanari studies one iconic figure on the contemporary Italian foodscape, the rural farmer. He argues that the figure of the farmer has not always been a celebrated one; rather, he notes that for many centuries, it has been scorned both by rural nobles and urban bourgeoisie. Montanari discusses the popular medieval literary genre, the “satire of the bumpkin,” which described the farmer as rough, uncouth, and almost bestial. However, he argues that this image is no longer current given that, within contemporary society, working the land has been redeemed to the point of becoming fashionable. Contemporary representations of the farmer, Montanari concludes, emphasize the richness of farming culture, the individual and collective value of faming experiences, and the wealth of knowledge required in the field. By revisiting ferociously “anti-farmer” representations, focusing specifically on medieval and Renaissance recipe books, Montanari argues that much of what is considered “high” culture is indebted to farmers. In “Authenticity all’italiana: Food discourses, diasporas, and the limits of cuisine in contemporary Italy,” Aliza Wong focuses on the town of Lucca, using it as a case study for understanding the importance of representing Italian food as “authentic” given the dramatic demographic changes that Italy has witnessed over the last quarter-century. In an effort to protect the iconic status of “authentic” Italian food, Lucca has banned “inauthentic” restaurants from operating within the city walls. Wong argues that these new policies reveal Italy’s struggle to balance the past (including long-standing divisions between northern and southern Italy) and the present (including the challenge of dealing with Italy’s increasing multiculturalism). At the same time, they provide a way of understanding how the iconic status of “authentic” Italian food and foodways has provided a foundational vocabulary for negotiating nationalism, identity, authenticity, and belonging. And in “The Slow Food Movement and Facebook: The paradox of advocating slow living through fast technology,” Ginevra Adamoli offers a quantitative content analysis of representations of the Slow Food Movement on social media, focusing on how they function to protect the iconic status of Italian food and foodways. Recognizing the pervasiveness of new media in forming people’s food identities, Adamoli considers the role of new communication tech­nologies in shaping the Slow Food Movement’s identity and promoting its efforts to protect the status and authenticity of Italian food. While the speed offered by such technologies may seem to contradict the philosophy of Slow Food, Adamoli concludes that it nonetheless plays a crucial role in constructing and circulating food identities that support the movement’s ideals and goals. The four chapters in Part II, Representing Italy in literature and film, focus on the role of representations of food in literature and film in creating,

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD

sustaining, circulating, and/or challenging traditional narratives about Italian food and Italian culture. In “Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine: Recipes for political history,” Ernesto Livorni focuses on Sereni’s second novel, which follows a unique format in which recipes are associated with specific moments in the life of the author as well as Italian political history. Livorni considers how this unique representation of Italian history and Italian food reveals the essential links between individual and national identity. By exploring the connections between specific recipes and events, Livorni teases out the reason why a given recipe is associated with a particular personal memory or historical event. Emphasizing the Sereni family’s background and her own political engagements, Livorni argues that often the recipes work as a link between private and public, with particular emphasis given to the social and political situation of women in Italian society. It is through this unique form of representation, Livorni concludes, that Sereni’s text teases out the complex links between Italian food and Italian history as it invites readers to appreciate culinary, social, and regional differences as they play out across generations. In “Inspector Montalbano a tavola: Food in Andrea Camilleri’s police fiction,” Elgin K. Eckert analyzes representations of food in Andrea Camilleri’s highly popular series of crime novels featuring Inspector Montalbano. Eckert argues that food serves an important thematic and narratological purpose: the Inspector uses food to come to terms with situations of death he encounters in his investigations and serves as an affirmation of life. But food also serves a symbolical, communicative function (which is also highlighted in the RAI television adaption of the series). Scenes focusing on food are interspersed at regular intervals throughout the series to highlight the traditionalistic, nostalgic characteristics of the Inspector: through his refusal of non-traditional foodways and popular, trendy restaurants, he makes implicit statements about a postmodern, consumer-driven society. Tracing Montalbano’s changing relationship with food in both its thematic and symbolical function over the course of the series, Eckert’s analysis reveals how Camilleri’s attitude toward certain crimes and political situations changes over the years. In “There’s a mobster in the kitchen: Cooking, eating, and complications of gender in The Godfather and Goodfellas,” Peter Naccarato studies representations of food and food-related practices in mafia movies and television shows. By examining scenes from The Godfather, Goodfellas, and specific episodes of The Sopranos, Naccarato considers what messages about gender and identity are communicated as Italian men in general—and Mafiosi in particular—move from the table into the kitchen, preparing the food that they ultimately consume. He argues that rather than reading such scenes as unrealistic, they communicate a perhaps unexpected reality within Italian and Italian-American cultures, namely that food play is central to male bonding. As such, representations that reflect shared participation in food production



Editors’ Introduction

9

reveal its role in creating and sustaining individual and group identities among these men. The implication of this assertion is that such representations of Italian-American men preparing food serve to disrupt normative assumptions about food, gender, and identity not only in Italian and Italian-American cultures, but in Western cultures more broadly. And in “In cibo veritas: Food preparation and consumption in Özpetek’s “queer” films, Zachary Nowak and Elgin K. Eckert analyze two of Ferzan Ozpetek’s most important and well-known films, 2000’s Le fati ignoranti (His Secret Life) and 2010’s Mine vaganti (Loose Cannons), both of which focus on homosexual relationships in contemporary Italy and use food as a non-verbal way of representing a number of important thematic aspects. Both films place significant emphasis on the preparation, serving, and consumption of food. In each of the many instances in which food takes center-stage (or is even marginally involved), it provides the backdrop for the creation or resolution of conflict. Eckert and Nowak discuss the symbolic meaning of Özpetek’s use of food and focus their analysis on how it is used to represent both characters and narratives. They analyze how Özpetek illustrates the relationships between Italians and their food, even while challenging traditional biological gender roles. The three chapters in Part III, Marketing, packaging, and advertising Italy, explore representations of Italian food in marketing, packaging, and advertising to understand their role in promoting particular images of Italian culture. In “Semiotics of sauce: Representing Italian/American identity through pasta sauces,” Maryann Tebben examines the naming of pasta sauces and the role of the marketing of this condiment in promoting specific Italian and ItalianAmerican identities. For example, the word “ragù” in Italian denotes a rich meat sauce tied to Bologna “la dotta e la grassa,” while the trademarked name “Ragú” for American spaghetti sauce calls to mind a simple, accessible, culturally innocuous, smooth tomato sauce that is nevertheless recognizably Italian. Pointing out that tomato sauce is hardly the most important sauce in Italy, Tebben argues that it emerged from the country’s fractured culinary landscape and it was used to represent Italian identity simply and directly in America. According to Tebben, differences in how pasta sauces are named and marketed in Italy and the United States illuminate how immigrant Italian food culture is represented in both countries. In “Producing consumers: Gendering Italy through food advertisements,” Diana Garvin offers a critical analysis of food advertisements from the popular cooking magazine La cucina italiana, arguing that they demonstrate how in the specific context of Italy’s postwar economic boom, advertisers invoked prescriptive models of gender through promotions for pantry staples such as rice, margarine, and pasta. The advertisements that Garvin studies indicate that the same food stuff will have a different biological effect depending on the consumer’s gender. Garvin argues that because these adverts portray food requirements (such as

10

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caloric content, taste, and nutritional value) as being fundamentally distinct for male and female bodies, they not only evoke pre-existing conceptions of gender division, but actually work to create new, biologically determined differentiations between men and women. And in “‘A kitchen with a view’: The modernization of gender roles in Italy through Barilla’s 1950s and 1960s advertising campaigns,” Antonella Valoroso analyses a number of advertising campaigns produced by the Barilla Company, focusing specifically on the ways in which these campaigns have accompanied, reflected, and even contributed to creating Italian society in the last sixty years. Through her analysis of the principle modalities and communication strategies utilized in these campaigns, Valoroso considers their role in both reinforcing traditional gender relations and modernizing women’s representations within Italian media and society. The three chapters in Part IV, Global representations of Italy, analyze representations of Italian food and foodways in a global context, from the United States to Australia and Israel. In doing so, they reveal how such representations contribute to global perspectives on Italy and Italian culture. In “Italianità in America: The cultural politics of representing ‘Authentic’ Italian cuisine in the US,” Ken Albala examines representations of Italy and Italian food across the U.S. culinary and cultural landscape in order to understand the changing ways Americans have viewed authentic Italian cuisine from the eighteenth through the twentieth century. Albala traces this culinary history, noting significant shifts that he argues reflect not only generational changes among immigrant populations (the first generation holding on to foodways of their homeland, the second for the most part assimilating and the third desperately trying to hold onto their traditions), but also reveal drama­ tically changing attitudes toward Italy among all Americans. Albala analyses these shifting attitudes in relation to larger political and social movements, economic changes, and other historical forces including agriculture and patterns of import. He concludes that the representations of Italian food that influence how Americans conceive of it are a product not only of changing culinary fashions but also of larger socio-economic forces. In “Leggo’s not-soautentico: Invention and representation in twentieth century Italo-Australian foodways,” Rachel Ankeny and Tania Cammarano offer a case study of Leggo’s tomato products, an Anglo-invented Australian product line that was transformed into a quintessentially Italo-Australian one through a series of marketing and advertising campaigns that established its authenticity. According to Ankeny and Cammarano, this analysis supports their assertion that shifting perceptions of Italy, Italian identity, and Italian food in Australia were caused in large part by large-scale industrialization of Australia’s food supply and concurrent cultural shifts throughout the twentieth century that led to the rise in popularity of what is now termed “Italo-Australian” cuisine.



Editors’ Introduction

11

And in “Italian food in Israel: Representing an imagined Mediterranean,” Nir Avieli interrogates the popularity of Italian food in Israel, which is second only to the so-called “oriental cuisine” (the food of Jews from Moslem countries, which is very similar to Arab and Palestinian fare). Avieli argues that the preference for southern Italian food is due in part to what it represents to Israeli Jews, namely a way to feel embedded in the Mediterranean region while ignoring the dispute with neighboring Arabs, whose foodways are often uncomfortably similar. He concludes that Italian cuisine is so popular in Israel precisely because it has very little to do with Jewish or Palestinian culinary traditions and histories, and therefore represents an extremely convenient means for a flawless national imagination—a sort of supranational pan-(western) Mediterranean identity— that bypasses conflicts and complications. And in the Afterword, “Italy represented”, we tie together the main themes that have run through the chapters and offer some conclusions about the ongoing role of representations of food and foodways in creating and recreating visions of Italy and Italian culture both domestically and globally.

Notes 1

Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), xx.

2

Another cognate is σοφία, Greek sophia, “wisdom.” All three words share the Indo-European root *sap-. For a review of the reconstructed root and a variety of other cognates, see Julius Pokorny, Indogermanisches etymologisches Wörterbuch, 2nd edn, vol. 1 (Bern: Francke, 1989), 880.

3

Erich Auerbach, Mimesis: The Representation of Reality in Western Literature (New York: Doubleday, 1957 [1946]).

4

Jan Assmann, “Kollektives Gedächtnis und kulturelle Identität,” in Tonio Hölscher and Jan Assmann (eds), Kultur und Gedächtnis (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1988), 15.

5

Kathleen LeBesco and Peter Naccarato, Edible Ideologies: Representing Food and Meaning (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2008), 3–4.

6

Birgit Neumann, “The Literary Representation of Memory,” in Astrid Erll and Ansgar Nünning (eds), A Companion to Cultural Memory Studies (Berlin and New York: De Gruyter, 2010), 333.

7

While there was a 63 percent increase in digital book exports from the U.S. alone in 2013 (the last year for which data is available in early 2016), print publishing is still an enormous business. China, the U.S., and the U.K. in 2013 published just short of a million new titles or new editions. For a summary of the continuing expansion in the global book market, see “Annual Report” (International Publishers Association, October 2013),

12

REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD http://www.internationalpublishers.org/images/reports/2014/IPA-annualreport-2014.pdf (accessed October 12, 2016). World production of movies has grown enormously, from 4,642 films produced in 2005 to 7,610 films in 2013. This is a 63.9 percent growth rate. It’s also interesting to note that the percentage of films made by the top five producers has dropped steadily in that time from 60.5 to 52 percent. See Luis A. Albornoz, Diversity and the Film Industry: An Analysis of the 2014 UIS Survey on Feature Film Statistics. Information Paper No. 29 (Montreal: UNESCO Institute for Statistics, 2016), http://www.uis.unesco.org/Library/Pages/DocumentMorePage.aspx?docIdVa lue=943&docIdFld=ID&SPSLanguage=EN.

8

The enormous number of hand-held devices today means that, according to a recent marketing report, there are over thirty billion “mobile moments” a day when a person interacts with their smartphone. The potential for viewing representations—films, ads, or other still images, not to mention text—is clearly enormous. See Jennifer Wise et al., “Vendor Landscape: Mobile Engagement Automation Solutions” (Forester Research Inc., November 5, 2015), https://www.forrester.com/ report/Vendor+Landscape+Mobile+Engagement+Automation+Solutions//E-RES125304 (accessed October 12, 2016).

9

Isabelle de Solier, Food and the Self: Consumption, Production and Material Culture (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2013), 3. See also Signe Rousseau, Food Media: Celebrity Chefs and the Politics of Everyday Interference (New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2012).

10 Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio, trans. J. M. Rigg, vol. 2 (London: A. H. Bullen, 1903), 187. 11 Several of the authors of chapters in this book highlight this argument, first advanced by Italian food historians Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari. See their introduction in Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History, trans. Aine O’Healy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003). 12 John Dickie, Delizia!: The Epic History of the Italians and Their Food (New York: Free Press, 2008), 146, 146–7. 13 For more on British impressions of Italian food, see Jeremy Black, Italy and the Grand Tour (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2003), 75–80, as well as Dickie, Delizia!, 146–7. 14 Fabio Parasecoli, Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), 8. 15 Ibid., 8–9. 16 Ibid., 9. 17 Ibid., 12. 18 As Luigi Barzini notes, “In the 1950s the tourists numbered eight, ten, twelve million yearly. A little later, only yesterday, they were fifteen, seventeen, nineteen million. They have now passed the twenty million mark, a proportion of more than one tourist to every two and a half Italians, and the total is still growing. It appears that, if circumstances remain favourable, the travellers will reach thirty million within a decade, and will eventually match and even surpass the number of native inhabitants in the



Editors’ Introduction

13

peninsula.” Luigi Barzini, The Italians: A Full-Length Portrait Featuring Their Manners and Morals (New York: Touchstone, 1996), 1. 19 Simone Cinotto, The Italian American Table: Food, Family, and Community in New York City (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013), 2. 20 Ibid., 8. 21 Michel-Rolph Trouillot, Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History (Boston: Beacon Press, 1995). Social historians, of course, have been reading archives “back against the grain” for decades in an effort to recuperate the lives of common people, but historians in general still seem hesitant to problematize the social construction of archives, and its effects on the narratives that can be written from those records. An exception is Kirsten Weld, who has called for historians to adopt “archival thinking” and move the archives from the footnotes into the body of historical narratives, making them objects of analysis, not simply containers for sources. See her Paper Cadavers: The Archives of Dictatorship in Guatemala (Durham: Duke University Press, 2014), 13. For an archivist’s view of the problem, see Terry Cook, “The Archive(s) Is a Foreign Country: Historians, Archivists, and the Changing Archival Landscape,” The American Archivist 74 (2) (October 1, 2011): 600–32. 22 See bia.medici.org for this remarkable collection. It’s important to note that digital collections share many of the same subjectivities as brick and mortar archives: what has been preserved is what those in power thought important, and even what is noted in a document synopsis is subjective to a certain degree. 23 The obvious exception to this is when elites want to punish subalterns for heterodox thought, and subject them to judicial scrutiny. For a classic account, see Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms: The Cosmos of a Sixteenth-Century Miller, trans. John Tedeschi and Anne C. Tedeschi (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1992). 24 An objection could be raised to couscous being an Italian dish. Pellegrino Artusi, widely considered the founder of a unified Italian cuisine, listed cuscussù in his famous cookbook, Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well. Whether couscous—eaten every day by hundreds of thousands of people in Italy—or kebabs or spring rolls can truly be considered ‘Italian food’ is part of a fierce political debate examined by Aliza Wong in this volume. 25 Gaetano Murano, “Pericolo Italian Sounding,” L’Impresa 7/8 (2011): 51–3. See also Amy Riolo and Luigi Diotauiti, “Knocking Off Made In Italy,” Ambassado (Fall 2014): 24–9.

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PART ONE

(Re)presenting iconic Italy

16

1 And at last, the farmers win Massimo Montanari

I

talian identity has been built—and imagined—over the centuries, starting with the cities. It was the cities that have been the distinctive element in the history of the country, in the political, economic, and cultural dimensions. Italy, as one hears often repeated, is the “country of a hundred cities,” around which grew a fabric of interests, of perspectives, of ideas and which at least beginning with the Middle Ages constituted the most characteristic and original element of this country—which existed, as a country, long before its political unification. It was not necessary to wait until 1861 to encounter a culture, an art, a literature, a music that was “Italian.”1 Food is culture as well, and when we talk about food, a country called Italy (not by historians, but by its inhabitants) appears before national unification: products, recipes and cuisines have always been locally determined, but circulating from one place to another they created a network of tastes, of techniques, or knowledge that held Italy together gastronomically just as it did art and literature. The circulation of products in markets, of recipes in books, of cooks in aristocratic families guaranteed the existence of a common culture—not at all social levels, for sure, and certainly elite, but common nonetheless.2 This “Italian” gastronomy—just like Italian art, literature, or music—had been straightforwardly urban since the Middle Ages. The cities were crucial locations in this network of knowledge: marketplaces, places of traffic, places of exchange. If we think about this culture as a sort of digital network, the cities were its servers. All this has left traces that are both important and long-lived, apparent even in the linguistic dimension of Italy’s gastronomic culture—language is the first thing that reveals how reality is perceived and represented. It’s not accidental that the majority of dishes in Italian cuisine have names that refer to cities: Milanese cutlets, Bolognese lasagna, Florentine steak (or simply the

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“Florentine”), Genovese pesto, Roman saltimbocca, Venetian liver, Neapolitan pizza, and so on. This should not surprise us, as we’re talking about dishes that were developed in urban contexts. Less obvious, though, is the reference to the city when we talk about products, which normally do not come from the city but rather from its territory, its agricultural hinterland. Parma ham is not made in Parma, nor is the celebrated parmesan cheese: the centers of production are spread through the countryside that surrounds the city. Alba truffles don’t grow in the center of Alba, but in the hills that are around it. The “Paduan” hen, and the Leghorn (two highly valued varieties) are not born in the piazzas of Padua or Leghorn, but rather in the farmyards outside the cities. The examples could continue for a while: the Treviso radicchio, the “Roman” lettuce, and so on.3 All these denominations (that these days even have a legislative force, with the institution of the European indications pdo, psg, tsg) mean the appropriation of the countryside by the city.4 It’s contradictory then that in Italy, representations of food have been for most of Italian history profoundly urban, obscuring the actual rural places of origin. This chapter explores this occlusion (until recently, and this is an important point) of the countryside and the primary producer of all Italian ingredients, the farmer. This chapter explores the food of the farmers (“contadini” in Italian5), and their eventual conquest of culinary representations of Italy by tracking how the image of the contadino has changed over time. By examining novellas, plays, and even dietetic and agronomic treatises, I show the role of literary representations in effecting this change, and how this reflects the broader city-country antagonism in Italy (both historically and today). In the texts that presumed to describe the contadini and how they ate, elites were actually trying to make prescriptions, building a wall between the city and the country. I will argue that while the semblance of a rigid hierarchy of city over country seemed incredibly durable, it was ultimately illusory. There was always a flow of ingredients, ideas for dishes, and cooks from the countryside to the city. I will also discuss the reasons why the demonization (or outright exclusion) of the countryside and its residents crumbled in the last half of the twentieth century. Today while the city still serves as a node and still gives its names to the countryside’s products, the culinary imagination has changed—indeed, it has almost been inverted. In contemporary representations of Italy, the countryside becomes a romanticized space of “authentic” cooking. The city-country relationship that is the focus of my chapter developed in Italy in the Middle Ages, in the period of the Comunes, in a perspective that was at the same time political, economic, and cultural. It was political because rural territory in the Middle Ages became a sort of “appendix” of the city; the city dominated it and felt that it was its own. The name that was coined to indicate this rural hinterland, contado, is from the word contea or



And at last, the farmers win

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“county,” and had a strong political implication. The contado was not simply the countryside, but the countryside dominated by the city. From that word comes another, contadino, which did not simply mean “an inhabitant of the countryside,” or “a worker of the land,” but rather “inhabitant (or worker) of the land dominated by the city, and at its service.” Another term that spread in these centuries is villano, strictly speaking “the inhabitant of the villa,” or the countryside; but the word came to mean in Italian “one who has rude or vulgar behavior.” This ambiguous relationship between the city and the country, characterized by the domination of the former over the latter, was a very real “imperialism.” It was also a tight integration of the two realities that has profoundly marked Italian history.6 On one hand a decisive role in the construction of the “national” culture is conferred on the urban centers—the places of material and intellectual exchange—in that they were nodal points in the “network” that in the course of the centuries was built in Italy. On the other hand, we see at the same time a strongly adversarial relationship between the rural world of the farmer and the urban world of the city dweller, and a general diffidence of urbanites towards the countryside and those who worked it. Italian literature of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance is dominated by the image of the farmer who is a thief, who tries to steal from the urban property owners, to hide and hold back as much as possible of what the agricultural contracts oblige him to hand over. It is a topos characteristic of Italian literature, one which is added to the usual image of the farmer who is coarse, uncultivated, ignorant—the image of the farmers in the literature of other European countries. Only in Italy does the age-old “satire of the rustic” (as this literary genre was generally called) leave this common schema behind to take on a tone of profound hostility, of true ferocity.7 Gentile Sermini, a fifteenth-century Sienese writer, claims in one of his novellas “each farmer to each city dweller is an enemy.”8 It would be difficult to find analogous examples in the French tradition, which called farmers paysans and didn’t represent them in an anticity-dweller stance. In France, farmers were but described as protagonists of a rural identity that recognizes in the pays—also in the lexical field—the true wealth of the country. It would be difficult to find these examples in the Anglo-Saxon tradition as well, where the farmer is simply the person who does his honest work on the farm for which he is responsible. In ancient Latin literature, agricola meant exactly this: the word suggested prestigious images proposed (rhetorically, to be sure, but not less important for this) as an example to admire and a model to follow.9 The noble Cincinnatus, called to guide the army to defend Rome from its enemies, abandons his work in the fields to protect his fatherland and, as soon as the mission is over, returns to his work. The recounting that Roman historiography

20

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offers about this event is certainly idealized, but suggests an attitude of great admiration for rural activities.10 Up through the first centuries of the Middle Ages, working in the fields was something that Benedictine monks included, along with prayer, as part of their daily obligations (Ora et labora, “Pray and work,” was inscribed above the entrance to their monasteries).11 The world of the High Middle Ages lived in a strongly symbiotic relationship with the working of the earth; the countryside “won out over the city,” as Vito Fumagalli always loved to recall.12 With the passage of time, the image of contadino changed. In the Italy of the Comunes, “contadino” became a negative point of reference: it was everything that a “civil” (that is, urban) man should not be. “Contadino” is someone who doesn’t know urbane ways and refined manners. It’s someone who doesn’t know how to eat because it goes back to his being (un)cultured. The literature of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries (the direct expression of the urban culture) is filled with characters of this type, contadini who presume to have learned the “genteel” ways of the city but who show themselves to be ridiculous in their awkward attempts at imitating them. Sermini (already cited above) gives a merciless description of a certain Mattano, an “urbanized hick,” who reveals his rustic nature with his habit of dunking huge slices of bread in soups and stews of vegetables and legumes, all dressed with abundant garlic. Mattano would “nibble at two or three snacks in the morning, and then sup on soup with grass peas and cabbage, already reheated several times, as well as soup or turnip stews with garlic, filling these soups with long slices of bread cut on his chest, and, chomping on them, would dunk them repeatedly.”13 In another novella, Sermini ridicules the hick (villano) who, presuming to eat like a lord, has himself served a dish of “rice with sugar.” He is however incapable of appreciating the refined nature of the dish—which is supposed to be a version of the famous blancmange, to which all medieval recipe collections devote particular attention—and so treats it like a common cabbage soup, topping it with large slices of bread and stirring it all up, “as one does out in the country.”14 “Contadino” is someone who doesn’t eat the white wheat bread, reserved for lords and city dwellers, but rather dark bread (or polenta) made from the inferior cereals (like millet, panic, oats, and rye). “And what do these farmers know,” exclaims a lady of Florence in a novella by Giovanni Sercambi, “about what good or bad flour is, except that to them bread made from millet seems as good as wheat bread?”15 There’s more: a contadino is someone who must eat all these things, foods that are heavy, not refined, which his stomach asks for but which the stomach of the lord, on the other hand, rejects. This idea was transmitted not only in fiction, but in scientific treatises like books on dietetics. Giacomo Albini, in the fourteenth century, predicts pains and disease for those who do not eat foods destined for their station; Michele



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Savonarola, in the fifteenth century, distinguishes foodstuffs by their social destination: “for hicks,” “for courtiers.” We find it in treatises on agronomy: Piero de’ Crescenzi, in the fourteenth century, writes that those who work hard need coarse, robust food; for this reason it’s sorghum, rather than wheat, which is appropriate for contadini, as well as pigs, cattle, and horses.16 In this type of texts, the (presumed) descriptions of the way of life and of eating of the contadino are transformed into prescriptions. The ferocity of these literary representations became—or, rather, came from—a social ideology, which presupposed an anthropological difference between contadini and the others (city dwellers, lords, and “gentlemen,” the privileged minority which held all the power and knowledge). The tragicomic adventure of Bertoldo, the contadino-protagonist of the famous story by Giulio Cesare Croce (from the beginning of the seventeenth century) who, guest at the royal court and fed with regal foods, slowly gets sicker and sicker and ultimately dies, “for lack of being able to eat turnips and beans” (as it was written as an epitaph on his gravestone), is much more than a literary joke.17 A pamphlet published in the same century explained that contadini eat “like pigs.” The author, Girolamo Cirelli, doesn’t say this because he is worried about their lot, or because he might have some sort of plan to make it better: on the contrary, he is convinced—just like his intellectual predecessors— that it is right this way and that it is “natural” that contadini eat in this way. Indeed, by eating this way they reveal their deeper nature, even though they sometimes try to hide it (note that the title of the pamphlet is “The Hick Unmasked”).18 Filling themselves with coarse and possibly indigestible foods, which keep the feelings of hunger away as long as possible, is the dietetic ideal of this contadino world, and it continues to be represented like this, for centuries. In the eighteenth century, the agronomist Giovanno Battarra conjures up a young contadino who’s enthusiastic at the idea of his father to plant potatoes and use their flour to make bread. His father had already confessed to him that bread made like this is rather indigestible, but the young contadino, Mingone, had commented that “for contadini indigestion isn’t bad, to the contrary, they feel fuller.”19 The social and economic subordination of the contadino has to be reflected in cultural subordination: the contadino cannot, must not share in the knowledge that the city dweller possesses. He cannot, must not: any slip-up can lead to an ambush. To keep the contadino ignorant is an instrument of power, even in the field of gastronomy: “Don’t let the contadino know how good cheese is with pears.” In the history of this proverb there is all the arrogance (however deluded and utopian) of an urban world that believes itself to be the repository of all knowledge and denies (or rather, tries to deny) that the contadino can obtain access as well.“But the contadino, who wasn’t

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an idiot, knew it before the lord”: in this modern addition to a proverb that we can trace back to the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.20 This reflects a social conflict that, in Italy more than in other countries, dragged on for quite a while culturally, if not still economically and politically. Then there was the industrial revolution. Then contadini started gradually to disappear as a social class: after having been for centuries the majority of the population (in the Middle Ages and until the eighteenth century, over 80 percent of the total), those who worked the land were ever fewer in number, modifying their own identity. This phenomenon, which has happened in all the “developed” countries, had its peak in Italy after the Second World War, in the years of the economic boom (the 1950s and 1960s), which marked the definitive transformation of the country from agrarian to industrial. Even then the desire to affirm the difference and the superiority of an urban lifestyle (and, for the newly urbanized, to free themselves from the “poverty of the contadino”) remained an attitude characteristic of Italian culture. And then the moment of nostalgia came. “Ruralism” established itself as the new trend of the urban cultures: everything that had been distanced, pushed to the margins, despised, in a few decades became fashionable. Regret for happiness lost, for a contadino world far from the tensions and the stress of the “modern life,” took the place of ancient sentiments. It’s superfluous to note the ambiguity of this change, the fruit of a colossal mystification, of a misinterpretation driven by economic interests that are more than evident. “Selling nostalgia” today has become a well-paid profession, in all fields—in gastronomy as well. Contadino products, once thought to be inappropriate for a “civil” table, have become chic. Dark breads—those made with rye, spelt, millet, or with magic mixtures of cereals, like those that in the Middle Ages made city dwellers who wanted wheat sad—today cost more than wheat bread.21 New gastronomic festivals celebrate wild herbs, fruits “forgotten” by the food industry, “rediscovered” between the folds of a popular culture that hasn’t totally disappeared. I repeat: all of this is fundamentally ambiguous. An elegy to poverty, when it is made by the rich, is always suspect. The “rediscovery” of the contadino tradition (which we should more correctly call the “re-invention”) is like the late homage paid on the deathbed of a sick person, or at the funeral of someone we always denigrated while they were alive. Nevertheless, we could see all of this in a different way: in this frantic search for the “food of the countryside” there is all the unease of a dissatisfied society, scared of cultural homogenization, anxious to find an escape route. Fleeing into the past, in these cases, is a way to hide the difficulty of inventing something new, while one is, in effect, inventing something new. What is new is the “re-invention” of the past—the only thing we are allowed to do these days,



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and which can lead Italians (despite all possible misinterpretations or ambiguities or mystifications) to redefine their relationship with their contadino past. For example, one realizes that spelt or millet bread can be good, that farmer recipes can taste good, that “bad to think” isn’t always “bad to eat.” Lévi-Strauss was right: a food, before it can be “good to eat” must be “good to think.”22 For this, millet bread and farmer food—represented for centuries as “bad”—have all of a sudden become “good.” This happened when farmer culture turned the tables how the countryside was seen, putting the idea (and representation) of the countryside finally in a positive light. Marvin Harris, turning around Lévi-Strauss’s terms, held that “good to think” had to come before “good to eat,” that is, economically useful, with respect to the costbenefit analysis that the production of a food requires.23 We have to recognize that this cost-benefit analysis, while perhaps working within certain limits for popular foodways, tends to reverse itself in models of elite consumption. Elites look for costly foods instead of inexpensive ones, foods that are difficult (not easy) to find. In any event, there are certainly cases in which “good to eat” is not at all “bad to think.” Even though contadino food was ideologically “bad to think” for the members of the upper classes in the Middle Ages or Renaissance, it was definitely not “bad to eat” on a gustatory level for that reason. This contradiction has to be explained: how could lords eat contadino food without facing ideological problems? The lords of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance classified cheeses as contadino food, and for that reason hesitated to have it at their tables. They realized, however, that cheese was delicious, and therefore they invented a thousand strategies to “ennoble” it, rendering it compatible with privileged space. Indeed, it was just such a mechanism that led to the “low-class” cheese being paired with the “noble” pear.24 We find ourselves at a kind of ping-pong game, where the value of foods is redefined at each stroke. Today contadino food has become “good to think” even on an ideological level. Because contadino food is now good to think—in other words, now that the representations of food from the countryside are so overwhelmingly positive—the traditional schizophrenia of urban elites eating rural food has been mitigated. Today it’s possible for every Italian to taste these foods fully, without being embarrassed to do it. I’ve already said that, despite every possible ambiguity, the fact that contadino food is now good to think (indeed, very good to think) hides behind a profound need: the recovery (or better, the construction) of a different relationship with the rural world. It’s the birth—significant above and beyond any ambiguity—of a new form of respect for a culture that for centuries has been looked down upon, the return of the countryside as a “value.” The appreciation of the field, of the garden as places that are important for our survival and our pleasure—in short, for our lives. Being a farmer today is coming back into fashion, above all among young people. With all the possible distinctions

24

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(because it’s the city dwellers who emphasize the role of the countryside), I like the fact that at last, the farmers win.25 As a conclusion to these reflections—and to return to cuisine as its eaten—I’d like to try to show you how the contadino world has in my opinion had anything but a secondary role in the construction of Italian gastronomic patrimony. Despite the apparent marginalization, which we have discussed at length, the contadini are very much part of this process. They constitute, since the Middle Ages, an important point of reference for “national culture,” as much as one can use that phrase for a country like Italy, which has had as its “glue” a unifying culture more than political institutions. I’ll begin with a story from not so long ago, about Pellegrino Artusi, who in 1891 published a cook book Science in the Kitchen and the Art of Eating Well, which scholars see as fundamental for the construction of national culture. Construction is used here in the sense that Artusi, with this recipe book, wanted to give Italy (or better, the middle-class citizen whom he explicitly addressed) a common text, a shared “culinary language.” Artusi took on this project over a twenty-year period, elaborating and re-elaborating a text that was always a work in progress (he almost doubled its length between the first edition in 1891 and the fifteenth in 1911), an active collaboration with his readers. In fact Artusi—who had few cookbooks in his library—worked with people, “in the field.” His tools of the trade weren’t books but rather trains, which allowed him to travel and get to know things first-hand, and letters, which allowed him to have a dialogue with his readers. From this point of view, his method was quite innovative—a sort of blog ante litteram, in which many people participated with requests, advice, and suggestions. It was through this mechanism that the text was enormously enriched from one edition to the next, covering places that the author had never visited. An example is Sicily: the recipe for “Maccheroni with sardines, Sicilian style,” appears in the second edition, in 1895, thanks to a letter from a reader.26 But we’re talking about contadini and our discussion seems to have jumped the tracks: Artusi’s readers were primarily city dwellers, who were the expressions of bourgeois culture at the end of the nineteenth century. There’s a “but,” however, and it’s that these city dwellers represented the gastronomic culture of the countryside. Behind each of them there was, directly or indirectly, the knowledge of the contadini, filtered through the world of the city but not for that reason any less strong, or less perceptible. The dishes for feast days in the countryside became the daily dishes of the city. The tastes of the countryside penetrated the bourgeois city houses thanks to the servants—often from rural areas—who worked in them. This wider culture—“popular” or “common”—is explicitly referred to by Artusi in many recipes, even right from the beginning, from the first line of the first recipe, dedicated to broth. “The people know,” the text begins, “that to



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obtain a good broth one has to put meat in ice-cold water and bring it to a boil slowly but not have it spill over ever.”27 With these words, we are immediately projected outside the text, out of the book. And despite being written for the minority of Italians who at the end of the nineteenth century knew how to read and write, the book allowed its readers to be witnesses to the knowledge (unwritten) of the majority of Italians, the techniques taught and passed down orally in “common” houses. That’s why Artusi—the Artusi method—is not a book but much more: it’s a mirror of everything that stood around it and made it possible. It’s the synthesis of a household food culture that, despite being filtered through every type of interpretation and rewriting, is able to show its own distinctive characteristics, its interests, its principles. The kitchen of Artusi’s house was the meeting place for many other kitchens, of many other houses. I think it’s exactly this that is the secret of the incredible success of Science in the Kitchen, which was a true nineteenth-century best seller— even today it is still reprinted, bought, and used. The reason is that the manual with the name of Pellegrino Artusi was born as the project of a single person, but took form as a collective work in an age in which bourgeois culture had a highly representative role. On one hand it was the landing place for ancient aristocratic traditions; on the other hand it gave back the essential contents of contadino culture. Precisely for that reason Artusi’s cookbook was, in the following decades, a huge success among rural people, who at the end of the 1800s could not technically access Science in the Kitchen because the majority of them didn’t know how to read or write. In the course of the 1900s, finally literate, they started to have some books in their houses, beginning with grammar books for children and some reading books or useful manuals. Artusi’s recipe book was eminently positioned to break into this new, potentially vast new market, because the contadini saw, in this book, important fragments of their own culture, their own traditions, and their own way of cooking. The success of Science in the Kitchen can’t be explained without this progressive social widening of its reading audience. The determining factor was its intrinsically popular nature, even if it had been revisited and filtered by the knowledge and the techniques of bourgeois households. In all these houses there were servants, commoners who were often from the countryside—people like Marietta Sabatini, the Tuscan contadina who helped Pellegrino Artusi make his dishes in his house in Florence. Marietta is a figure fundamental to understanding the role of the contadino culture in Italian food history. Above and beyond any sociological consideration, Artusi had the contadino world in his house: it was Marietta, with whom he worked every day in the kitchen, with whom he exchanged daily his own knowledge, his own tastes. It was to her (in addition to the cook and servant, Francesco Ruffilli) that Artusi left all the rights to his book, recognizing her explicitly as a co-author.

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The story of Artusi is a particularly important example of the importance that the contadino culture had for the Italian gastronomic tradition. It would be interesting to demonstrate this going backwards in time, going back through the Renaissance and the Middle Ages, that is back precisely to the ages in which the negative stereotypes of the contadino are formed, typical to Italian culture. I tried to do this a few years ago, taking medieval cookbooks as a beginning and working up to the fifteenth-century manual of Maestro Martino and the sixteenth-century one of Bartolomeo Scappi, that monument of Italian Renaissance gastronomy.28 For a long time I had thought this path impractical, perhaps as I had a common preconceived notion: given that—by definition—written culture is produced by dominant classes for dominant classes and given that—again, by definition—oral sources are ruled out for the historian who does not study contemporary events, as a consequence only the cuisine of the powerful has been passed down to us through literary and documentary sources, while the cookery of the poor, the cucina povera, is destined to remain silent. But a shrewder reading of the sources convinced me otherwise. For sure, the written texts are far from expressing “popular” culture. And yet they do represent it, with a fidelity much higher than we would imagine. The nexus between court cuisine and the “cuisine” of the poor is ultimately quite a strong one—and this conclusion, I confess, was quite a surprise for me. The fact is that the collective aristocratic imagination of the late Middle Ages and early modern period, while it built insurmountable ideological barriers between the dominant and dominated classes, did not exclude a certain everyday convergence of tastes and behaviors. The rigidity of the symbolic schemas that set in opposition the lifestyle of contadini and the lords (or of the city dwellers) made a separate peace with the contadini products and flavors in the kitchens of the elite. Or perhaps it even took it for granted: oppositional and exclusionary models become more rigid as they are more eluded, violated in practice. A myriad of interstices opened to the fantasy of the contadini, and we have to be quite careful not to fall into the trap of our sources, which represent to us a contadino world inevitably miserable, starving, and ignorant. This “miserable-ism,” as Florent Quellier has defined it,29 is often an image filtered by class interests. It represents, in a manner of speaking, the utopia of the dominant classes: keeping the contadini in their place, eating contadini food—which historians too often risk taking for reality. But the reverse is also true. The social distance of the lords from the ways of contadino life, from its tastes and flavors, is in itself a utopia barely credible as an actual social practice. Lords surely did not lose their appetites seated in front of foods described in literature as “typically contadino.” They did just as Artusi’s bourgeois city dwellers did: they assimilated and re-elaborated the contadino culture. The contrast between ideology and reality, which intruded



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in these situations, could be bridged with simple expedients, of which the medieval cookbooks provide formidable witness. For example, the Liber de coquina—the oldest recipe book of the peninsula—begins with vegetables (“as the first thing we will begin from those things that are the simplest, that is to say the category of vegetables”), listing scores of recipes for cabbage, spinach, fennel, “small leaves,” and all sorts of legumes (chickpeas, broad beans).30 All the foods in literary representations—in the alimentary ideology of the Middle Ages—belong to the contadino universe. But these cabbages are prepared “for use by the lords,” we read, just like the “small odorous leaves.” The difference between theoretical prejudice and actual practice (between “good to think” and “good to eat”) is evident. The contrast is quite strong, and, as a consequence, so too are the ways of avoiding the ambiguity through profoundly symbolic (in addition to gastronomic) maneuvers: these are the “signs” that are supposed to raise products and recipes up to the proper social level. The first sign is that of combinations and methods of use, both of which clarify the social destination of the dish: ennobling a humble product, for example garlic, introducing it into a prestigious dish. In the fourteenth century, in a novella by Sabadino degli Arienti, we are assured that garlic is “always a rustic food” but that “sometimes it can be artificially made civil,” for example by stuffing it into the body of a roast duck.31 Similarly, the recipe for “delicate cabbages for use of the lords” (which we saw above) is destined to be a side dish for meats: cum omnibus carnibus, with all meats. We find the same with “paniccia col latte,” a sort of cake with milk, listed in a Tuscan recipe book. It is indeed contadino as it was made with panic grain, one of the poorest grains there is: it distances itself from its rustic origins in the moment in which, instead of being a dish in and of itself, it is a side dish to something more substantial: “this food you can eat with roast lamb.”32 A second sign of ennoblement, technically the inverse of the preceding one, is the enrichment of a poor product with a precious ingredient—above all spices. Take for example this recipe from a Tuscan cookbook: “Remove the radishes, well-boiled in water, and set them to frying with oil, onion and salt; when they are cooked and prepared, put spices in the frying pan.”33 The sense of this passage is that, once spiced—that is, enriched with an ingredient inaccessible to contadini—any food is worthy of the table of the lords. But this implies a common base of gastronomic culture, a social transversality—above and beyond the symbolic opposition—of culinary practices and customs. The recipe lists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries also take up and amplify the tradition (absolutely a popular one) of vegetables in the kitchen: cabbages, kohlrabi, mushrooms, squashes, lettuce, parsley and any sort of “little herbs,” in addition to legumes like broad beans and peas, are the basis for many different dishes (soups, pies, various fried hot cakes) proposed in

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the fifteenth century in the recipe book of Maestro Martino, the greatest chef of the age.34 There are the classic poor foods like pulmenta, the polentas and soups made with the minor grains (oats, barley, millet, and farro), legumes, and chestnuts: even these show up in the recipe books. In the pages of Bartolomeo Scappi’s book we find numerous recipes for soups made from barley, millet, panic grain, chestnuts and legumes (peas, chickpeas, grass peas, broad beans, lentils), rendered precious, as always, by spices or sugar, accompanied by prestigious meats, but always traceable back to a cuisine with a popular stamp. The author seems perfectly aware of this, for example when he specifies in a recipe for dried bean soup that “this dish in Lombardy has the name macco,” taking it back in this way to its identity and its popular origins.35 In Scappi’s pages, even cooking fish seems to be one of those magic moments in which the wisdom of the professional, cosmopolitan chef meets and dialogues with the popular practice, with the culture “of the territory.” More than once Scappi refers the reader to the simple recipes of fishermen, recipes to which (he confesses) he wouldn’t know what to add. After having given the recipe of “turbot in potage” he says this for its source: “in the time that I was in Venice and in Ravenna, I learned from the fishermen of Chiozza, and the Venetians, as there they make the best potages of all the coasts of the sea, that they did not cook them in any other way than that which I have here described.” But he adds, “I believe that they make it better than cooks could, as they cook the fish in the very instant that they have caught them.”36 The contributions of the contadino culture are less significant when it deals with meats, the symbol par excellence of social prestige. But at least we have to observe that the taste for offal—often thought to be typical of popular tastes—in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance was to be found in all social groups, as recipe book for the upper classes don’t fail to demonstrate. We can also find significant similarities in the category of preserved foods, first and foremost those that are salted, but also with vinegar, oil, and other ingredients. The contadino cuisine focused on preserved foods, which could last through the year, constituting the principal guarantee of survival in the difficult months.37 This was, in the course of the centuries, one of the primary distinctions (imagined but also real) between rich and poor, the lord and the contadino, the city dweller and the contadino: the former ate fresh foods, the latter not. Meats, fish, cheeses, vegetables all came to the contadino table with a strong taste of salt. But even preserved foods have been, in the history of gastronomy, a significant meeting point between popular and elite culture. If the preserved products were the first in line to combat hunger, they were also the basis of much “refined” gastronomy, which passed through urban markets from one end of Italy to the other. From need to pleasure, the step is shorter than we would think. There are then important overlaps between the



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poor fare of the contadini and that of the dominant classes. Take the example, for the Middle Ages, of the scapece, fish that is fried and then marinated in salt or vinegar, for preservation or possibly for transport. We find this dish on the table of Emperor Frederick II, but we’re talking about a simple dish, from taverns: one recipe book of the fourteenth century refers to it as schibezia a tavernaio (the tavern-owner’s fry).38 There are some important conclusions to be drawn from this. The first is methodological: it’s not true that the culture of the subaltern classes and the oral transmission in which it was expressed are irremediably lost. Both have been passed down in other places, in written texts and by the dominant culture. Whether we’re referring to Pellegrino Artusi, to Bartolomeo Scappi, or to the anonymous recipe books of the fourteenth century, we can find representations of the contribution of the countryside. The trick is just to know where to place the element of diversity, the added piece that transforms a contadino recipe into an aristocratic (or bourgeois) recipe. Using the recipes of the upper classes to study the cuisine of the poor is not really that much guesswork. The second conclusion—and this one I’ve already mentioned—comes directly from the first one. If Italian recipe books of haute cuisine are able, back to the Middle Ages, to give us not only an exhaustive idea of the culture and the tastes of the elites but also the culture and the tastes of the popular classes, this means that the construction of the Italian gastronomic patrimony occurred over time as a joint action of all the social components of the country. Indeed, it’s the importance in Italy of the city that is perhaps the key to this phenomenon. Despite being the place where all the anti-contadino prejudices and stereotypes were elaborated, the city was also the specific place of production and elaboration (or re-elaboration) of alimentary and gastronomic culture. As a center of economic, cultural, and social exchanges, the city was for centuries a privileged site of remixing, of hybridization, and of contamination. Popular and elite cultures encountered each other on a daily basis, mixing with and imitating each other. The cooks that worked at the courts of urban middle-class families were often from the lower classes and were perhaps decisive in this mechanism of cultural integration, which remains to be explored. As Giovanni Rebora has noted, the cuisine for the rich is not done by the rich, but by the poor: “cuisine, rather than being an invention of the dominant classes, is their need, satisfied by the art of the commoners.”39 Words of disarming simplicity, with which I would like to conclude.

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Notes 1

This idea is developed by R. Romano, Paese Italia: Venti secoli di identità (Rome: Donzelli, 1994).

2

See especially M. Montanari, Italian Identity in Cooking (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), originally published as L’identità italiana in cucina (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2010). These observations had already been elaborated in A. Capatti and M. Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003) originally published as La cucina italiana: Storia di una cultura (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 1999).

3

M. Montanari, “Une gastronomie urbaine: cuisine(s) et culture(s) d’Italie entre le Moyen Âge et l’Époque contemporaine,” in A. Campanini, P. Scholliers and J.-P. Williot (eds), Manger en Europe: Patrimoines, échanges, identités (Brussels: Peter Lang, 2011), 209–20.

4

For a recent discussion of “the European politics of eating,” see Fabio Parasecoli, Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), 254–7.

5

Translator’s note: The plural of contadino in Italian is contadini. In this translation, I keep the original Italian in the text to underline the difference in conception between farmer and contadino. I use the word “hick” for “villano.”

6

See M. Montanari, “La satira del villano fra imperialismo cittadino e integrazione culturale,” in R. Mucciarelli, G. Piccinni, and G. Pinto (eds), La costruzione del dominio cittadino sulle campagne: Italia centrosettentrionale, secoli XII-XIV (Siena: Protagon, 2009), 697–705.

7 Ibid. 8

G. Sermini, Le Novelle XXXII, G. Vettori (ed.) (Rome: Avanzini e Torraca, 1968), 2, 519.

9

On the evolution of this image from antiquity to the Middle Ages, see M. Feo, “Dal ‘pius agricola’ al villano empio e bestiale (a proposito di una infedeltà virgiliana del Caro),” Maia XX (1968): 89–136, 206–23.

10 Livy, Ab Urbe condita libri III, 20. Cfr. Eutropius, Breviarium ab Urbe condita I, 17. 11 Cfr. M. Montanari, “Immagine del contadino e codici di comportamento alimentare,” in M. Montanari and A. Vasina (eds), Per Vito Fumagalli: Terra, uomini, istituzioni medievali (Bologna: Clueb, 2000), 199–213, where I have argued that in the High Middle Ages the “culture of work” profoundly tied to the rural world persisted, and with it an image of the contadino that was largely positive, despite obvious contradictions. This goes against the interpretation advanced by Jacques. Le Goff in “Les paysans et le monde rural dans la littérature du haut Moyen Age (Ve-VIe siècles).” Agricoltura e mondo rurale in Occidente nell’alto Medioevo (Spoleto: Cisam, 1966), 723–41. 12 V. Fumagalli, Città e campagna nell’Italia medievale (Bologna: Pàtron, 1985). 13 Sermini, Le Novelle XXV, 2, 442. On the urbanization of the contadino, see



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G. Piccinni, “I ‘villani incittadinati’ nella Siena del XIV secolo,” Bullettino senese di storia patria LXXXII–LXXXIII (1975–6): 158–219. 14 Sermini, Le Novelle, XXXII, 2, 521. 15 G. Sercambi, Novelle CLII, Vol. 2, G. Sinicropi (ed.) (Bari: Laterza, 1972), 733. 16 M. Montanari, The Culture of Food (Oxford: Blackwell, 1994), 87. 17 Ibid., 86. 18 Ibid., 88. 19 G. Battarra, Pratica agraria distribuita in vari Dialoghi, Vol.1 (Cesena, Italy: Biasini, 1782), 134. 20 See M. Montanari, Cheese, Pears, and History in a Proverb (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010). 21 Montanari, The Culture of Food, 53–4, 108. 22 I refer here to the four books of the Mythologiques (I. Le cru et le cuit, II, Du miel aux cendres, III, L’origine des manières de table, IV, L’homme nu) which were published in Paris by Plon between 1964 and 1974. 23 M. Harris, Good to Eat: Riddles of Food and Culture (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1985). 24 As I’ve shown in Cheese, Pears, and History. 25 A similar evolution has taken place in the kitchen, as a physical space. In the contadino tradition, the kitchen (that is to say the fuoco, the “fire” or hearth that cooked and heated the house) was at the center of the house. In the fiscal documents of the Middle Ages, the nuclear family was called the fuoco, because the hearth (the kitchen) is the house. The superimposing of the two concepts, at the limit of identities, is still around in certain idiomatic uses that one still finds in Italy. For example, in Romagna, where casa (“house”) means the kitchen: one says “Let’s go home” (Andiamo in casa) to mean “Let’s go in the kitchen” (Andiamo in cucina). Among the upper classes, on the other hand, the habit was to keep the kitchen on the margins (or even outside) of the house, to keep it out of sight, as if it were something embarrassing. Bartolomeo Scappi, in his 1570 book The Art and Craft of a Master Cook, describes an extremely complex and articulated kitchen. It’s a hyper-technological space comprised numerous rooms with tools specific to each operation of cleaning, preparation, and cooking of any kind of foodstuff. But at the end, he adds that all of this must be located “in quite a remote space […] in order to not disturb the neighboring residents of the palace with the clamor that one necessarily must make.” Until the nineteenth century, the aristocratic house was planned with the kitchen space physically outside of the architectural perimeter of the house, which had only “noble” spaces inside of it.   In a contemporary house, on the other hand, the kitchen is no longer hidden but rather comes back to the center of the house; it becomes the space that one likes to show guests, a space with all its utensils and modern do-dads, the latest in technology. It has become, in architectural design, the space around which we plan everything else. The same happens in public places: trendy restaurants, which once had a sharp separation between kitchen space and the dining room, today love to have the kitchen

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD in full view. Having a table in front of or next to the kitchen (or even inside it) has become a sign of privilege, something reserved for intimate friends or honored guests. This too, in a certain sense, is a victory for the cultural model that for centuries belonged to the contadino world. The image of the kitchen—how it is described in fiction and non-fiction, how it is actually pictured in illustrations, and whether it’s located near or far from where one eats—is a proxy for how cooking and food are valued.

26 P. Artusi, La scienza in cucina e l’arte di mangiar bene, A. Capatti (ed.) (Milan: Rizzoli, 2010), 144. 27 Ibid., 54 (recipe #1). 28 M. Montanari, “La cucina scritta come fonte per lo studio della cucina orale,” in Food & History 1 (1) (2003): 251–9. This was later republished in Gusti del medioevo: I prodotti, la cucina, la tavola (Rome-Bari: Laterza, 2012), 183–93, with the title “Cucina ricca, cucina povera.” 29 F. Quellier, “Le repas de funérailles de Bonhomme Jacques. Faut-il reconsidérer le dossier de l’alimentation paysanne des Temps moderns?” Food & History 6 (1) (2008): 9–30 (see esp. 11–17). 30 For all this, see Capatti-Montanari, Italian Cuisine, 35–8. 31 Ibid., 36. 32 Ibid., 45. 33 Ibid., 37. 34 Ibid., 38. 35 Ibid., 45. 36 Ibid., 72. 37 For the importance of food preservation techniques in the history of contadino food, see M. Montanari, Food Is Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 15–17. 38 Capatti-Montanari, Italian Cuisine, 80. 39 G. Rebora, La cucina medievale italiana tra Oriente ed Occidente (Genova, Università di Genova, 1996), 91.

2 Authenticity all’italiana: Food discourses, diasporas, and the limits of cuisine in contemporary Italy Aliza S. Wong

A note from the kitchen

C

ertain mythical images surround the fantasy of the Italian meal. Beyond representations that paint a family portrait of the nonna stirring the pasta pot endlessly, the enormous extended family dining in the garden, the wine flowing freely, and the ubiquitous plates of Mediterranean plenty, perhaps one of the best-known tales is the elaborateness of the ritual of Italian dining. Meals in Italy are not just about the localities of the provenance of food, but are also informed by an almost sexualized ritualistic tradition of whetting the appetite, indulging, and stimulating the process of digestion after ingestion. Indeed, the meal itself is a process: aperitivo (the drink that flirts with the appetite), the antipasto (tidbits that tease the palate), the primo (the pasta or soup or rice that sets the foundation), the secondo (the sexy drip of meaty juices or delicate touch of fishy flesh), the formaggio (unctuous, coating the tongue), the dolce (to remind one of the pleasures just partaken), the frutta (ripe, sometimes fortified with wine, sugar, cleansing the palate, clearing the pleasure), and the digestivo (the drink, the cigarette, the aftermath). This chapter, inspired by the ritual of the full Italian meal,1 follows the progression of courses and slowly and emphatically builds on the palate and tastes, familiar and unfamiliar, that begin to define italianità through taste and foodways. Buon appetito!

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Aperitivo After a year in Italy on a Fulbright fellowship split between Milan and Rome, I wanted to celebrate my impending return to Lubbock, Texas, with a big dinner for our friends and family in Milan. Preparing an elaborate Chinese feast, an Italianized vision of my Americanized Chinese upbringing, was a labor of love—and honestly, at times, just labor. Although many ingredients were now available in the quartiere cinese (the Chinese quarter—or Chinatown) in the center of Milan, my personal navigation of Italian translations of American translations of Cantonese iterations of food product labels meant layers of mediation, intuition, and deduction. Lugging the myriad bags of meifun, tofu, hoisin, oyster sauce, duck, five spice, vongole, vermicelli, salsa di soia across town, I arrived at my friend’s house off Corso Buenos Aires, an area known as “the Casbah” for its large numbers of North African, Ethiopian, Eritrean, and Middle Eastern residents, ready to prepare the banquet. Hours later, after having sliced, chopped, smashed, fried, sautéed, and wok-ed my many plates, I emerged from the kitchen, sweaty, tired, and perfumed by the familiar smells of the Chinese kitchen. Ottavia helped me bring the platters of food to the dining room, black bean and garlic vongole, cha siu buns, vermicelli with gamberi and bean sprouts, roasted peen pei duck, branzino steamed with green onions and ginger, spaghetti di soia with soy sauce and chicken, plate after plate after plate—Chinese, Italian, American dishes that merged and mashed names, tastes, and flavors. We were surrounded by food. I wiped my hands on my apron, satisfied. My guests would arrive soon. I rearranged pieces of cilantro (Chinese parsley, coriandolo), fluffed the riso alla Cantonese, finished off the ho yao gai lan with hot olive oil. Ottavia interrupted my thoughts, “Giacomo, Matteo, Nicolò, Pietro—there are going to be quattro bambini here tonight. What are they going to eat?” I stared at her. And looked at the rice and chicken and duck and tofu and vegetables and noodles and beef, steaming, glistening. “But there’s plenty of food,” I replied. She smiled at my foolishness. “Children don’t eat Chinese food.” Dumbfounded, slowly, I said, “I think 1.3 billion Chinese people, all of whom were once kids, might disagree.” And thus began my first encounter with Italian food culture—real and imagined—that was rife with questions of impenetrability and permeability, notions of authenticity, health, and hygiene.2

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Antipasto Moving definitions of nation, nationalism and national identity away from the geopolitical borders on a map to imagined conceptions of allegiance, belonging and community has gained increasing relevance as the modern era introduced new avenues of communication, innovative modes of social networking, and popular forms of personal expression. Pushing beyond Benedict Anderson’s seminal work, Imagined Communities, in which Anderson argues nations are socially constructed, popularly imagined entities “both inherently limited and sovereign,”3 scholars in community studies have expanded the theoretical and methodological frameworks by which we can examine the process of fashioning commonality, inclusion, exclusion, and identity. Taking Anderson’s contention that a nation “is imagined because the members of even the smallest nation will never know most of their fellow-members, meet them, or even hear of them, yet in the minds of each lives the image of their communion”4 further, theorists like Gerard Delanty, Anthony Cohen, Alain Touraine, and others have challenged more traditional models of cohesiveness by contextualizing notions of community building within a larger global and technological framework. In the face of increasing individual insecurity with modern political/revolutionary, industrial/technological, and global/multicultural upheaval, people have sought to anchor themselves to new forms of old allegiances and find their limits within the limits of modern communication.5 The symbols in a symbolically shaped and symbolically defined reality6 become even more pertinent, imbued with even more meaning as us/them dichotomies become blurred through intense digital communication, intentional/unintentional communion of diversity on urban streets, and a homogenization of popular culture and consumption. Answering the questions of cultural authenticity built into defining the limits of community in Italy, of who can and cannot belong, who embodies and does not embody Italianness, who represents and does not represent italianità,7 who constructs and destroys national mythologies of authenticity, of the limits of belonging, through an examination of foodways offers scholars a lens with which to view both the production and consumption of the rhetoric of community and nation. As Carol Helstosky so effectively argued in Garlic and Oil: Food and Politics in Italy, the construction of an Italian national cuisine was as much, if not more, driven by politics, economics, and scarcity as it was by tradition, custom, and legacy.8 Indeed, the “old world foods” of Italy were artifacts of new world discoveries and the making of the myths of pizza and pasta, of mammas and mangia mangia, of cucina povera, locality, and regionality, are symbolic efforts at unity and outward and outside projections of homogeneity. Even as aglio e olio, salsa, and polenta enter the “high

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brow” vocabulary of the Slow Food Movement, the very origins of these condiments and mains as part of a “low brow” cuisine of scarcity is hidden behind a “no brow” discussion of farmers’ markets, organic, locally sourced, authentic italianità.9 But who has the rights of production? To what extent does the impenetrable discourse of terroir10 shift from a discussion of blood, sweat, and land to one of race, ethnicity, and the rights of citizenship? When Chinese baristas, who have recently moved into the coffee bar market, serve your morning espresso, can it be as authentic, as good as that pulled by a “native” Roman? When Egyptian, Japanese, American pizzaioli make the pizzas that win international pizza competitions in Italy, does it have the same legitimacy, the same chew as one thrown by a “native” Neapolitan? And if non-Italians do not have the right to making real Italian food, local, regional, or national—then do they have the right to make what is misperceived as their foods? Or do these us/them, ours/theirs, Italian/foreign, local/global dichotomies also play against the icons of Italy and Italian foodways? How does the invention of the la cucina italiana, a concept already fraught with tension and dissension even as we look at the butter/oil, rice/pasta, meat/ fish, polenta/pastina, cream/tomato, north/south divide? Where then do we place Ethiopian food, surely part of the Italian narrative of imperial identity? Or Chinese food, when the Chinese are one of the fastest growing, largest immigrant communities in Milan, Florence, Rome? This chapter examines the political, cultural, health, and social discourses on protecting the authenticity of Italian food practices that have helped to define Italy both internally and externally, that, some argue, must be protected in the face of incredibly fastpaced demographic, geo-political change. Ultimately, who has the rights to defining cuisine, the expectations of cuisine?

Primo Arguably the most iconic of all Italian foods, the pizza, is featured at the center of a complex sociological and religious discussion on the ways in which cultural traditions, invented in the home country, can be exported, transformed, and re-imagined in a host country, and then re-imported back to the culture of origin. In 1970, anthropologist Agehananda Bharati described this process as “the pizza effect,” using the way in which pizza, “a simple, hot-baked bread without any trimmings, the staple of the Calabrian and Sicilian contadini,”11 made its way to the Americas, where it was adopted, adapted, appropriated, and then re-introduced back to Italy through the return of visiting Italian emigrants. Whether Bharati’s characterization of the journey of the pizza is accurate or not (his article really focuses on the ways

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in which Indian philosophical and spiritual practices, first conceived of in India, transported, transposed, and translated in the “West,” and reintroduced back to the “East”), the question of a multi-leveled, multi-modal, multicultural exchange of ideas, objects, traditions, is one which directly addresses the theme of this volume—understanding authenticity of foodways, of representation, of icons is as much about the historical narrative of its creation as it is about its journey through global pathways, expectations, and reinventions. Indeed, Italian pizza, or Italian American pizza, or Italian American globalized pizza, or Italian American globalized Neapolitan pizza, reconfigured, doc, verace pizza napoletana approved pizza,12 remains a contested site of meaning and production.13 In May, 2009, the foodie universe buzzed with rumors that one of the most celebrated chefs of the twentieth century, Ferran Adrià of El Bulli fame, the patriarch of creative Spanish cuisine and a master of deconstructivist gastronomy, planned to venture into new territory—the world of pizza. This tale of the Adrià brothers’ obsession with the simplicity of the circle of dough “upon which were laid the ingredients of the pizza” first appeared in an article by Gigi Padovani published in La Stampa in April, 2009.14 Fueled by the desire to eat “authentic” Italian pizza in Spain, the brothers believed themselves to be the right chefs to bring the ubiquitous dish to Barcelona. In the interview, Alberto Adrià explained that his brother enjoyed pizza too much and that an Adrià pizzeria opening would be determined by several factors, “… when we find the locale and when we learn to make this Italian national plate well.”15 Padovani depicted the brothers as perfectionists who understood the work involved in recreating, “re-enacting” the beloved dishes of another country. The Adriàs had originally sought to learn the delicate dough of the panettone, but, according to La Stampa, had too much respect for the pastry to attempt to compete. Pizza was just as difficult, but it had already won over the international community with the plentifulness of its simplicity. Padovani quotes Alberto expressing near reverence for the savory pie. “The pizza is perhaps the food that best represents your country,” he supposedly tells Padovani, “… if at El Bulli we sell more emotion than food, at Inopia fun and food, at our coming pizzeria we will sell Italy.”16 The Los Angeles Times got wind of the La Stampa article and reported that Adrià and his brother, Alberto, the pastry chef at El Bulli, had traveled to Italy in order to glean the secrets of yeast, wood ovens, charred bottoms, tomatoes, and mozzarella.17 According to L.A. Times writers Phil Gallo and Linda Di Franco, the Adrià brothers would not apply their legendary artistic and inventive vision to the Italian specialty. Instead, their intent was to “create an honest interpretation of the Italian specialty, not to wheel out chemicals, liquid nitrogen and other experimental cooking methods to alter toppings, the sauce or dough.”18 Gallo and Di Franco also point out that as excited as the

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brothers are about their alleged new venture, Italians themselves are less pleased at the intention of the Adriàs to “learn” the art of the pizzaiolo.”19 Vincenzo Mansi, an award winning pizzaiolo from Capri, doubts the capacity of these three-star Michelin chefs to perfect the art of the pizza. “The secret of the pizza is inside the blood,” Mansi claims. “You don’t wake up one morning and improvise yourself as a pizzaiolo. I’ve been doing this for over 18 years, and I still don’t feel like I’ve mastered it. You need to know how to touch the dough. You need to know how to deal with the ingredients. You don’t become pizzaiolo, you are born pizzaiolo.”20 Beppe Francese, director of Pizzerie d’Italia, has a slightly more welcoming stance toward the aspiring pizzaiolo. After the initial surprise and doubt at the news that the king of experimental cuisine was interested in making pizza, Francese expressed his admiration that Adrià recognized “the very Italian pride of the genuineness and the perfect provenance of the princely products of the popular and traditional cuisine of the boot [of Italy].”21 Yet, for all Adrià’s grand intentions to respect the purity of pizza, Francese warns that such resplendent simplicity is incredibly difficult to achieve. He notes that “this very simple perfection” that is “so difficult to attain” because “the very essence of the pizza is given without a shadow of a doubt by the Neapolitanness.”22 Francese continues by asserting that pizza must be celebrated despite “the dignity” and prestige rendered it by the restaurant industry, for the very fact that it remains to this day an authentic popular food, “a symbol of food for everyone, good for everyone, and affordable for everyone.”23 Others were not so welcoming. The irony of this hubbub over the rights to pizza is accentuated by the fact that pizza as a national icon is one that has been created by immigration, interpretation, exportation, and re-importation, as delineated in the “pizza effect.” And the tension between “Italian” pizza, created as much outside of Italy as within it, and “Neapolitan” pizza, that can be certified authentic through standards of ingredient, chew, proper technique and equipment, is also at play. In fact, despite the national invention of pizza by Italians, the global perception of the italianità of pizza, the regionalisms continue to weigh heavily: pizzerie throughout Italy can apply to become members of L’Associazione Verace Pizza Napoletana, claiming their authenticity not through national certification, but through regional association. As gourmet.com writer, Lisa Abend noted, the original La Stampa article spawned online comments that bordered on vicious, disgusted, aggressive.24 Whether people feared that Adrià’s expertise in molecular gastronomy would result in “a classic pie with liquid nitrogen and foam,” or whether they saw the right to make pizza as a national right “best left in the hands of those who invented it,” the foodie blogosphere was filled with people who had strong opinions about the right to culinary tradition. One online commentator to the food website, Dissapore, wondered about the future of pizza in the hands

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of Adrià and welcomed the possibility of being surprised by the great chef. Still, for all his curiosity, he did not want “Gennaro Esposito … the father of Neapolitan pizza (1889) to roll over in his grave.”25 Abend reported that the Adrià brothers experienced some disparaging and frightening admonitions. “People were actually writing us saying why don’t you stick to what you know, and leave the Italian food to the Italians … We even got threats. It was incredible.”26 And all this for a rumor. For something unfounded. Untrue. Soon after the original La Stampa article and the onslaught of protective diatribe about who had the right and legitimacy to make real, authentic Italian pizza, Ferran and Alberto Adrià denied all claims that they intended to become pizzaioli and open a pizzeria in Barcelona. All the uproar, apparently, was for naught. As Abend first reported in the Twitter universe and later in a Gourmet article, Ferran Adrià was incensed at the misinformation initiated by La Stampa and disseminated by news agencies and blog sites worldwide.27 Confused and surprised that no one had bothered to call him to verify the story, Adrià confirmed that his brother had indeed been in Italy eating pizza, but explained that an offhand comment had grown to mythic proportions. “But that’s what happens with El Bulli. People form all kinds of myths about it,”28 Adrià seemed to shrug.29 Regardless of whether the Adrià brothers tackle the business and art of making pizza, the passionate reaction, both positive and negative, of Italians and international foodies is evidence of the ways in which food, production and consumption, foodways, local, regional, and national, and the right to cuisine, through the tropes of authenticity and legitimacy, have become intensely personal and, at the same time, deeply hegemonic.30 As Massimo Montanari argues, “[T]aste can also mean knowledge (sapere vs. sapore): it is the sensorial assessment of what is good or bad, pleasing or displeasing. And this evaluation, as we have said, begins in the brain before it reaches the palate. From this perspective, taste is not in fact subjective and incommunicable, but rather collective and eminently communicative. It is a cultural experience transmitted to us from birth, along with other variables that together define the ‘values’ of a society.”31 The debate on Ferran Adrià’s right to make pizza was based firstly on some Italians’ distaste for Adrià’s reliance on chemicals to manipulate and force the fresh produce, upon which the Italians so prided themselves, into contortions and forms unexpected and, some argued, unnatural. It soon followed the course to nationalist rhetoric about terroir and the blood, sweat, tears, and toil passed on from generation to generation that rendered the food spiritual, national, soulful.32 Does Mario Batali, by nature of his genealogical connection to Italy, have more right to pizza than Adrià? It would appear so, as his eataly Empire (with the founder, Oscar Farinetti, and his B&B Hospitality Group, Lidia Bastianich, Joe

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Bastianich, and Mario Batali) continues to grow and his “authentic” Italian restaurants have gone global. Batali’s pizzerie are in Singapore, eataly is in Brazil, his osterie, ristoranti are spread across the United States, and in Hong Kong. Is this American-born French and Italian who studied in Spain, trained in London and Italy, perceived as more authentic? Does he have more right to the making of Italian food and Italian food culture?33 Who has the right to make food? Who has the right to consume it? And how does the identity of the cook, the richness of the soil, the palates of the hungry masses affect the ways in which cuisine, foodways are constructed?34 Perhaps even more importantly, for this volume, who has the right to make Italian food? Who has the right to make the Italian food with which the international community identifies the nation and its people? How much do the expectations of what Italian food should be, how Italy should smell, what Italy should look like, play into the legislation of food, hygiene, and health? To what degree does authenticity, or better, perceived authenticity inform who can be a part of the national discourse on Italian foodways?

Secondo These philosophical quandaries took on a practical, legal, institutional nature in 2009 when in the Tuscan town of Lucca, the center right city council passed a law prohibiting new “ethnic food” restaurants from opening in its historical center. Citing the importance of protecting the cultural and historic heritage of the town and its inhabitants, the city council decided to institute new laws that would ban any new ethnic restaurants hoping to open in the walled city. The law is clear—“The opening of food industries whose activity is connected to diverse [non-Italian] ethnicities is not permitted.”35 The restaurants and bars that had already set up shop would be allowed to continue to serve the community, but all licenses for new establishments would be subject to approval by the city council—the council made it clear that only “authentic” restaurants in the tradition of Lucca and Tuscany would be allowed to open within the city walls. New restaurants are required to present “at least one typical Luccan plate, prepared exclusively with products commonly recognized as typical to the province.”36 Barbara Di Cesare, spokeswoman for the city, showed the New York Times email messages that approved of the ban on unauthentic foods. “You are right to keep Lucca’s charm. We come to Lucca every year because we want to see and live Italy, not New York:” a German tourist supported the city council’s decision.37 While some native Luccans, other Italians, and the increasingly international community in Italy regretted the ban, calling the restriction “shameful,” “conservative,” “racist,” Filippo Candelise, a city

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council member who handled economic development, denied vehemently that the prohibition was xenophobic or racist.38 Clinging to the argument that the preservation of “cultural and historical identity” was of paramount importance, Candelise argued, “An American wants to find a typical ‘osteria,’ not a Chinese restaurant.”39 Still as The New York Times explains, the ban, which applies only to businesses and the 8,000 residents of the city center and not to the 86,000 inhabitants in the greater Lucca area, provokes strong emotions on both sides of the issue. Davide Paolini, the food critic for Il Sole 24 Ore, believes that the restriction is shortsighted. “It’s crazy today to put limits on kebabs, hamburgers, hot dogs. By now these aren’t connected to any particular area. They belong to the world.”40 Lucca holds the distinction of being one of the few conservative centers in progressive Tuscany, and historically, Luccans are known for holding fast to tradition, to having a strong instinct for cultural preservation.41 Franco Barbieri, the co-owner of La Buca di Sant’Antonio, notes the irony of banning fast food and ethnic restaurants while allowing shops that sell underwear and kitschy souvenirs to mar the dignity of the historic center.42 What is more harmful to the charm and authenticity of the city—chicken curry, couscous, and kebabs or aprons silkscreened with Michelangelo’s David, plastic trinkets stamped “Made in China” on the bottom, and leather goods made in nearby Prato by the hands of Chinese clandestini laboring in sweatshops? Alessandro Tambellini, the councilor for the center left Partito Democratico 43 comments, “The reference to ethnicity is absolutely unfortunate. What does it mean? That the French and German cuisines are fine, since they belong to our [Western] tradition, but not Indian, Chinese or Arab?”44 In the face of accusations of racist gastronomy, the city council maintains its position that these laws are only to ensure the continuation of Luccan customs and legacy. Indeed, the issue of authenticity has come to the forefront and become increasingly complicated as Massimo De Grazia, the city spokesperson, claimed that a French restaurant would be given permission to open within the city center, but that a Sicilian restaurant might be denied the same privilege. Sicilian food was too ethnic, influenced and fundamentally transformed by the island’s historic encounters with North Africa and the Middle East.45 As Alexandra Podgórniak explains, “Food, rituals of eating and cooking work most powerfully in the field of cross-cultural experience. They not only serve to attest to one’s affiliation with a certain social group, but define a somewhat broader category, i.e., cultural otherness.”46 If Luccans judged Sicilian cuisine to be too tainted by cultural otherness to fit the authenticity criterion described by the law, the Milanese couched their own food bans on the same ideas of cultural contamination. In November, 2009, the anti-immigrant Northern League introduced bans against “ethnic foods” in Milan.47 The Northern League explained that the legislation was

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“to protect local specialties from the growing popularity of ethnic cuisines,”48 but others questioned whether the ban on ethnic foods was “a sign of gastronomic racism.”49 Luca Zaia, Minister of Agriculture and a member of the Northern League in Veneto, applauded the bans in both Lucca and Milan, arguing that they were protective measures that would “[defend] the tradition and [safeguard] our culture.”50 Yet there is the eternal question that has been voiced perhaps most vocally after unification: What exactly is Italian culture? What does it encompass? Whom does it include? As Montanari argues, “This kind of perspective, which readily inspires reticence when faced with ‘difference,’ arouses fear of contamination and more or less aggravated forms of narrow-mindedness and intolerance.”51 History is generally summoned as the source of more or less mythical “origins” or “roots” that one retraces to preserve one’s own identity.”52 The myth, oftentimes, is stronger than the reality, and what is perceived as “authentic” or “iconic” is a constructed collaboration of ideas, processes, elaborations. As Richard Owen ponders in The Times, “The tomato comes from Peru and spaghetti was probably a gift from China. It is, though, the foreign kebab that is being kicked out of Italian cities …”53 Food journalist Vittorio Castellani argues that “[t]here is no dish on Earth that does not come from mixing techniques, products, and tastes from cultures that have met and mingled over time.”54 Indeed, in 2002, even as the Northern League said “No al couscous” as a foreign, undesirable, unassimilable addition to the Italian kitchen, they, in being “orgogliosi delle nostre tradizioni” (proud of our traditions) and proclaiming a resounding “Sì alla polenta,” were unwittingly celebrating polenta’s shift from being made of millet and other minor grains to the maize of the Americas. How traditional then could polenta be when ultimately its modern form is made of a new world discovery?55 Castellani believes that “the ban reflected growing intolerance and xenophobia in Italy. It was also a blow to immigrants who make a living by selling ethnic food.”56 Fabio Poletti, writer at La Stampa, went so far as to call the legal restrictions on ethnic foods, “the latest Lombard crusade against Saracen cooks.”57 Although the discourse on the Milanese bans, which became colloquially known as “the Kebab War,” echoed the protectionist rhetoric in Lucca, it also pushed the issue even further by portraying the restrictions as a way to shield Milanese citizens from the questionable hygienic practices and products of the foreign kebab shops. Zaia argues that ethnic restaurants “whether they serve kebabs, sushi or Chinese food” need to “stop importing container loads of meat and fish from who knows where” and use only Italian produce, meat, and goods.58 This fear, however, is unreasonable, and according to Claudio Liu, the manager of Milanese sushi restaurant Iyo, completely unfounded. The great majority of the fish purchased at his restaurant is not imported by the “container load … from who knows where,” but from the Mediterranean or

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the Atlantic. Indeed, in all of Italy, only .03 percent of the imported fish is from Japan.59 Giura Mehmet Karatut responded to Zaia’s implication that ethnic restaurants used sub-par or questionable meat by pointing out that he only used Italian beef, turkey, and veal from a large firm in the province of Milan. He noted with a touch of irony, “If you want a mutton kebab, go to Istanbul, there isn’t any in Italy.”60 Italians have often been stereotyped as being a people who are obsessed with food, consumption, the communal spirit of preparing and eating a meal. Perhaps the recent polemic on food politics, hygiene, and xenophobia is not so surprising as Italians struggle with the transformation of their nation from a land of emigrants to a land of immigrants. Even as the depictions of immigrants of color in Italy become increasingly tainted by terms that emphasize race, difference, legality or illegality,61 so have the protectionist arguments and legal bans against ethnic restaurants become ever more intolerant and prejudiced. It is no shock that as immigrants become increasingly visible on the streets of Italian cities and as they begin to perfume the streets with their cuisine and infiltrate traditionally Italian industries such as fashion and leather, fears of contamination and miscegenation become virulent and border on the ridiculous. Just as Italians in America in the nineteenth century experienced marginalization, bigotry, and small-mindedness,62 so are they turning the tables on these new immigrants who seek the land of milk and honey on the peninsula.63 Giuseppe Civati, the regional counselor of the Partito Democratico, who does not give credence to the arguments about preserving and protecting national authenticity and does not categorize Italian cuisine as more hygienic, more cultured, superior to that of other peoples, casts a shadow on the efforts of his more conservative colleagues. He states, “The wind that blows in the [Regional Government] is in complete opposition to the old Lombard traditions that so highly valued hospitality. [This hospitality] was almost a distinctive characteristic of the generosity of our people. After the wars against the [international] phone centers, the polemics about the Islamic mosques, this legislation against ethnic fast food places and [ethnic] restaurants hides a more than evident racist matrix.”64

Dolce Perhaps the key to understanding the likelihood of tolerance and acculturation in host countries lies not with the diasporic communities, as is often argued by politicians, scholars, and cultural critics. Even with the rhetoric of assimilation and unassimilability that pervades traditional studies on immigration and movement, that places the burden of learning the languages,

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practicing the rituals, embracing the traditions, consuming the cultures of the host country squarely on the shoulders of the Others, maybe we should reexamine and refocus on the host country instead. What if, despite all the efforts of a diasporic group to adopt and adapt to their new home, to abide by the rules and norms of their new country, to accept the perceived differences and ameliorate them, the possibilities of acceptance and hybridity rely on the ability of the host community to assimilate, acculturate, adapt? What if it doesn’t depend on the immigrants’ abilities to eat different foods, wear different clothes, speak different languages but on the majority population’s willingness to eat different foods, wear different clothes, speak different languages?65 As immigration increases in Italy, a nation formerly known as a country of emigration, schools have made an increasing effort to smooth the edges of perceived difference in more diverse, multicultural cities. Even as some parents began to move their children from public schools with a high population of diasporic children (from Asia, Africa, the Middle East, Latin America and Eastern Europe) to private institutions, school officials hoped to ameliorate cultural distances through an effort to familiarize Italian students with traditions and foods from other lands. In Rome, schools introduced an international food day on which Roman children would be exposed to curries, kebabs, lo meins, tacos, and other global delights. The program was shortlived as parents protested that their children would not eat these foods. They questioned healthfulness. They questioned authenticity. They questioned italianità.66 School officials responded by quickly shifting the focus from the global to the local and diverting the discussion of consumption to a discourse of primacy of tradition, locality, regionality, and authenticity. Even this, the myth of the local as being a celebration of legacy and history, of being more ecologically friendly, environmentally sustainable, of being more authentic and true to the people and the popular are just that—fictions that fit smoothly into nationalist, protectionist discourses that disguise xenophobia, hide intolerance, and reconceptualize the exclusionary vocabulary of immigration discourse.67 In 2001, Dr. Silvana Sari introduced a new way of conceptualizing Italian school lunches in her all for quality campaign in Rome.68 By recognizing not only the importance of the health and hygiene of Roman children, including calculations of seasonality, variety, and balance between caloric and nutritional content, but also the responsibility of supporting the most ecological and environmentally-sound methods of food procurement, Dr. Sari inspired an innovative approach to consumption. In 2010, inspired by the “Gaining Health” program, based on a 2006 initiative between the European Union and the World Health Organization, the Italian Ministry of Health introduced a set of guidelines to promote the

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consumption of organic foods and support a zero-mile approach to food procurement at local schools.69 In April, 2010, Italian schools began serving students local, fresh, organic foods, while at the same time introducing a curriculum on agriculture, food sciences, tradition, and nutrition. By shifting the focus from a discussion of tolerance and knowledge of other cultures and peoples, of understanding and tasting the experiences of the immigrant and the global to one of the environmental and ecological sustainability, of locality and regionality, of tradition and history, the Ministry of Health prioritized the protection and authenticity of the Italian kitchen over embracing the diversity of the new Italian people. Contextualizing the new emphasis on authenticity by introducing children to the culinary traditions and history, Italy not only hoped to encourage healthy habits in children, but also to educate a new generation of citizens through representations of Italian food (local, regional, and national) and its consumption.70

Notes 1

Also inspired was Clara Sereni in Casalinghitudine, who also divides up her chapters in the novel along the courses of the classic Italian meal, as discussed in Ernesto Livorni’s essay in this collection.

2

Some sections of this paper appear in the e-book conference proceedings, Echioltremare 2011, available through isime Case delle Letterature, 2012.

3

Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities (London: Verso Books, 2006), 6.

4 Ibid. 5

For more information, see Gerard Delanty, Community (London: Routledge, 2010); Richard Ling, Taken for Grantedness: The Embedding of Mobile Communication into Society (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2012); Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak, An Aesthetic Education in the Era of Globalization (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2013).

6

For more information, see Anthony P. Cohen, The Symbolic Construction of Community (London: Routledge, 2007); and Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger (eds), The Invention of Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012).

7

The question of italianità, of what defines the tangible and intangible process of being, embodying, representing Italy and Italianness is much debated and has since the discussions on unification and nationhood. Characterizations of italianità have included ideas of shared foodways; religion and religiosity; family values; openness and friendliness; art, culture, and history; a shared dolce far niente/la dolce vita appreciation of the fragility of life. And yet each of these categories can be deconstructed: what is a common Italian foodway—the butter of the north or the oil of the south? How do we explain away the divisions of meridionalism? Or the tensions between the secular state and the religious order? Or even

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD those who are “culturally” Italian Catholic and those who are practicing Italian Catholics? Even more recently, the elusiveness of defining national character, whether it be cultural, anthropological, historical, spiritual, has come even further under scrutiny as the mythologies of a monolithic, unified Italy have been made vulnerable with the inevitability of globalism and multiculturalism. Even as the constructedness of italianità has been revealed, the tensions to maintain that “invention of tradition,” that “imagined community,” whether for the sake of the internal or external constituents continues to be fraught with discourses on authenticity, tradition, and folklore. For more information, see Riccardo Viale, “Che cosa si intende nel mondo per italianità.” Il Sole 24 Ore, March 10, 2012. http://www.ilsole24ore.com/art/cultura/2012-03-10/cosa-intende-mondoitalianita-131435.shtml?uuid=Abwfyo5E (accessed May 15, 2016); Eva Garau, Politics of National Identity in Italy: Immigration and Italianità (New York: Routledge, 2015); Silvana Patriarca, Italian Vices: Nation and Character from the Risorgimento to the Republic (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2013).

8

Carol Helstosky, Garlic and Oil: Food and Politics in Italy (New York: Berg, 2006).

9

For a more extensive discussion on the making of no brow culture, see Peter Swirski, From Lowbrow to Nobrow (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2005).

10 For a discussion on terroir and the marketing of Frenchness, see Kolleen M. Guy, When Champagne Became French: Wine and the Making of a National Identity (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003). See also Rachel Laudan, “Slow Food: The French Terroir Strategy, and Culinary Modernism. An Essay Review of Carlo Petrini, Trans. William McCuaig,” Food, Culture, and Society 7 (2) (Fall 2004): 134–44; Thomas Parker, Tasting French Terroir: The History of an Idea (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015). 11 Agehananda Bharati, “The Hindu Renaissance and its Apologetic Patterns,” Journal of Asian Studies 29 (2) (1970): 267–87. 12 From their website: “The vpn Americas is the American Delegation of the Associazione Vera Pizza Napoletana, an international non-profit organization founded in the mid 1980s by a group of Neapolitan pizzaiolis (pizza makers) seeking to cultivate the culinary art of making Neapolitan pizza. On June 1984 [sic], the association was officially established as a denomination of control (doc) by the Italian government, a designation that made the vpn a legal entity able to give special designation to pizzerias who meet strict requirements that respect the tradition of the art of Neapolitan pizza making.” http://americas.pizzanapoletana.org/ The Italian organization: http:// www.pizzanapoletana.org/ (both accessed May 15, 2016). 13 On the global history of pizza, see Carol Helstosky, Pizza: A Global History (London: Reaktion, 2008), as well as the final chapter of Antonio Mattozzi, Inventing the Pizzeria: A History of Pizza Making in Naples, Zachary Nowak (ed. and trans.) (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2015). 14 Gigi Padovani, “Il super-chef Adria diventa pizzaiolo,” La Stampa, April 20,

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2009. http://www.lastampa.it/2009/04/20/blogs/dolce-la-vita/il-super-chefadria-diventa-pizzaiolo-X0clbzj4dsUjMYIcRGlIUP/pagina.html (accessed May 15, 2016). 15 Ibid. 16 Ibid. Hasia Diner argues, “In Europe, the development of distinctive foodways linked to the nation accompanied the rise of nation-states and the flowering of ideologies of nationalism. As France, Italy, Germany, England, Russia, marked themselves off as distinct from each other and as greater than the regions within their newly drawn borders, their national cuisines took shape. National cuisines came to represent the nations themselves and were created and consumed by elites.” See Hasia Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 6–7. 17 Phil Gallo and Linda Di Franco, “El Bulli chef wants a piece of the pizza pie,” Los Angeles Times, May 13, 2009. http://articles.latimes.com/2009/may/13/ food/fo-adria13 (accessed May 15, 2016). 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid. British journalist Martin Kettle writes, “From the earliest times, human societies were defined by their food rituals, and food remains to this day not merely the stuff of life, but the very stuff of cultural identity and difference. Europeans still like to think of themselves as close to the soil, as farmers who just happen to have lived in cities for generations. Food connects Europeans with their history and their sense of themselves.” Quoted in George Negus, The World from Italy: Football, Food and Politics (Sydney: Harper Collins, 2001), 98. See also Zachary Nowak’s revealing discussion, in the introduction of Antonio Mattozzi’s monograph on pizzerias, on the notion of terroir and the propagation of the story that pizzaioli of the past had some standardized recipe, thereby creating the myth of authenticity. Mattozzi, Inventing the Pizzeria, xix–xxiii. For more on Italy and food culture, see John Dickie, La Delizia! The Epic History of Italians and Their Food (New York: Atria Books, 2010); Fabio Parasecoli, Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy (London: Reaktion Books, 2014). 21 Beppe Francese, “I pizzaioli italiani danno il benvenuto alla new entry Ferran Adrià,” Italia a Tavola.net, May 1, 2009. http://www.italiaatavola.net/articoli. asp?cod=9899 (accessed May 15, 2016). Alberto Pecorini notes that this pride over quality ingredients was used as a way of marketing produce and foodstuffs. “Merchants linked the food they sold to the idea of a nation, embellishing the word ‘Italian’ with such adjectives as ‘fine,’ ‘fresh,’ ‘genuine,’ ‘imported,’ ‘real,’ and ‘tasty,’” in Albert Pecorini, “The Italians in the United States,” Forum 45 (January 1911): 15–29; in Hasia Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 68. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid. 24 Lisa Abend, “The Truth About Adrià’s New Pizza Place? It Isn’t

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD True.” Gourmet.com, June 30, 2009. http://www.gourmet.com/ restaurants/2009/06/adria-pizza (accessed September 1, 2010).

25 Antonio Tomacelli, “El Bulli ha i conti in rosso e Ferran Adrià apre una pizzeria (non è il primo aprile).” Dissapore.com, April 20, 2009. http://www. dissapore.com/primo-piano/el-bulli-ha-i-conti-in-rosso-e-ferran-adria-apre-unapizzeria-non-e-il-primo-aprile/ (accessed May 15, 2016). Paraphrased and quoted in Abend.   The reader should note that the commentator here is referring to Raffaele Esposito, who though mistakenly credited as the inventor of pizza, is often recognized as the creator of the pizza margherita. As has been discussed by many other food historians (Helstosky, Dickie, Nowak, etc.), pizza or a dish very similar to it, had already been in existence for centuries before the unification of Italy (after which, in 1889, the pizza margherita was supposedly first made for the queen to commemorate her visit to Naples). See Zachary Nowak, “Folklore, Fakelore, History: Invented Tradition and the Origins of the Pizza Margherita,” Food, Culture and Society 17 (1) (March 1, 2014): 103–24. 26 Abend. 27 Ibid. 28 Ibid. 29 Other blogs and magazines issued corrections following Abend’s article. See Antonio Tomacelli, “Chi è il giornalista de La Stampa strapazzato da Ferran Adrià?” Dissapore, June 6, 2009, http://www.dissapore.com/primopiano/giornalisti-e-controllo-delle-fonti-ferran-adria-strapazza-gigi-padovani/ (accessed October 26, 2016); Adam Kuban, “Correction: Renown Spanish Chef Ferran Adria NOT Opening a Pizzeria.” Serious Eats, June 30, 2009, http://slice.seriouseats.com/archives/2009/06/renown-spanish-chef-ferranadria-not-opening-a-pizzeria.html (accessed October 26, 2016) 30 As Massimo Montanari argues, “Moreover, man, being omnivorous, chooses food out of individual and collective preferences tied to perpetually changing values, tastes, and meanings,” in Massimo Montanari, Food is Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 75. 31 Montanari, Food is Culture, 62. 32 Montanari argues, “‘To eat geographically,’ to know or express a culture of a specific region through cuisine, local produce, products, recipes, seems to us absolutely ‘natural.’ Among the differing forms of identity suggested and communicated by food-related customs, terroir may be the one that today seems to us most obvious. But this well-established commonplace, even cliché, according to which the cuisine of a region could be an ancient, indigenous, atavistic reality, is based on a misunderstanding, one deserving a pause for serious consideration.” Montanari, Food is Culture, 75. See also John Simons, “Vegetarianism and Citizenship: Some Thoughts on Britain Today,” in Wojciech H. Kalaga and Tadeusz Rachwal (eds), Feeding Culture: The Pleasure and Peril of Appetite (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2005); Brian Harrison, Drink and the Victorians: The Temperance Question in England (New York: Ryburn Publishing, 1998); Bradley Kadel, “The Pub and the Irish Nation,” in Wojciech H. Kalaga and Tadeusz Rachwal (eds), Feeding Culture: The Pleasure and Peril of Appetite (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2005), 72.

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33 Even Batali’s sons, one generation further removed, seem to have inherited the rights to Italian food, with the publication of their cookbook, The Batali Brothers Cookbook, an homage to their father and his commitment to cooking as a part of family life, and a subsequent article in The New York Times Diner’s Journal on making pizza with the patriarch and his sons. Benno and Leo Batali, The Batali Brothers Cookbook (New York: Harper Collins, 2013). See also Julia Moskin, “Making Pizza with Mario Batali and Sons,” New York Times, June 18, 2013. http://dinersjournal.blogs.nytimes. com/2013/06/18/making-pizza-with-mario-batali-and-sons/ (accessed January 5, 2015). 34 Besides the Kolleen Guy work cited earlier, see also the discussions on the Slow Food Movement and Italian resistance to globalization and the European Union’s attempts to control the food market, in Alison Leitch, “Slow Food and the Politics of Pork Fat: Italian Food and European Identity,” in Counihan and Van Esterik, (eds), Food and Culture: A Reader (New York: Routledge, 2008); Negus, The World from Italy, 2001; Carlo Petrini, Slow Food: Collected Thoughts on Taste, Tradition, and the Honest Pleasures of Food (White River Junction, VT: Chelsea Green, 2001); Carlo Petrini and Gigi Padovani, Slow Food Revolution: A New Culture for Eating and Living (Milan: Rizzoli, 2006); Geoff Andrews, The Slow Food Story: Politics and Pleasure (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2008). 35 Francesco Alberti, “E Lucca vieta kebab e couscous. Nuove norme: via dal centro i ristoranti con piatti ‘di etnia diversa,’” Corriere della Sera, January 27, 2009. http://www.corriere.it/cronache/09_gennaio_27/lucca_kebab_ alberti_7cc435fa-ec4a-11dd-be73-00144f02aabc.shtml (accessed November 2, 2009). 36 Alberti, “E Lucca vieta.” 37 Rachel Donadio, “A Walled City in Tuscany Clings to Its Ancient Menu,” New York Times, March 12, 2009. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/13/world/ europe/13lucca.html (accessed November 2, 2009). A version of the article appeared in print on March 13, 2009, on page A13 of the New York edition. 38 The ban seems to prove Montanari’s assertion on food as culture. He argues, “Food is culture when it is produced, even ‘performed,’ because man [sic] does not use only what is found in nature … but seeks also to create his own food, a food specific unto himself, superimposing the action of production on that of predator or hunter. Food becomes culture when it is prepared because, once the basic products of his diet have been acquired, man transforms them by means of fire and a carefully wrought technology that is expressed in the practices of the kitchen. Food is culture when it is eaten because man, while able to eat anything, or precisely for this reason, does not in fact eat everything but rather chooses his own food, according to criteria linked either to the economic and nutritional dimension of the gesture or to the symbolic values with which food itself is invested. Through such pathways food takes shape as a decisive element of human identity and as one of the most effective means of expressing and communicating that identity” (Montanari, Food is Culture, xi–xii). 39 Donadio, “A Walled City.”

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40 Quoted in ibid. See also Ronda L. Brulotte and Michael A. Di Giovine (eds), Edible Identities: Food as Cultural Heritage (Surrey: Ashgate, 2014). 41 Ibid. See also Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui and Thomas W. Blomquist, The “Other Tuscany”: Essays in the History of Lucca, Pisa, and Siena During the Thirteenth, Fourteenth, and Fifteenth Centuries (Kalamazoo, MI: Medieval Institute Publications, 1994); Claudio Rovai, Lucca Encounters the World (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2010). 42 Ibid. 43 The Partito Democratico (PD) was founded in 2007 as a merger of several of the center left parties that had been part of the L’Unione party in the 2006 elections. The PD is made up of the Democratici di Sinistra (DS), the heirs of the Italian Communist Party, and the Democrazia è Libertà—La Margherita (DL), that included left-leaning Catholics and centrists. Carlo Petrini, the founder of the Slow Food Movement, is a member of the PD, and has become a vocal and visible representative of the party. 44 Alberti, “E Lucca vieta.” 45 Richard Owen, “Italy bans kebabs and foreign food from cities,” The Times, January 31, 2009. http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/life_and_style/food_and_ drink/article5622156.ece (accessed November 1, 2009). See also Donadio, “A Walled City.” 46 Alexandra Podgórniak, “Capirotada vs. Chicken Curry: Versions of Alchemical Realism in Ethnic American Fiction,” in Wojciech H. Kalaga and Tadeusz Rachwal (eds), Feeding Culture: The Pleasure and Peril of Appetite (Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 2005), 125. 47 See also Giuseppe Sciortino and Asher Colombo, “The Flows and the Flood: The Public Discourse on Immigration in Italy, 1969–2001,” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 9 (1) (2004): 94–113. For a discussion of the recent arrivals in Italy, see Carlo Massimo, “Unwelcome: Why is Cosmpolitan Italy so Anti-Immigrant?” Wilson Quarterly, September 22, 2015. http:// wilsonquarterly.com/stories/unwelcome-why-is-cosmopolitan-italy-so-antiimmigrant/ (accessed December 12, 2015); Celestine Bohlen, “Italy’s Influx of Immigrants Is a Domestic Problem, Too,” in The New York Times, May 16, 2016. http://www.nytimes.com/2015/07/28/world/europe/italys-influxof-immigrants-is-a-domestic-problem-too.html?_r=0 (accessed December 12, 2015); “Italy’s Illegal Immigrants: Tidal Wave.” Economist, July 5, 2014. http://www.economist.com/news/europe/21606301-more-horrific-deathsmediterranean-tidal-wave (accessed May 16, 2016); Fiorenza Sarzanini, “Migranti: Un colpo all’Italia.” La Corriere della Sera, May 26, 2015. http:// www.corriere.it/cronache/15_maggio_26/migranti-italia-europa-accordoe09f9608-0365-11e5-8669-0b66ef644b3b.shtml (accessed December 12, 2015). 48 Roberto Santiago, “Italy Says, No More Muslim Food?” Chronicle Watch, November 23, 2009. http://www.chroniclewatch.com/2009/11/23/italy-saysno-more-muslim-food/ (accessed September 15, 2010). 49 George De Stefano, “Kebab Wars,” I-Italy, February 10, 2009. http:// www.i-italy.org/bloggers/6822/kebab-wars (accessed May 16, 2016).

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50 Ibid. 51 Montanari, Food is Culture, 133–4. 52 Ibid. 53 Owen. See also Carol Helstosky, Garlic and Oil: Food and Politics in Italy (New York: Berg, 2006); Carol Helstosky, Food Culture in the Mediterranean (Boulder: Greenwood, 2009). 54 Ibid. See also Donna Gabbaccia, We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000); Harvey Levenstein, Revolution at the Table: The Transformation of the American Diet (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Hasia R. Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003); Simone Cinotto, “Consuming the European Other: Italian Cookbook Writers, the End of Labor, and the Transnational Formation of Taste in Postindustrial America, 1973–2000,” in Ferdinando Fasce, Maurizio Vaudagna and Raffaella Baritono (eds), Beyond the Nation: Pushing the Boundaries of U.S. History from a Transatlantic Perspective (Turin: Otto, 2013), 181–203, and The Italian American Table: Food, Family, and Community in New York City (Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2013). 55 Historical and Political Couscous. http://www.foodinitaly.org/blog/2011/03/10/ historical-and-political-cous-cous/ (accessed October, 2012). 56 Ibid. 57 Fabio Poletti, “Più Polenta, Meno Kebab.” La Stampa, January 30, 2009. (accessed December, 2009). For a discussion on the irony of the Northern League and its anti-immigration message as expressed through protecting food traditions that find their base in South America, please see http:// www.foodinitaly.org/blog/2011/03/10/historical-and-political-cous-cous/ and http://www.lastampa.it/redazione/cmsSezioni/societa/200901articoli/40507g irata.asp (both accessed October 2012). 58 Quoted in Richard Owen. Zaia’s comments here about the provenance of food makes his endorsement of the McItaly burger somewhat more understandable. Because the McItaly burger would be made from Italian produce, Italian meat, Italian materials, Zaia argued that the burger would impart “an imprint of Italian flavors to our youngsters.” In response to Matthew Fort’s accusation that Zaia had betrayed the nation, Zaia argued that fast food made with excellent ingredients would help “convince them to forget about junk food and choose a healthier and better quality food. We are sure it will work.” Even more, Zaia cited the €3,448,000 of additional income a month the McItaly would bring to the Italian farmers. For more on the argument over the McItaly, and the accusations about leftist and rightist politics that ensued over the hamburger, see Matthew Fort, “McDonald’s Launch McItaly Burger,” Guardian, January 28, 2010. http://www. theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/jan/28/mcdonalds-launchmcitaly-burger (accessed January 15, 2016); Sam Jones, “Italian Minister Bites Back After Guardian Critic Slates the McItaly,” Guardian, February 1, 2010. http://www.theguardian.com/business/2010/feb/01/mcitaly-burgermatthew-fort-luca-zaia (accessed January 15, 2016).

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59 Ma si può mangiare giapponese? http://espresso.repubblica.it/attualita/ cronaca/2011/03/24/news/ma-si-puo-mangiare-giapponese-1.29806 (accessed October 27, 2016). 60 Poletti, “Plu Polenta.” 61 Sciortino and Colombo, “The Flows and The Flood,” 107–10. 62 See also David Roediger, Working Toward Whiteness: How America’s Immigrants Became White: The Strange Journey from Ellis Island to the Suburbs (New York: Basic Books, 2006); Matthew Frye Jacobson, Whiteness of a Different Color: European Immigrants and the Alchemy of Race (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999); Jennifer Guglielmo and Salvatore Salerno, Are Italians White?: How Race is Made in America (New York: Routledge, 2003); David Richards, Italian American: The Racializing of an Ethnic Identity (New York: New York University Press, 1999). 63 See also Paul Sniderman, Pierangelo Peri, Paul M. Sniderman, Pierangelo Peri, Rui J. P. de Figueiredo Jr., and Thomas Piazza, The Outsider: Prejudice and Politics in Italy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002); Donald Martin Carter, States of Grace: Senegalese in Italy and the New European Immigration (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997); Elena Granaglia, I Dilemmi della Immigrazione (Milan: FrancoAngeli, 1993); Marco Barbagli, Immigrazione e criminalità in Italia (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1998). 64 Poletti, “Plu Polenta.” 65 In fact, the Istituto Zooprofilattico Sperimentale delle Venezie, the Italian health authority and research organization for animal health and food safety, conducted a survey on the food habits of Italian people and their experience with ethnic foods. With over 50,000 “ethnic” food restaurants in Italy, increasing numbers of Italians are making the consumption of non-Italian cuisine a regular occurrence. See “Ethnic food: traits and habits of Italian consumers,” November 11, 2015. http://www.izsvenezie.com/ethnic-foodtraits-habits-italian-consumers/ (accessed January 5, 2016).   Perhaps most interestingly, the study on ethnic food consumption was conducted as part of the project, “Ethnic food and food safety: microbiological issues, adverse reactions, fraud and risk perception by the final consumer,” funded by the Italian Ministry of Health (RC 17/12), demonstrating that the fears of “ethnic contamination” and “allergy” are still part of the national discourse. According to the project abstract, amongst the main objectives of the project are the study of “health issues (mainly about allergies and microbiological) associated with the ethnic catering”; the evaluation of “the risk of food fraud associated with the marketing of non national products”; the defining of “microbiological limits for catering, with particular reference to ethnic catering”; and to evaluate “the risk perception by consumers against new foods that do not belong to our food tradition.” See Renzo Mioni, Research project IZS VE 17/12. http://www.izsvenezie.com/ documents/research/2012/RC-IZS-VE-17-12.pdf (accessed January 5, 2016). 66 For a more general discussion on the discourse of authenticity, see also Andrew Potter, The Authenticity Hoax: Why the “Real” Things We Seek Don’t Make Us Happy (New York: Harper Perennial, 2010). 67 For a provocative discussion on the fictions of the local, please see James

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E. McWilliams, Just Food: Where Locavores Get It Wrong and How We Can Truly Eat Responsibly (New York: Little, Brown, and Co., 2009). 68 For a more extensive discussion on the all for quality food program in Rome, see www.baumforum.org/.../sf06/rome_briefing.pdf (accessed September, 2012). 69 Italian school lunches go organic, low-cost, local http://www.globalpost. com/dispatch/education/france/100908/italian-school-lunches-go-organic-lowcost-local (accessed October 27, 2016). 70 Whether or not this new emphasis on health and hygiene, organic, zero-mile school lunches can go on is now in question due to the economic downturn in Italy. Just this January 2016, the mayor of Corsico cracked down on parents who had not paid the school fees for the school lunches, denying many children access to the cafeteria-prepared meals. Some “criticized [the decision] for creating what they said was a schoolroom apartheid, where some children ate hot meals while the others snacked on homemade panini or a slab of cold pizza.” What will happen when, amongst these students, we see the random kebab or egg roll? How then, will the process of educating children in the narrative of Italian food, its authenticity, its tradition, take place? See Elisabetta Povoledo, “Cafeteria Crackdown Prompts Cries of Bean Counting in Italy,” New York Times, January 25, 2016. http://www.nytimes.com/2016/01/26/world/europe/corsico-italy-schoollunch-fees.html (accessed May 16, 2016).

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3 The Slow Food Movement and Facebook: The paradox of advocating slow living through fast technology Ginevra Adamoli

I

ncreasingly, consumers are turning to social media to make food purchase decisions, redefining human relationships with food.1 Food activists and experts have found that the Internet increases productivity by cutting time and costs while increasing diffusion of information and possibly mobilization.2 Food experts such as Marion Nestle and Michael Pollan utilize a variety of online forums, including blogs and twitter accounts, to share information about food and food-related issues, while food advocacy organizations like the Organic Consumers Association were founded exclusively on the web.3 One consequence of this shift to on-line sources for information about food is that despite food-labeling, which is meant to inform consumers as they shop, the types of “seductive literary form(s)” of marketing like those utilized in online marketing of food products disguise useful information, reducing the concept of food shopping to a question of profit.4 In this way, new communications technologies serve as an alternative outlet for food consumers to learn about the processing, distribution, and consumption of their food. At the same time, these channels are a conduit for new representations of food and foodways influencing the way people perceive the foodways of specific cultures. The pervasiveness of new media in shaping people’s food identities poses questions for scholars who are trying to understand the role new communication technologies plays in shaping social movements’ identities and their relations with the causes for which they fight.5 These identities are said to

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be fluid, always in a state of being and becoming as they are constantly challenged and/or reinforced by the nature of the structure of the medium.6 In this respect, time and speed come to play a significant role in shaping an individual’s identity as if a person not constantly connected to Twitter or Facebook can lose the opportunity to transform and enrich his/her persona through the interaction with other users. Today, individuals’ identities are the sum of 140 characters or the equivalent of the 340 million tweets sent by people every day.7 This chapter focuses on food identities as they are constructed in relation to the Slow Food (SF) movement in Italy as it has been formed through Facebook. In this regard, this chapter is interested in the dichotomy of slow—as in the type of slow living advocated by SF—and fast—as in the speed that is celebrated on social media. Due to the ubiquity of social media, even movements that rely on the notion of slow living have adapted to fast, mass-produced communication. The Slow Food Movement, whose manifesto contests the dominant culture of speed and emphasizes the pleasure of cooking and eating together, currently has more than 300 Facebook group pages globally.8 The purpose of this chapter is to examine the boundaries of fast and slow as they relate to the asserted and effective food identities of the Slow Food Movement on Facebook. In this regard, this chapter investigates how Italian culture is portrayed via technology. The theoretical framework is drawn from different disciplines including communication and social movements, in order to provide a broader understanding of the issue.9 In particular, the framework used here builds on Schuler’s notion that the web is a fast mass-produced communication technology and Parkins’s analysis of speed within modern industrialized culture.10 Neil Postman’s work on media and technology suggests questions about the role of Facebook in influencing food culture and behaviors within the Slow Food Movement.11 In alignment with studies on this genre, theories of collective identity serve to place the subject of this study within the scope of studying the role of new media in shaping Italian food identities.12 The research questions for this chapter are then the following: (1) How does Facebook challenge or reinforce the Slow Food Movement’s ideology of embracing slow practice living as a valued feature of Italian culinary and cultural history? (2) What tension(s) arise as the Slow Food Movement utilizes fast technology (Facebook) to circulate such idealized representations of Italy and its foodways? (3) What is the overall perception of eating in Italy when portrayed through the lens of Facebook? This chapter explores Facebook and food identities by conducting a qualitative content analysis of selected Facebook pages of SF (Italy). Messages on these pages were analyzed to determine whether and how Facebook shapes food identities. The chapter is divided into three parts: first, methodology is discussed to explain the reasons for choosing a qualitative approach to the



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study; second, the notion of speed and time is introduced and discussed in relation to the analysis of the data; third, theories on collective identities are addressed and applied to the data collected to further discuss the relationship between the many representations of an iconic food culture (specifically Italian food culture as represented by the Slow Food Movement) and the “fast” media through which these representations circulate and are curated. The chapter ends with a general discussion of the findings to highlight the importance of this study.

Methodology This chapter employed a qualitative content analysis of all posts appearing on selected Facebook pages of the Italian Slow Food Movement and its local convivia.13 These local chapters are based on geographical locations (e.g., north, center, south) and density of population. In addition, the main Facebook group of Slow Food Italia was included. The selection was conducted to provide a broader representation of SF throughout Italy, attempting to understand possible differences or similarities among geography and population (see Table 1). An initial analysis revealed seventy-two group pages pertaining to Italian chapters of the SF movement. Out of seventy-two groups, twenty (28 percent) were selected for further analysis. The data was collected beginning January 2012 and ending May 2012. Qualitative content analysis. A qualitative content analysis was conducted of all messages, including text, videos, audio, and pictures present on the twenty Slow Food Facebook pages strictly related to Italy. Qualitative content analysis was chosen to “explore the meanings underlying physical messages,” which could lead to understanding the phenomenon studied.14 Scholars who employ qualitative content analysis “purposively select text which can inform the research questions being investigated.”15 Qualitative content analysis has been defined by Hsieh and Shannon as a “research method for the subjective interpretation of the content of text data through the systematic classification process of coding and identifying theme or patterns.”16 In the context of SF, messages posted by the organization and users who “liked” any of the twenty SF pages were analyzed and coded according to Strauss and Corbin’s open coding paradigm. The authors categorize texts, interviews, images, or audio-based on similar themes or subjects. They note that “passages […] can be coded descriptively for topics such as movement goals and strategies, names of individuals or organizations, chronologies of protest events, style and emotional content of narration, and any other meaningful dimensions.”17

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In regard to SF, two main categories emerged after an initial analysis of all posts. These themes helped reinforced the theoretical framework of this chapter. These categories were: (1) reinforcement of the movement, and (2) challenging the movement. Additional sub-topics following Parkins’s discussion of speed and globalization were recorded and included in the analysis; they related to the industrialization of food.18 Each of these topics was analyzed and discussed to understand whether Facebook challenges or reinforces Italian food identities, thus influencing the perceptions of Italian food and its foodways.

History of the Slow Food Movement The Slow Food Movement emerged in Italy in the 1986 in response to the increasingly global reach of McDonald’s, or what sociologist George Ritzer labeled “McDonaldization.”19 When the first McDonald’s restaurant opened its doors near the Spanish Steps in Rome, Carlo Petrini organized a rally, protesting against the industrialization of the food system. As a result, the “term ‘Slow Food’ was first used and a manifesto was (later) produced which would take the idea of the association” to criticize “the speed of our soulless world of machines and heavy industry.”20 As a symbol to celebrate the slowness of living life, a snail was used as the logo for the organization. Today, the movement counts over 100,000 members in 1,300 convivia, which are local chapters worldwide, “as well as a network of 2,000 food communities who practice small-scale and sustainable production of quality foods.”21 The movement calls for ‘good, clean and fair’ food, promoting local and seasonal ingredients, local farmers, sustainable agriculture and artisan cooking techniques.22 The organization works on the premise that food is a form of political and cultural protest. This form of rebellion is embodied through the renunciation of industrialized foods as well as the introduction and fostering of traditional techniques associated with farming and related methods of food production. For example, the program Ark of Taste aims to protect foods that are in danger of “extinction due to the industrialization of food.”23 In addition to their programs, iconic images of Italian food are used to reinforce the need to reestablish and nurture (Italian) food culture. Images of fresh vegetables or a table set up for dinner with a family are used throughout SF marketing material to encourage readers to adopt a slowpaced lifestyle, particularly around their food practices. In a way, SF adopts a nostalgic—rather than revolutionary—manifesto, dedicated to preserving what it imagines to be a traditional, laid-back Italian lifestyle.24



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Other activities SF promotes to diffuse information about the mission of the organization and the need to celebrate the heritage of cuisine are annual events such as Salone del Gusto, which centers around the celebration of foods with over 900 producers from all around the world.25 Terra Madre is an event initiated in Italy in 2004 promoting research in cultural food diversity. As of today, the event has been held in over twenty-five different locations worldwide. Additional programs worldwide include college educational chapters founded by students. For instance, in the United States more than forty-seven universities have started their own chapters on campus, promoting sustainable local initiatives and offering students information on how to get jobs in the farming industry.26

Slow Food: Fast technology In terms of media, SF utilizes a variety of platforms for outreach programs. From print publications to websites and social media, the organization over the past five years has implemented a fast and mass communication strategy to disseminate information, organize meetings, and foster collective identity globally. However, this turn to digital technology is ironic since SF now employs tools that rely upon the high-speed communication made possible by industrialization to reinforce their message of a rejection of such industrial technologies and a return to nature. As a result, one can contrast what images of food are marketed by SF with the methods by which they are circulated. Doing so raises questions about whether or not SF Facebook pages and the representations of Italy that they promote construct or deconstruct traditional ideas about Italian food culture. According to Neil Postman, technology influences people’s behavior by encouraging adaptation to the logic of production. New ‘programmed machines’ (e.g., computers) control economic but also cultural and philosophical thought.27 Images of food are shared following a manufacturing logic, thus possibly altering the way these images shape people’s perception of Italian food. An example of the promotion of a false representation of Italian food culture can be found on Pinterest, a channel used to share recipes and other life tips. One of the most popular recipes calls for a pot of pasta to be immersed in cold water with raw vegetables; the water is then heated up until the water is absorbed. The post received over seven thousand shares. This adaptation of an Italian recipe is a divergence from what could be considered “authentic” Italian cuisine and relies on the concept of “quick and easy.” In alignment with Postman, Schuler refers to the Internet as a fast mass-produced communication.28 The author comments on Chapman’s analysis of the Slow Food Movement in contrast to fast media. He

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argues that the ideology of the SF does not rely on technology or corporate capitalism; rather it encourages its supporters to strive to achieve a ‘good life’ by examining their values and aspirations and not adopting the dominant view that efficiency, made possible by technology, improves the quality of life. Similarly, Parkins observes that since industrialization, speed has constructed, challenged, and redefined identities, impacting every aspect of our lives.29 And food is not an exception since we now consume vast quantities of food and food-related images through social media, most of which reinforce the status quo with regard to how we produce and consume food. Today, the more hashtags around food that are generated, the more importance is given to a culture and its cuisine. Hence, the pasta recipe shared over seven thousand times on Pinterest influences the way Italian food and its culture is perceived and adopted by others. On one side, fast speed (e.g., transportation, Internet) represents the world of human evolution dictated by scientific and economic rationality; on the other hand, slowness represents the opposite, the human inability to change in an evolving environment and the unwillingness to disrupt an existing model for a better one. As Parkins notes, “speed is associated with decisiveness, slowness with weakness, prevarication.”30 The industrialized system has enslaved humans to operate within the boundaries of machines, thus supporting the belief that faster is better. To exacerbate this new model, hegemonic representations of life circulated by new media have glorified the pervasiveness of speed, making it part of modern identity. One example is any Hollywood action movie (e.g., Too Fast, Too Furious), in which protagonists battle against each other, winning due to their fast skills and tools. And a foodrelated example is the many “quick and easy” recipes shared on Pinterest. As a result, fast communication technology becomes the antagonist of movements such as Slow Food, as Slow Food followers challenge with their practices of food consumption corporate and industrialized food production, distribution, and consumption. In so doing SF members contest aspects of modern culture driven by industrialization. As Petrini explains, “Slow Food stands up for smallness of scale, for human dimensions, for dialogue and for commitment, for the quality of things. Slow food means rationality and simplicity, without forgetting that being serious does not mean being sad. […] Good taste means all this: how you live, where you live and why you live.”31 This quote illustrates the preference of connecting locally with people who share similar interests and a devotion to quality of life expressed through food and sustainability. Slow living implies a notion of time and activities in which, “Having time for something means investing it with significance through attention and deliberation.”32 The act of sitting at a table, meeting face-to-face to learn about the production, consumption, and distribution of what is eaten underlines the importance of relying on first-hand experiences rather than



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fictional corporate practices (e.g., advertising). Time is linked to an idea of reality in which slowness provides local businesses and citizens opportunities to build close connections with their food. And it is within this context that Italy is represented and celebrated for its emphasis on the act of sharing food as an important aspect of la dolce vita, which SF glorifies as the essence of Italian identity and culture. In the SF movement, mass-produced food factories are replaced with local small family-owned farms where consumers can learn by first-hand experience about the processes of production, distribution, and consumption.33 Travel mugs and happy meals are replaced by a table surrounded by neighbors, family, and friends, or a visit to the local farmer market; as Parkins notes, “The ‘slow’ in Slow Food, then, signifies firstly an opposition to speed, homogeneity, corporate greed and globalization associated with fast food, but it also tries to convey positive values associated with pleasure, taste, authenticity, connectedness, tranquility and community.”34 These foodways, and the values associated with them, are offered as distinctly Italian, further promoting broader stereotypes of Italian culture that extend beyond the realm of food. From its politics to its aging population, Italian culture is perceived to be slower, more accessible, and more fun. Slow Food teaches individuals to recognize the importance not only of the food they ingest, but also of the role food plays in human relations. Food is a means of communication that fosters solidarity among people, enabling them to construct a collective identity, in this case a uniquely Italian identity. Relations to food are constructed in part through physical interactions. Pollan’s observations that we are not only what we eat but how we eat are here expanded to include how and where we talk about food.35 This is an important factor to consider as movements like SF incorporate new media to shape members’ identities and understanding of food. In this regard, utilizing Facebook to discuss food issues might inadvertently diverge from the overall goals of SF as the virtual world that is created very much aligns with the one promoted by modern corporate practices (e.g., advertising). If SF promotes slow living by contesting speed, homogeneity, globalization, and corporate control, how can one explain the abundance of SF groups on social media? More specifically what tension(s) arise as the Slow Food Movement utilizes fast technology (Facebook) to circulate a philosophy that opposes such technologies and seeks to promote a more traditional (and perhaps idealized) version of Italy and its food culture? These questions can be answered by looking at the identities of SF members/users that are constructed on Facebook. But before doing so, it is necessary to provide a brief overview of theories on collective identities and their application to the Slow Food Movement.

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The collective identity of the Slow Food Movement Scholars studying the Slow Food Movement have tended to explain the identity of members of the organization using consumer discourse. As a result, SF members are portrayed as self-conscious buyers who choose products based on social responsibility.36 Consumers are able to fuse pleasure with political responsibility; individual identity influences collective identity of a given social movement. As Pietrykowski notes, “Slow Food seeks to position food as a key constituent in the development and maintenance of community. It seeks to de-center the identification of food with its status as a commodity.”37 Sassatelli and Davolio further analyzed this question of consumer-citizenry pointing to the dichotomy of self-interest and social responsibility as they note, “Slowfoodists are encouraged to adopt eco-sustainable behaviors firstly for their pleasantness (the taste of food and relaxed conviviality), and secondly for their ethical qualities (from sobriety to fairness), so far as these issues look like necessary conditions to promote and protect good food.”38 In this regard, identities of Slow Food members are fragmented, decentralized, “complex, multi-faceted and can be used to describe the relation between food consumption and class, ethnicity, culture, or nation.”39 SF followers construct their identities around the pleasure of taking the time to taste food. Food becomes a carrier of meaning, which shapes the collective identity of the movement. This is particularly true of Slow Foodists in Italy who have been raised in a culture that values the pleasures of preparing and eating food. Popular historical catchy phrases like, “È pronto, tutti a tavola / Dinner is ready, let’s sit at the table” are used by the movement globally to epitomize the essence of the Italian culture that is celebrated by slowfoodists. According to Petrini, “[the first McDonald’s at Rome’s Spanish Steps] became a symbol of invasion by an alien culture, bringing with it a leveling and production-promoting attitude. […] Our food is culture.”40 While Petrini discusses the impact of food consumption on people’s identities, he makes no observations in terms of the specific media through which food is talked about or the impact this may have on the conversation. In this regard, this chapter extends into a new area of analysis to consider how the images and messages about Italian food circulated by SF via Facebook shape ideas about Italian identity. This analysis can provide insight for scholars interested in how Facebook represents food and how these representations may or may not reinforce what are perceived to be specifically Italian way of eating alla tavola (at the table). Are these perceptions challenged by the use of Facebook, a corporate, high-speed means of communication, as the medium through which individuals build virtual food identities that are hostile to the



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very technology on which they depend? This dichotomy between high-speed technology and slow living takes shape in the discrepancy between what SF advocates and its use of Facebook to promote and circulate its message. As it promotes an image of Italy that embraces slow living as seen in its iconic food culture, what happens as SF relies on Facebook to do so? In other words, what happens if eating alla tavola is replaced with eating al computer or with an iPad in the name of sharing valuable images and messages on SF Facebook pages?

Advocating slow living through fast communication technology At the time of data collection, there were three hundred pages on Facebook that pertained to the Slow Food Movement, seventy-two of which were based in Italy, twenty of which were analyzed for the purpose of this paper. Table 1 provides a general overview of the activity on these pages. Within a period of four months, the average total posts on these pages was thirty-four. The majority of the messages (73.5 percent) were posted by page administrators, while participation from users was limited to few responses pertaining to articles, links or videos posted by administrators. Posts that received responses from users were associated with questions on how to participate in events or programs (“how can I sign up?”41), discussions of articles, and sharing information about local events (“tomorrow the weekly meeting with local organic producers will take place”).42 The majority of users’ replies (45 percent) revolved around comments on articles shared by administrators of these pages. For example, Slow Food Firenze posted an article on the benefits of unpasteurized cow’s milk. The post received twentyone replies in which three users, including the administrator of the page, exchanged opinions and further information on the validity of this article. Generally, posts appearing on selected pages of the Slow Food Movement vary from information about food culture in the United States, information about events (local), information about food, medical and health articles, pictures and videos of events related to SF, job offers, and surveys asking users to participate, as the following quotes illustrate: “Video—Take a look at all the new things for the next edition!!”43 followed by a link to the website of SF Italia, or “Slow Food job offer! Slow Food International is looking for a junior press officer beginning July 2012 – December 2012.”44 These quotes show the variety of posts related to the movement. Information is shared with “friends” who “like” the pages and can actively participate in online discussions. In this way, Facebook serves as a place for exchange of opinions,

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Table 1 Slow Food frequency of posts by administrators and members of the group SF Group Page on Facebook

Likes

Total Posts including responses

Posts by administrators

Posts by members of the group

1.

Slow Food Italia

11,378

207

109 (52%)

98 (47%)

2.

Slow Food Nord Milano

219

11

10 (91%)

1 (9%)

3.

Slow Food Roma

2,951

49

39 (79.5%)

10 (20.5%)

4.

Slow Food Cremonese

216

44

44 (100%)

0 (0%)

5.

Slow Food Chieti

585

40

37 (92.5%)

3 (7.5%)

6.

Slow Food Argentario 626

24

20 (83%)

4 (17%)

7.

Slow Food Avellino

486

66

60 (91%)

6 (9%)

8.

Slow Food Bologna

639

11

6 (54.5%)

5 (45.5%)

9.

Slow Food Ravenna

915

21

18 (88%)

3 (12%)

10.

Slow Food Enna

552

14

7 (50%)

7 (50%)

11.

Slow Food Prato

74

8

8 (100%)

0 (0%)

12.

Slow Food Cesena

144

4

4 (100%)

0 (0%)

13.

Slow Food Messina

131

2

2 (100%)

0 (0%)

14.

Slow Food Bari

212

7

7 (100%)

0 (0%)

15.

Slow Food Napoli

117

46

36 (78%)

10 (22%)

16.

Slow Food Siena

663

2

1 (50%)

1 (50%)

17.

Slow Food Volterra

484

4

2 (50%)

2 (50%)

18.

Slow Food Scandicci

294

15

15 (100%)

0 (0%)

19.

Slow Food Firenze

320

47

28 (59.5%)

19 (40.5%)

20.

Slow Food Lago D’Oglio

789

67

56 (83.5%)

11 (16.5%)

Note: Period of collecting data began January 1, 2012 and ended May 1, 2012



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in which everyone can potentially have a voice.45 This virtual forum can possibly offer individuals a place to challenge or reinforce the movement’s mission and goals, thus altering or strengthening the collective identity of SF. One topic to discuss is whether Facebook reinforces or challenges identities valued by the Slow Food Movement that relate to a particular image of Italy, la dolce vita. Presumably, the utilization of fast communication contradicts the mission of the movement, which opposes globalization and speed. However, this study also explores how the web community positively affects the Italian identities constructed by SF, in a sense, allowing the movement to grow and change. Challenging the movement through discussions between its members can result in the alteration of the assumptions about traditional Italian food culture that are embraced by the SF movement. Data also indicate a low participation rate on these pages, suggesting that the structure of Facebook can promote a top-down interaction among members and administrators of the pages. The low participation though is in alignment with the SF goal of slowness and enjoyment around the table. Michael Fitzpatrick talks about the digital indifference of the Italian population.46 Social media disinterest by Italians can only be beneficial to SF in preserving the laid-back yore of Italian culture. Nevertheless, the movement, which portrays images of Italians eating together and celebrating their foodways, is less effective when administrators of the pages are the only ones who post and do not engage members to share their Italian experiences. At times, these online interactions engender a distorted idea of SF identities and the way Italians eat, as they lack engagement from members and offer no explanation as to how users can utilize Facebook to help promote the mission of the movement. With regard to the administrators of the pages, they all agreed that Facebook can be used to reinforce specific ideas around food, the SF movement, and Italian culture. The four administrators of the SF Facebook pages that were interviewed all agreed that using Facebook as their chosen medium was essential in reaching existing and new recruits, diffusing information, creating a buzz over an issue, and advocating for what the movement stands for—good, clean, and fair food practices: “We created the Facebook group to let more people know about SF activities. We think Facebook is a strong instrument of communication. […] We also believe it is a tool that allows our members to provide suggestions.”47 This quote illustrates the complexity of utilizing a global, high-speed medium created by technological innovations to reinforce an idealized image of the slow pace of Italian food and culture. On one side, the social network can strengthen the movement by reaching out to those who already sympathize with the cause or those who are exposed to information about the movement due to their circle of friends and social networks (both weak and strong).48

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In general, Facebook serves as a forum in which ideas can be reinforced or challenged, as seen in the examples of a discussion on vegetarianism or a recent thread on the Leonardo DiCaprio’s 2016 Oscar acceptance in which he argued that citizens should love nature and take a stand for the environment. In the specific case of Italian SF pages on Facebook, users can foster collective identities as they exchange images and participate in discussions that relate to Italian culture and its foodways. These exchanges of ideas allow the movement to grow and with it, the food identities of individual users can develop or be challenged, always in a state of becoming. Such shifts in identity are made possible through social ties that allow information to float between spheres, groups and pages, potentially influencing a heterogeneous audience fragmented by geography, but that comes together because of a common interest—food. For example, the post, “Does the hamburger on your plate tell you the truth?”49 highlights how Facebook serves as a space to construct and foster the identity of the SF movement and the individual users who support it. The message includes a link to an article about meat and ammonia, to which a user comments, “This indicates the importance of responsible shopping, especially shopping that is fair and organized that tries to influence business strategies of the producers (local if possible).”50 This quote is important for two reasons. First, it highlights what Pollan calls a gap between food labeling and consumers,51 whereas food marketing overrides the interest of people (e.g., health) by focusing on appealing product packages, rather than informing individuals about the processes of production and distribution of food items.52 Pollan explains that the longing for clear information caused by a marketing genre he calls “supermarket pastoral” pushes certain individuals to seek information about their food from different media outlets and organizations. Second, the quote epitomizes how the social medium offers opportunities for members to create, police and elaborate on the vision of what Italian food should be, based on SF idealized constructions. Facebook can become a space to strengthen SF Italian identity by sharing with users information about local events, articles, videos, and pictures, or simply by expressing solidarity, as this post shows: “Great ideas that I agree with.53 According to Hunt and Benford, solidarity, which can emerge out of collective identities, is necessary for the longevity of movements.54 On the other hand, Facebook can challenge assumptions about Italian culture and foodways as it provides opportunities for dialogue among leaders and members, as these posts illustrate: I always wondered what SF thinks about vegetarians and vegans. Can anyone clarify this point?



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My question has been answered. Because I am not an adherent to the substitution of meat products, I don’t feel fully represented. SF enables me to be closer to the concept of food as a resource and how the alimentation is at the base for change. What is missing is in my opinion moving forward and beyond.55 Users challenge SF practices, suggesting integrating or revaluating programs and goals. In this case, the user is dissatisfied with the lack of focus on vegetarians and vegans. The user asked to move forward, encouraging the movement to evolve in a new direction. This post received five messages, three from different users who were curious to understand the movement’s position on vegetarianism. Individuals who follow a vegetarian diet might identify with the Slow Food Movement but also push the organization to incorporate more discussions and activities around vegetarianism. In this way, the movement is challenged by its Facebook followers. This discussion about SF reflects a broader change in Italian food culture, which is experiencing a rise in the number of vegans and vegetarians who are pushing to establish their own identity. Their engagement with SF on Facebook is an example of how they can promote change in Italian culture and its foodways.56 In a certain way, they are seeking to re-establish a pre-meat culture that was common in Italy prior to the 1960s, and one of the ways they are doing it is through social media.57 While social media can be beneficial for the growth of the movement and its members, it is also important to underline its possible negative impact on individuals’ understanding of food in general, and possibly perceptions of Italian food and culture, in particular. Facebook is corporate and privately owned, driven by a capitalistic model that attempts to monetize information posted on the web. Thus, the act of using the medium contradicts SF’s advocacy for slow practices. One of the strategies to monetize conversations for business’s purposes is the “promote” function available to administrators of Facebook pages. This feature, whose costs vary depending on the size and frequent use of promoted content, allows administrators of FB pages to “promote posts and move important news, links and photos higher in news feed.”58 Unless the person who is managing the FB page pays to promote content, information most likely won’t be seen in a person’s feed even if this user likes the page. This limitation means that content on any SF pages has limited visibility even among those users who already like the page. The monetizing business model of Facebook provides greater opportunities for bigger food corporations to pay for their content, thus monopolizing who gets to have a voice in how a particular food culture is represented. Another issue with the corporate nature of Facebook and its monetizing business model is the contradiction between such a top down hierarchy and

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the core values of the SF movement—communal in both its foodways and its politics. Carlo Petrini, in his early years, was very active in the Partito di Unità Proletaria, a leftwing political party merged from socialist and Catholic political leaders. Petrini’s political philosophy influenced the mission and philosophy of the SF movement. Facebook is part of what Petrini critiques as the industrialization and globalization of Italian culture and its foods. So the question is, can SF supporters who use Facebook overcome the nature of the medium in the name of good, clean, and fair food? Another problem with the use of Facebook to promote SF is that individuals who are not members or supporters of the movement intentionally join its pages to promote campaigns or causes that are in direct opposition with the movement’s mission and goals. In doing so, they can offer a different image of Italian food, one that represents a different side of Italian culture. Out of twenty group pages analyzed during the research, three (15 percent) contained a post by the same person, encouraging people to click on an external link that discussed a new initiative to promote Italian products abroad. As the post notes, “AgroSection represents Italian products in the top international fairs in an economical and efficient way.”59 The program aims to foster globalization of mass-produced products in foreign countries, maximizing speed, cost, and efficiency. These priorities are in direct opposition with those of the SF movement. The infiltration of intruders on Facebook pages and in Facebook groups can potentially influence individuals who are seeking information and clarification on food issues, but who receive misguided facts or simply promoted product content. In this case, Facebook is used to promote the Italian food industry as a global business, which conflicts with the vision of Italian food and culture celebrated by SF that is communal, local, and values slowness. The action of posting and discussing food on the web becomes fundamental in the social and cultural construction of Italian identity. Slowfoodists utilize Facebook to promote particular Italian foodways—good, clean, and fair—while also asserting the cultural values that accompany them. As a result, SF helps to circulate a certain images of Italy, rooted in a nostalgic (and inaccurate) view of how Italy was before industrialization. At the same time, Facebook allows a variety of users to express their opinions on what they think Italian food is or should be, possibly altering SF’s values and the idea of Italian foodways that it promotes. This is not a negative consequence as movements and collective identities are always in a state of being, but it does highlight possible tensions between the mission of the movement and its members. This is a point reinforced by Diani who explains that social movements, “have identified the sources of successful mobilization in the actors’ capacities to mount ‘symbolic challenges,’ to dominant definitions of reality by



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reshaping available symbols and creating new systems of meaning.”60 In the context of the Slow Food Movement, activists are challenging the global McDonaldization of the food chain, by linking “the pleasure of food with a commitment to community and the environment” through the dissemination of information on Facebook.61 Despite the negative impact Facebook can have on collective identity, the data revealed low participation from users during the period studied, meaning that Facebook members of the SF movement were not active users on these pages. This inactivity suggests that for Facebook to play a more dominant role in the shaping of SF members’ identities, more individuals would need to actively engage in conversations on the web. Thus, for the period of this study, the use of social media to shape food identities was outweighed by local food events based on more traditional modes of communication. Additional research is needed to determine whether SF Italian citizens are becoming more active digitally in ways that could potentially redefine food culture in Italian society.

Discussion and conclusion This chapter explored the relationship between the SF movement and fast technology. In particular, it considered how Slowfoodists in Italy use Facebook to influence Italian identity via food images and messages of a glorified dolce vita. Facebook was found to play a role in promoting slow practices of living and shaping users’ understanding of the SF movement, their own identities, and Italian food culture more broadly. Facebook can serve to reinforce SF identities by providing a space for members to get and share information, discuss issues and support initiatives of the movement. In terms of understanding the dichotomy between slow and fast, the tension between the Slow Food Movement and using Facebook to advocate slow living is underlined by the mission and goal of the movement, which opposes fast and mass production, distribution, and consumption of food. Slow Food practices are in contrast with Facebook, because the medium itself reflects the modern embrace of high-speed technology. Using Facebook to advocate for the Slow Food Movement is a paradox, but most importantly it illustrates the way Italian food identities can be altered, challenged, and influenced in today’s society without relying on the traditional method of learning about food—face-toface interactions. However, this chapter also argued that while Facebook has become a ubiquitous resource for activists, the case of the SF movement and Facebook suggests that members of SF do not frequently rely on the social network to engage in food discussions. The low rate of participation

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recorded during the monitoring period shows that food identities in Italy are still predominately constructed outside the virtual world. Facebook can be used to reinforce SF identities or challenge them by giving feedback that pushes leaders of the movement to change programs and initiatives, which in turn may influence how we understand Italian foodways and Italian culture. This chapter shows that social activists use the Internet in response to the need for a space to discuss political and societal issues, to disseminate information, recruit, foster collective identities, import tactics and strategies, and build solidarity through the creation of virtual collective identities.62 While Schuler and Chapman contend that SF represents a counter movement against the fast pace made possible by the advancement in communication technology as well as the advancement of food production, a look into how Facebook is used by Slow Food members might point at the opposite—an integration of fast communication into the movement, shaping in this way not only the organization and the identity of its members, but the understanding Italian foodways and culture that emerges from these virtual representations.

Notes 1

Ginevra Adamoli, “Social Media and Social Movements: A Critical Analysis of Audience’s Use of Facebook to Advocate Food Activism Offline,” PhD dissertation, Florida State University, 2012.

2

Jennifer Earl and Katrina Kimport, Digitally Enabled Social Change: Leveraging the Possibilities of the Web (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2011), 10.

3

Honor Schauland (Editor at the Organic Consumers Association), interview by author, tape recording, August 13, 2011.

4

Michael Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals (New York: Penguin, 2007).

5

Victoria Carty, Wired and Mobilizing: Social Movements, New Technology, and Electoral Politics (New York: Routledge, 2011); Mary Joyce, Digital Activism Decoded: The New Mechanics of Change (New York: International Debate Education Association, 2010).

6

Manuel Castells, The Rise of the Network Society (Cambridge: Blackwell Publishers, 2000); Manuel Castells, “The New Public Sphere: Global Civil Society, Communication Networks, and Global Governance.” The ANNALS of the American Academy of Political and Social Science 616 (2008): 78–93; Mario Diani, “Social Movement Networks Virtual and Real,” Information, Communication & Society 3 (3) (2000): 386–401.

7

“Average Tweets,” The Social Skinny. http://thesocialskinny.com/99-newsocial-media-stats-for-2012/ (accessed October 18, 2012).

8

Slow Food, “History.” http://www.slowfood.com/ (accessed October 12, 2016).

9

Nick Crossley, Making Sense of Social Movements (Buckingham: Open



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University Press, 2002); David A. Snow and Danny Trom, “The Case Study and the Study of Social Movements,” in Bert Klandermans and Suzanne Staggenborg (eds). Methods of Social Movement Research (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2002), 146–72. 10 Douglas Schuler and Peter Day, Shaping the Network Society: The New Role of Civil Society in Cyberspace (Cambridge: MIT Press, 2004). Wendy Parkins, “Out of Time: Fast Subjects and Slow Living,” Time & Society 13 (2–3) (2004): 363–82. 11 Neil Postman, Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology (New York: Vintage Books, 2003). 12 Mario Diani, “Linking Mobilization Frames and Political Opportunities: Insights from Regional Populism in Italy,” American Sociological Review 61 (1996): 1053–69; Bruce Pietrykowski, “You Are What You Eat: The Social Economy of the Slow Food Movement,” Review of Social Economy 62 (3) (2004): 307–321; Roberta Sassatelli and Federica Davolio, “Consumption, Pleasure and Politics: Slow Food and the Politico-aesthetic Problematization of Food,” Journal of Consumer Culture 10 (2) (2010): 202–32. 13 Convivia are local chapters organized by citizens in different cities with the intent to celebrate and champion the foods and food traditions that are important to their regions. 14 Yan Zhang and Barbara M. Wildemuth, “Qualitative Analysis of Content,” in Barbara Wildemuth (ed.), Applications of Social Research Methods to Questions in Information and Library Science (Englewood, CO: Libraries Unlimited, 2009), 1. 15 Ibid., 2. 16 Hsiu-Fang Hsieh and Sarah E. Shannon, “Three Approaches to Qualitative Content Analysis.” Qualitative Health Research 15 (2005): 1278. 17 L. Strauss Anselm and Juliet M. Corbin, Basics of Qualitative Research: Grounded Theory Procedures and Techniques (Newbury Park, CA: Sage Publications, 1990), 110. 18 Parkins, “Out of Time”. 19 George Ritzer, The McDonaldization of Society, 8th edn (Los Angeles, CA: Sage, 2015). 20 Geoff Andrews, The Slow Food Story: Politics and Pleasure (Montreal: McGill-Queen’s University Press, 2008), 11. Carlo Petrini, “Slow Food,” in Petra Hagen Hodgson and Rolf Toyka (eds), The Architect, the Cook and Good Taste (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2007), 138. It is noteworthy that when Italian Minister of Agriculture Luca Zaia decided to bestow the official seal of approval on McDonald’s “McItaly” hamburger, he held the ceremony in the McDonald’s near the Spanish Steps. The event occasioned at outcry from, among others, Carlo Petrini. See Matthew Fort, “McDonald’s Launch McItaly Burger.” Guardian, January 28, 2010. http://www.theguardian.com/ lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/jan/28/mcdonalds-launch-mcitaly-burger (accessed March 3, 2016). 21 Slow Food, “About Us.” https://www.slowfoodusa.org/about-us (accessed October 12, 2012).

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22 “Slow Food.” http://www.slowfood.com (accessed October 10, 2012); Julie Labelle, “Uneasy Combinations: Identity and Strategy in the Slow Food Movement” (paper presented at the 23rd Annual Organic Agriculture Conference, Guelph, Ontario, Canada, January 23, 2004); Pietrykowski, You Are What You Eat, 2004. 23 Slow Food, “Ark of Taste.” http://www.slowfoodusa.org/index.php/programs/ details/ark_of_taste/ (accessed October 9, 2012). 24 Michael Fitzpatrick, “This Is Social Networking, Italian Style,” Guardian, November 5, 2008. http://www.theguardian.com/technology/2008/nov/06/ internet-blackberry-social-networking (accessed March 3, 2016). 25 Elizabeth Minchilli, “Salone del Gusto.” http://www.elizabethminchilliinrome. com/2012/04/salone-del-gusto-2012-food-trip-torino.html (accessed October 25, 2012). 26 “Slow Food in US Colleges.” https://www.slowfoodusa.org/contents/ sdownload/2763/file/SFOCHandbook.pdf (accessed February 1, 2016). 27 Postman, Technopoly. 28 Schuler, Shaping the Network. 29 Parkins, “Out of Time.” 30 Ibid., 365. 31 Carlo Petrini, “Slow Food,” 140. 32 Parkins, “Out of Time,” 364. 33 Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma. 34 Parkins, “Out of Time”, 371. It is worth noting that the mission of the Slow Food Movement has been contested by scholars including Rachel Laudan. She employs a historical approach to argue that the idea of adapting a fresh and natural diet was much in contradiction with ancient techniques of preserving and preparing food for digestion. Fresh food was frequently unreliable and toxic to be eaten without processing it. For a more detailed discussion please see Laudan Rachel, “A Plea for Culinary Modernism, Why We Should Love New, Fast, Processed Food,” Gastronomica 1 (1) (Winter 2001): 36–44. 35 Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma. 36 Pietrykowski, You Are What You Eat; Sassatelli and Davolio, Consumption. 37 Ibid., 311. 38 Sassatelli and Davolio, Consumption, 226. 39 Pietrykowski, You Are What You Eat, 310. 40 Petrini, “Slow Food”, 138–9. 41 Slow Food Chieti, “How to – Chieti.” https://www.facebook.com/pages/ Slow-Food-Chieti/39601813147?fref=ts (accessed October 1, 2012), para. 1. 42 Slow Food Enna, “Domani – Enna.” https://www.facebook.com/pages/ Slow-Food-Enna/211633198069 (accessed October 1, 2012), para. 4–6. 43 Slow Food Italy, “Guarda tutte.” https://www.facebook.com/Italia. slowfood?fref=ts (accessed August 21, 2012), para. 1.



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44 Slow Food Italy, “Job offer.” https://www.facebook.com/Italia. slowfood?fref=ts (accessed May 23, 2012), para. 1–2. 45 Adamoli, Social Media. 46 Fitzpatric, “This is Social Networking”. 47 (Administrator of Slow Food Cremonese), interview by Author, e-mail, June 5, 2012. 48 Adamoli, Social Media. 49 Slow Food Italy, “SF Italia.” https://www.facebook.com/Italia. slowfood?fref=ts (accessed July 25, 2012). 50 Ibid. “Ciò dimostra l’importanza dell’acquisto consapevole e sopratutto dell’acquisto equo ed organizatto che provi anche ad incidere sulle strategie aziendali del produttore (se possibile locale).” 51 Pollan, The Omnivore’s Dilemma. 52 Marion Nestle, Food Politics: How the Food Industry Influences Nutrition and Health (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002). 53 Slow Food Italy, “Italia.” https://www.facebook.com/Italia.slowfood?fref=ts (accessed October 23, 2012). 54 Scott A. Hunt and Robert D. Benford, “Collective Identity, Solidarity, and Commitment,” in David A. Snow, Sarah Soule and Hanspeter Kriesi (eds), The Blackwell Companion to Social Movements (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2004), 433–57. 55 Slow Food Italy, “Italia.” https://www.facebook.com/Italia.slowfood?fref=ts (accessed October 27, 2012). “Mi sono sempre chiesto cosa pensa Slow Food riguardo ai vegetariani ed i vegani: qualcuno mi può chiarire le idee?” “Ecco la mia domanda ha avuto una risposta. Non aderendo alla sostituzione di cibi di origine animale non mi sento pienamente rappresentato. Slow Food mi ha fatto avvicinare al concetto del cibo come risorsa e di come l’alimetazione sia alla base del cambiamento. Manca però quello che secondo me è il passo in più. Grazie.” 56 Meletti Jenner, “L’Italia che non mangia la carne siamo i più vegetariani d’Europa,” La Repubblica, February 10, 2010. http://bit.ly/1R3u2Ac (accessed March 3, 2016). 57 Daniele Tirelli, Pensato & Mangiato: Il Cibo Nel Vissuto E Nell’immaginario Degli Italiani Del xxi Secolo (Roma: AGRA, 2006). 58 “Promote.” https://www.facebook.com/ (accessed October 19, 2012). 59 Incubatore Impresa, “Agrosection.” http://incubatoreimpresa.it/it/component/ content/article/3-news/73-agrosection-porta-i-prodotti-enogastronomiciitaliani-nel-mondo.html (accessed October 21, 2012). 60 Diani, “Linking Mobilization,” 1054. 61 Slow Food Italia, “Mission.” http://www.slowfood.com/international/2/ our-philosophy (accessed October 2, 2012), para. 3–4. 62 Harlow, Social Media and Social Movements; Jillian C. York, “Not Twitter, not WikiLeaks: A Human Revolution,” last modified January 14, 2011, http:// jilliancyork.com/2011/01/14/not-twitter-not- wikileaks-a-humanrevolution/

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PART TWO

Representing Italy in literature and film

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4 Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine: Recipes for political history Ernesto Livorni

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asalinghitudine is Clara Serini’s second novel, which she wrote thirteen years after writing Sigma Epsilon.1 Her second novel not only renews Sereni’s interest in narrative, but also and more importantly introduces a new approach to the topics that she explores most frequently in her later novels and short stories. The most apparent of these topics is food (the recipes listed in Casalinghitudine are an obvious signal in that respect); but there are also other topics, such as politics in Italy from Fascism to the 1970s, a history of the twentieth century through the events experienced by her Jewish family members; and social issues such as the role of women in Italian society and especially issues related to mental health and disability. These various lines may be traced in many of Sereni’s later books, written after she moved from Rome to Perugia in 1991. Among the books in which food continues to play a relevant role are Il Gioco dei Regni, Passami il Sale, and Le Merendanze.2 To be sure, food’s role and its relation to other topics such as politics, history (including family history), and various social issues change from one book to another. For example, in the complex Il Gioco dei Regni the history of the two sides of Clara Sereni’s family prevails over other concerns, with food playing a secondary role. But in Passami il Sale and Le Merendanze the links to Casalinghitudine are so strong that specific episodes and recipes extend between each of these books.3 With Casalinghitudine, Sereni begins exploring her family life as well as the political time in which she and her family lived. At the same time, the novel marks the beginning of experimentation with the form of the novel, writing

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what the subtitle of the English translation refers to as “a novel in recipes.” This format is a forerunner for later attempts to employ recipes in novels, including Helen Barolini’s Festa, Laura Esquivel’s Like Water for Chocolate, and Isabel Allende’s memoir Aphrodite.4 For Sereni, blending the exploration of family and political history with formal experiment begins with Casalinghitudine and continues in several other novels that keep food and recipes as a fulcrum of the narrative process. By representing food not just through depictions of cooking and eating but also by inserting recipes directly into the narrative, these novels reveal that history is found not only within the public life of a politically engaged family like Sereni’s, but also at the quotidian level, in the private space of the kitchen, a space usually to be modest and uneventful. But by narrativizing this familial micro-history through food, Sereni emphasizes the connections between the personal and the political and reveals how the lives of individuals impact the large-scale events of history. In doing so, she offers a unique perspective not only on the families that inhabit her novels but on the image of Italy and Italian culture that shape and are shaped by their lives. Casalinghitudine is organized into sections that resemble the sections of a menu (“Appetizers,” “First Courses,” “Second Courses”) or of a book of recipes (“Eggs,” “Vegetables,” “Preserving”), with the titles of some sections suggesting semantic ambiguity, for example “Sweets,” which may refer to a particular type of food or to what may have been Sereni’s impulse to write the book in the first place.5 In fact, the title of the opening section, “For a Baby,” not only introduces the section on baby food and food for children, it also functions as the dedication of the novel. But as Sereni translates her life into fiction, this dedication to any child becomes a specific child within the narrative, Tommaso, the narrator’s son. It is not by chance that the first line of the narrative gives us the name of the child and his main activity: “Tommaso cried all the time. His clinical chart read: ‘mournful cry.’”6 This is the first instance in which recipes intersect with the life and history of a family. Sereni’s novels are grounded in facts of history, whether this is the history of the individual, the family, an ethnic group or a nation. However, as it will become clear in the following discussion of Casalinghitudine and the later novels, as the facts of life are recounted, inevitably they are mixed with a good deal of fictionalization, not only because the writer intends to protect some of the real people involved in these narratives, but also because sometimes memory fails, offering perhaps the greatest opportunity for creativity. By looking at this tension between recounting historical facts and narrativizing them in fiction, this chapter shows how Sereni’s novels use representations of food to explore Italy’s complex history and culture as revealed through the stories of one particular family. As Casalinghitudine celebrates a particular way of eating and living in Italy it becomes clear that Sereni implicitly thinks that it has been lost. Throughout



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the book, Sereni links the simplicity of meals and their social function with the political significance of various recipes to explore the social and political reality of Italy from the end of World War II to the 1970s. Therefore, the end of the book becomes significant with the imposing presence of the writer’s father, Emilio Sereni, who was a Partisan, a writer, and a historian. His important contributions are especially as a scholar in the history of agriculture, as the last pages of Casalinghitudine confirm. In other words, through the commemoration of the figure of the father and of his writings, Clara Sereni concludes her book by implicitly returning to the history of the development of specific dishes that are rooted in the culture of the peasants, in the life of the lower classes. As that food becomes more and more popularized and commodified, it gains greater social status and is delinked from the lower classes, losing its history as well as its connection to a life of simplicity and struggle. Sereni recalls that history through the figure of the father, by paying homage to him while reconciling herself to his ideals and political views. As with the figure of the father, the child plays an important role in Sereni’s novels as well. While the role of the child in Casalinghitudine is limited to the first section, in Passami il Sale his role is much more prominent, as the latter novel more directly relates to Sereni’s political involvement as Deputy Mayor of the city of Perugia in the years 1995–7. One could suggest that Sereni wrote Passami il sale because of the question Tommaso asks his mother twice, first near the beginning of the novel after accidentally spilling draft beer (“Mom” he asked “will you write a book?”) and again near the end, after going grocery shopping and preparing dinner with his mother. He reflects at this moment, one of the rare occasions in which the child calls her by name: “‘Will you write a book?’ he said. And it was not anymore a question.” But these private moments between mother and child are also framed within a more public, political context. Considering that the narrator of Passami il Sale is a woman who has recently moved with her family to an unnamed city, presumably Perugia, and becomes involved in the politics of that city (as indeed Sereni got involved with the political life of Perugia), one could argue that the title of the novel also alludes to one of the most famous episodes of the history of the city, that is, the so-called Salt War fought in 1540 against Pope Paul III. In one of the many short chapters of the novel, the narrator, now elected to the city’s council, finds herself with members of her party to vote on a contract that seems to be manipulated by a big industry, Pannapiù (this is another allusion to real political facts that are masked behind such fictional and yet transparent names). During the dinner that the Mayor hosts in order to reconcile political differences, a simple gesture by the narrator herself throws these very differences into relief. While the Mayor is illustrating the virtues of local cuisine (the never specified local Umbrian cuisine), he is supported by the other council members who add “news, annotations, dates, the war of the salt and the

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excommunication of the potatoes, the reasons of the metayers and the bad wine made with unripe grapes.” At this moment, the narrator adds some salt to the pasta al forno, for as she explains, “I begin to perceive the insipid taste that is under the goose sauce …” The reference to the insipid taste of the dish, despite the goose sauce, alludes to another kind of insipid taste, that of political compromises and maneuvers that are taking place at dinner. The silence following that gesture of adding salt is broken by the other woman on the council, Giulia, a member of the New Communist Foundation, who says, “Pass the salt.” This phrase recurs towards the end of the novel, when the narrator is ready to send her letter of resignation. During the ceremony of the closing down of a psychiatric hospital, the narrator pulls out of her purse “a pack of cooking salt” and starts spreading it in the room, “it is a supplication for me, a testimony that regards me.” At this point, the Mayor himself asks her to “pass the salt” and imitates her gesture. These few references from Casalinghitudine and Passami il Sale point out the intersection of family life and politics, with history in the background; and each of these moments involves the presence of food. At the same time, the facts of history, politics and family life are revisited with less focus on their historical specificity and more attention given to how they exemplify larger issues related to community and family. In Casalinghitudine, the loose structure of these intersections is often amplified with references to family history and Italian history, but also to the contemporary politics of the time through which each episode develops. This narrative strategy remains constant in Clara Sereni’s writing. To be sure, in Casalinghitudine the very recipes that open each section determine the structure of the narration and seem to rule even the recovered memories of the episodes that are narrated.7 Therefore, there is a double understanding of the construction of the novel. On the one hand, while reading the novel and progressing from one section to another, one has the impression that the recipe opens the path to memory: each section begins with several recipes (only sections “First Courses” and “Vegetables” begin with just one recipe), that alternate with episodes of the narrator’s own life or family life, as they intersect Italian politics and history; hence, the alternation itself is governed by the recipes that are inserted in order to separate the episodes and that indeed justify the presence of the episode that follows. On the other hand, there are several other factors that emphasize the writer’s emphasis on the primacy of food in the construction of the narrative: the abundance of recipes in each section (often there is an “original” recipe, with other recipes given as variants of it), the very use of recipes to separate one episode from another, and the coherence of the recipes in each section (often contrasting with the often unrelated sequence of episodes that follow). It is no coincidence that in the subsequent novels, where the narrative is conventionally organized according to a specific



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chronology, the discourse on food is absorbed within the narrative itself: this is precisely the case in Passami il Sale and Le Merendanze, but also that in Il Gioco dei Regni, although to a lesser extent. The years of the narratives of Passami il Sale and Le Merendanze are not supplied and remain unknown (in the latter novel, the only temporal information concerns the approaching Christmas); regarding Passami il Sale, extra-textual references provide information about the years of political involvement of Clara Sereni as Deputy Mayor of Perugia, allowing readers to figure out the time span of that novel’s narrative. In Il Gioco dei Regni, dates are given, but the sequence is complicated by the necessity of narrating at least two different temporal dimensions corresponding to the progression of events on both sides of the family, which lead to the wedding of Clara Sereni’s parents and their family life. In the apparently confused journey of memory that rules Casalinghitudine, there is a firm organization that proceeds, one might say, in concentric moves that aim at getting closer and closer to the center of the narrative, where one finds the narrator and her various relationships, especially with her father, with their group of friends and with her own family. However, when one looks at the overall structure of the novel, one cannot but notice that the grandmother Alfonsa and her sister Ermelinda play an important role in one of the first sections (Stuzzichini) before returning in the last section “Conservare,” as though the two ancestors wrapped up the entire narrative.8 By the same token, in the “Appetizers” section, Sereni introduces some of the main characters and events that are recalled by recipes, including Massimo (who will become the narrator’s husband), their group of friends, and the second marriage of the narrator’s father. The reference to this marriage is also an opportunity to implicitly explain the absence of the mother in the narrative. In some episodes, the different temporal layers communicate with one another, as is the case of the memory of the grandfather Lello and his ideas on soup for children, which leads to the recounting of the success of the minestra dei sette grani, which the narrator prepares for Tommaso’s nursery school. Instead, the crema di piselli offers the narrator an opportunity to refer to an episode revealing the tension with her father, when they first met after she had left home.9 In these episodes, political history is briefly mentioned: Tommaso’s nursery school is parenthetically called “an island of 1968 that has struggled to survive,” and even more telling is the narrator’s reflection on the different attitude she sees in her father’s private and public lives, described with a metaphoric allusion to diet and food: So it was possible that he had a sort of a double life: the great, scintillating speaker whose myth was beginning to reach my ears, the Teacher capable of passing culture on to generations of students. At home, with me, culture was like an act of terrorism, politics remained anecdotal, never

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becoming dialogue or exchange of ideas. The critical gourmet, who at home imposed monotonous diets and insipid foods. But throughout the novel, food is more than an allusion as Sereni uses it to delve into her personal life as well as the broader social and political life of Italy. To appreciate the role of recipes in this and her other novels and to understand how this connects with the different narrative strategies that she utilizes, one can look at a recipe like Osso di prosciutto con fagioli from the “Second Courses” section of Casalinghitudine. As with all the recipes in this book, following the list of ingredients, instructions or its preparation are given in the first-person singular, with the presence of this “I” becoming crucial in creating an intimacy between narrator and reader as they both become makers of the dish. In the specific case of osso di prosciutto con fagioli, the narrative that follows the recipe concerns the years in which the narrator was involved with cinema: “During ten years of working in cinema I had hidden food as an embarrassment […] the word ‘kitchen’ did not have citizenship.” Even though “Amidei boasted his peasant omelet,” the context did not allow such culinary pleasures and risks. All of a sudden, the narrative shifts with the insertion of Massimo, “I wonder how I knew that it would be okay to prepare a bean dish for Massimo.” There follows the recounting of the dinner that the narrator had at her house on Massimo’s birthday, when she cooked ben tre ossi di prosciutto. At the end of the evening, after everyone had left, Massimo returns: “[The bell ring] was the beginning of a relationship that was not like the others.” This episode demonstrates how Sereni uses food to turn facts from her own life into narrative elements in the novel. In fact, the same episode is recounted in Passami il Sale, although in that novel Massimo’s name is Giovanni while the child is still named Tommaso: “Giovanni’s birthday, and also our anniversary: more than twenty years ago, on a day that is today, all the culinary experience that I had produced a hambone with beans, cooked with even excessive care in my kitchen of single woman, and a bell ring in the middle of the night gave the start to the story that has taken us all the way to here.” To be sure, the recipe now changes: it is not osso di prosciutto con fagioli that the narrator and Tommaso prepare, but instead il risotto ai formaggi. And the preparation of this dish is preceded by the making of pie that recalls the dolce di mele in Casalinghitudine. In Passami il Sale the dolce di mele in prepared earlier than it is in Casalinghitudine, on an evening when the narrator and Giovanni are worried about a letter that they received from the school that Tommaso attends. Unlike in Casalinghitudine, in Passami il Sale, the recipe for the apple pie is inserted into the narrative itself, with the steps for the preparation of the pie alternating throughout the dialogue between mother and son, as they remind each other which ingredient needs to be



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used next or which action needs to be taken once the ingredients have all been mixed together: As soon as we were at home, [Tommaso] wanted to use milk immediately, and it was difficult to convince him to use the right amount: only half a liter, whipped up with two eggs, two spoons of sugar, three spoons of flour, a pinch of salt. I turned a moment, and he had already added all the remainder of the milk, the other half liter. I did not feel like fighting: all I had to do was add two more eggs, two more spoons of sugar, three more spoons of flour, a little salt. This same narrative strategy applies to the preparation of il risotto ai formaggi in Passami il Sale, when they celebrate Giovanni’s birthday and the couple’s anniversary. Once again, the recipe and instructions are inserted into the narrative in a detailed paragraph that describes the dish being made. A less striking instance of the insertion of the recipe into narrative of Passami il Sale is the recipe for pasta lievita, which is also found in the “First Courses” section of Casalinghitudine. In Passami il Sale, the narrator, upon her return to an empty house after a long and useless meeting in the town hall decides to make bread while waiting for the return of Giovanni and Tommaso for dinner. This quick decision is preceded by the narrator’s attempt to protect her privacy before she starts making bread; the two actions are continuous and coherent: No one knows that I am at home, and the answering machine will protect me. The cell phone keeps quiet for once. I take a little cube of brewer’s yeast from the supply I always have in the freezer, I melt it well in a big cup of lukewarm water and then I transfer the liquid in a bowl. I add half a glass of oil, two eggs, two spoons of sugar, a teaspoon of salt, I mix well and then I start adding the flour, all that which the liquid absorbs, until I get a pretty dense, but not hard, compound. I cover the bowl with a clean cloth and I pray that nothing happens, that nothing or no one interrupts the resting and the leavening. The instances discussed thus far are exemplary of Sereni’s use of food to explore family life. However, there are several other instances in which recipes are framed within a specific political context. Take for example the simple dish of salsicce con peperoni in the “Second Courses” section of Casalinghitudine. The few lines of the recipe are followed by a long memory of a concert that the narrator gave in 1973 at “una Festa dell’Unità della provincia” of Reggio Calabria. The narrator’s hesitation to accept the invitation is justified by the fact that “my relationship with the Party, never too easy,

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had progressively rarified. In addition, it seemed to me that the era of songs was over, and that a dialogue with the party of Gramsci-Togliatti-LongoBerlinguer (and my father), was no longer possible.” This list of names reveals the narrator’s discomfort and tension not only with the leaders of the Italian Communist Party from its foundation in 1921 to the time of the episode (1973) and the time of the writing (1987), but also with her own father.10 Suddenly, that simple recipe is framed within a historical context that embraces both family history and one of the most crucial moments in the history of the Italian Left, on the eve of the most heated phase of terrorism in Italy. The narrative alludes to other political issues as well, such as feminism, which was another delicate and thorny question for the Left. In fact, the audience did not welcome the exhibition of a female singer on stage. The narrator first thinks that the protest against the girl singing in the pop music group was the right reaction to this odd presence in such a context, “I thought that such a politicized town was simply refusing the popular music so representative of capitalist society, and I didn’t worry”; however, the narrator is rudely awakened when the mayor of the town does not want to allow the woman to sing at all because “this is the first time that a woman has sung, and the comrades …” The mayor does not even need to finish his sentence because the narrator understands what he means; nevertheless, she sings anyway, presenting “Bandiera Rossa” (C, 94; KH, 92: “(Red Flag)”) as the first song of her repertoire: “Before the song was over the square was already calm; even the young people were singing. For the first time I praised the ‘revolutionary discipline’ against which I had fought so many times. The final applause was solid.” The narrator’s ironic treatment of the audience’s reaction dissolves in the post-performance celebration. The relieved mayor takes her to the town hall and many houses, making it impossible for her to refuse wine and food: “I didn’t know how to shield myself. In the end, I was won over by an elderly woman who presented me with an enormous roll filled with sausages and sweet peppers: an obvious combination I had never thought of, a good antidote to the robust wine.” While eating the enormous sandwich, the narrator has time to observe another example of political resistance of which the old lady offering the sandwich is the tacit protagonist: “She had a sort of Christmas tree next to her window, a green branch holding the pictures of many deceased people: from Togliatti to Anna Frank, to her sons. And at the top of it, like a guiding star, a title in fading red ink from the Party’s paper, l’Unità, saying: ‘The Swindle Law did not pass.’” Thus, the dish of sausages and peppers becomes emblematic of the contradictions that the Left had to face in the 1970s in Southern Italy (and perhaps not only in that part of the country). At the same time, it reaffirms the women’s strength, since the old lady inadvertently passed on to the narrator one of the simplest and most politically charged recipes in Casalinghitudine.



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This recipe also finds its way in Passami il Sale and it is almost paradoxical to note that in this novel the narrative strategy invites the narrator to reverse the space granted to this recipe and the episode surrounding it. In fact, the concert in 1973 is recalled parenthetically “in memory of another life – in Calabria to sing, when I did not need my voice to quarrel about politics,” as the episode follows the rhythm of the actual preparation of the sausages and peppers: “I put the peppers in water, I washed them: […] (I cut the peppers in half in order to take stalks and seeds out […]) [Tommaso] poured the oil in the large pan, he waited for the garlic to start frying lightly, he wanted to put himself the sausages and then the vegetables. He added salt: without exaggerating.” Perhaps it is also significant that this is the episode that ends with Tommaso requesting that his mother write a book. Another simple recipe that demonstrates the association of cooking and politics as well as the different narrative strategies that Sereni employs in Casalinghitudine and Passami il Sale is the recipe for the minestra di zucchine. In Casalinghitudine, it is given at the same moment when readers first encounter the actual title of the novel, which comes when the narrator is focused on her mother-in-law, who cooks a recipe that she has recovered from her own mother. This minestra marks the end of a few pages dedicated to the narrator’s interactions with her mother-in-law, which are described especially in culinary terms. Perhaps it is a significant coincidence that the term casalinghitudine is mentioned for the first time in relation to the mother-in-law: “The ‘home-makerness’ that I kept under control inside of me, relegating it to a circumscribed area of reason, in her becomes bold, aggressive, chaotic, resourceful, pervasive.” While the narrator’s mother died when the narrator herself was still a child and her stepmother was not particularly known for her cooking ability, there are other mothers who are able to conquer this respected role. Besides her mother-in-law, there is Beatrice’s mother: “Her mother adopted me, worrying that I did not eat enough: when I was at their home for dinner she prepared enormous steaks for me, and through Beatrice she sent me Bavarian cream made with a large number of eggs. A common respect for food united the brothers as well, who protected me, indulged me, and in turn became desirable company.” The members of Beatrice’s family, in other words, communicate their affection and love for the narrator through food as well. They also invite the narrator to reconsider some of what she learned through the education she received in her adolescence: “Talking with Beatrice, going over our childhoods, similar in many ways (the terrible books […]), I began to think that a Marxist upbringing does not automatically mean freedom. Or happiness.” This reconsideration, in turn, opens the door to new intellectual curiosity and growth: “Beatrice was my first introduction to psychoanalysis: through her eyes I saw the events of 1968, understanding a few things about it, some important...” In sum, in the reconstruction of the narrative, Beatrice

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and her family allow Sereni to express feelings through food, while opening the narrator to new ways of thinking. There is a circularity that brings food back into the foreground when the friendship between the two women is threatened by the fact that Beatrice “took away a man from me”: Later the next morning Beatrice was at my door with a pot of onion soup and the look of someone who expects to be turned away. I lit the oven, set the table, and we sat. I ate voraciously, warm and solicitous toward her lack of appetite. I had discovered the vindictive fierceness of kindness. These two short paragraphs revolve around a different understanding of affection and goodness that the two women feel for each other through their relation to the zuppa di cipolle, bringing readers back to the recipe that had been given at the beginning of this episode. Sereni’s strategy of connecting food, her personal family story, and Italian politics is also evident in the episode that explores the relationship of the narrator with her mother-in-law, which is framed between the aforementioned minestra di zucchine and minestra di latte. This latter and quite simple dish (only five ingredients accompanied by two lines of description of their preparation) is at the center of one of first episodes in Passami il Sale that relates to a turning point in the narrator’s political adventures. The day that Giannino Campiano, as representative of the Party, went to talk to the narrator “was the right day for me for the milk soup.” Once again, the recipe is inserted directly into the narration, as though the preparation of the dish itself was a dialogue between the narrator and her own son: In the four-hand recipe that by now was habitual, I peeled four big potatoes and Tommaso cut them in little pieces, while the task of peeling and slicing two big onions was left to me: keeping the distances because he did not want to cry. Then, with expertise and pleasure, Tommaso poured a little oil to cover the bottom of a non-stick frying pan, and I always suffered a little to make him bear the waiting time, while the oil warmed up. He threw potatoes and onions to fry gently, and again it was difficult for him waiting that they became brown a little before adding precipitously a liter of milk and two glasses of water. […] Then, with the immersion blender, Tommaso reduced the soup into a cream: good with some parmesan, perfect if accompanied by some spoons of brown rice boiled aside. To be sure, this recipe is much more elaborate than the simple one given in Casalinghitudine: ingredients such as potatoes and onions have been added



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and olive oil seems to have replaced butter. After all, in Passami il Sale, right after announcing the arrival of Giannino Campiano, the narrator adds a significant paragraph about her own way of cooking:11 Much in my kitchen has changed throughout the years, and not only because the art of food is not an exact science, as exposed as it is to the changes of trends, needs, availability of time, raw materials and money. My son is the one who has changed what we eat at home: because cooking together has been one of the few languages that I was able to share with him, and because his ill voracity of some purchases has forced me to invent recipes that, by using them, would give sense to the shopping, and at the same time to the dialogue between us. The narrator has made changes to her cuisine even before the birth of her son. In fact, as the pages of Casalinghitudine confirm, these changes have been caused both by the narrator’s family history and Italian politics. And reflecting on such culinary changes is crucial to understanding how cooking and cuisine are utilized in both novels. To return to Casalinghitudine, in the “Appetizers” section, readers first encounter nonna Alfonsa, who shares one of her precious food rules: “you eat what is put on the table.” And it is her crostini di pane raffermo that the narrator first eats “without butter, because I had acetonemia” and because “in the fifties … store bought cookies were unaffordable.” The narrator then references these crostini using the metaphor of an umbilical cord that links her to both her grandmother and her own son: “When I started to make crostini in my own home, for a while I used fresh bread instead of stale bread, a conscious act of waste in order for me to cut the umbilical cord.”12 But later in the novel, the narrator focuses on her ability to recycle food, which is first appreciated while going out with Massimo: “Around the mid-seventies … Massimo … introduced me to the ‘group.’” This event brings with it “bad wine, stale bread, and carelessly cooked sausage. I began to have my first doubts.” These political doubts are linked to the scarce cooking abilities of the members of the group. Other experiences link food with this group of politically engaged friends, including the Italian Divorce Referendum in 1974, in which “The profound difference between my cooking and their playing with food, or their refusal to accept it as something to be reckoned with, was already a conflict. The pizza mediated […].” In other words, pizza becomes a mediator not only in the culinary sense, but also in the political context of those debates, which become more bearable because of the presence of pizza. The memories in this episode begin with the aforementioned 1974 Referendum over the Divorce Laws, continue to 1975, when “several things had changed,” and end in 1976, with the disillusionment of the

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political elections. This reflects Sereni’s approach throughout the novel, with political references being related to the narrator’s direct memories concerning the years 1968–76, which are recounted using specific recipes (including the aforementioned salsicce con i peperoni and fettuccine di uova or even mixed drinks like gin-fizz. The narrator’s escapades with Massimo and the group of friends alternate with memories of family life marked especially by the overwhelming presence of the father and the necessary absence of the mother, who had died when the narrator was still a little girl. But once again, we see that the few memories that the narrator has of her mother mix the public and the private, particularly in relation to the mother’s political engagement: “According to a solid and established tradition, my mother was a saint, a heroine, a martyr.” And these layers of family history that are evoked by specific dishes are once again intertwined with the politics of those years. This is the case with the stracciatella the narrator begins with a recollection of her mother and her mother’s parents, moving on to narrate the birth of Libera while her father was at the peace conference in Paris, and ending with the recollection of the ritual of “spaghetti Neapolitan style, cold, just the way he liked it” that his wife Loletta used to bring after breastfeeding Libera. This dish comes to the rescue years later, when father and child went to visit the dying wife and mother: on their way home, Libera herself falls sick and in Vienna the father “used all the influence he had on one side and the other, and got what he wanted: a meat broth with Stracciatella and an entire packet of Parmesan cheese to flavor it.”13 It is not by chance that the last episode of the “Sweets” section, titled “Tangerines,” recounts the funeral of the narrator’s father. The title references the “tiny stemmed glasses filled with tangerine juice” that were offered at the end of the dinner after the funeral. But this episode must be read in relation to the last section of the novel, titled “To Save,” and the last recipe in it, that of an amaro.14 If this recipe requires “1 handful of gentian flowers and roots,” it also offers the opportunity to recall what a friend wrote after the death of the narrator’s father: “The Adversary was no longer before me, and now I no longer had roots, at least as far as the official records were concerned.”15 This metaphor of the roots is further elaborated upon as the narrator adds: Then I realized that I could stop killing myself, I could even allow myself to have enough happiness to give to others, to make my own roots. Tommaso was born […] Though I try to dig my roots inside myself […] So the home— habit, solitude, negritude—becomes an absorbent and flamboyant root […] And so my aerial self sinks into the jars, into the liqueurs, into the potted plants on the terrace, into the sweaters and blankets with which I would like to ensnare the world, into the freezer.



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It is at this point that the narrator focuses on a project of reinvention: “Reinventing is the only possible way to escape our boundaries, reinventing so as not to tread over the same ground, reinventing so as not to eat one’s heart out. Everything has already been said, everything has already been written.” While these sentences recall the changes applied to several recipes, implicitly presenting them as reinventions, what follows them is a long quotation from Emilio Sereni’s Note di storia dell’alimentazione nel Mezzogiorno: i Napoletani da “mangiafoglia” a “mangiamaccheroni” in Terra Nuova e Buoi Rossi.16 Referring to Goethe and Leopardi, Emilio Sereni recalls the shift between the early years of the nineteenth century and the years around 1830 from “macaroni flavored only with grated cheese” to “a sauce with tomato.” “To Save,” then, becomes a programmatic section in which preservation must be understood in relation to change and as Sereni makes her final homage to the intellectual figure of her father, she emphasizes that he was both her adversary and, perhaps more importantly, her root. And as she does so, she ends a novel that has used food to delve deeply into both her own personal history and the social and political history of Italy, revealing how all three of them are intimately connected.

Notes 1

Clara Sereni, Sigma Epsilon (Venice: Marsilio Editore, 1974). Clara Sereni, Casalinghitudine (Turin: Giulio Einaudi Editore, 1987; now Milan: Rizzoli, 2007), from which I quote; Keeping House: A Novel in Recipes, Giovanna Miceli-Jeffries and Susan Briziarelli, trans. (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2005). A possible literal translation for the Italian neologism “casalinghitudine” may be “housewifery.” The term “casalinghitudine” occurs three times (Casalinghitudine, 44, 154, 160; Keeping House, 49, 137, 142) in the novel and it is translated in different ways: “The home-makerness” in the first two occurrences, with the phrase of the title of the novel in the third and last occurrence. It is a term that is coined with the conjunction of the terms “casa” (house, home) and “casalinga” (housewife) with the suffix of terms such as “abitudine” (habit) and “solitudine” (solitude, loneliness). The text and the translation of Casalinghitudine will be quoted with the page indication preceded by C and KH.

2

Clara Sereni, Il Gioco dei Regni [The Play of Kingdoms] (Florence: Giunti Editore,1993); Prefazione di Alberto Asor Rosa (Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 2007), from which I quote; Clara Sereni, Passami il Sale, [Pass Me the Salt] (Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 2002); Clara Sereni, Le Merendanze, [Snackers] (Milan: Rizzoli Editore, 2004). The last novel also takes its name from a neologism in Italian, which is explained in one specific chapter of the book (164–6), in which it becomes apparent that the term is a conflation of “Merenda e pranzo come il brunch” (166) (Snack and lunch like the [term] brunch).

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3 In Passami il Sale, there are constant references to food, but also some recipes inserted in the narrative as follows: 19–21: “minestra di latte” (milk soup); 30–1: “lo sformato di melanzane” (eggplant casserole); 45–6: “crema di zucchine” (zucchini soup); 59–61: “pane” (bread); 105–8: apple pie; 118–20: pizza; 146–8: apple pie and “il risotto ai formaggi” (risotto with cheeses); 167–9: roasted potatoes and “fonduta” (melted cheese); 202–7: dishes for Easter; 234: “l’umido alla giudìa” (Jewish-style stew); 253–4: dishes for Christmas. In Le Merendanze, a recipe for “una semplice bistecca alla tartara” (10: a simple steak tartare) is given in the paragraphs that open the narrative, whereas other references abound to food prepared according to recipes that are not necessarily included in the novel. 4

Isabel Allende, Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses, Margaret Sayers, trans. (New York: Harper Collins, 1998); Helen Barolini, Festa: Recipes and Recollections of Italian Holidays (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1988); Laura Esquivel, Like Water for Chocolate, Carol and Thomas Christensen trans. (New York: Doubleday, 1992). For references to these novels in relation to Clara Sereni’s novel, see David Del Principe, “Consuming Women and Animals in Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine,” Italica 76 (2) (Summer 1999): 205–19. Regarding the history of recipe books, see the chapter “Communicating Food: The Recipe Collection,” in Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History, Aine O’Healy (trans.) (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003).

5

The term “dolcezze” in the novel refers to the section “dolci” (sweets as well as desserts) in a menu or recipe book; however, by using that term, which is also an abstract term in its plural form, rather than the more obvious, specific and concrete term that one would expect, Sereni is alluding to the comforting role that often sweets assume. This is just one little instance in which Sereni links food to psychology, which relates to at least a page in Le Merendanze (70): “Sui dolci, Lucilla ha idee assai vaghe: non ne mangia quasi mai, da anni. Per attenzione alla linea, per diffidenza verso le dolcezze.” (On sweets, Lucilla has very vague ideas: she seldom eats any, for years now. In order to pay attention to her shape, because she is suspicious of sweet things.)

6

Tommaso turns out to be a difficult child in the novel. Tommaso is also the name of the child in Passami il Sale, in which we are told (19): “Chi ha cambiato quel che si mangia in casa è mio figlio.” (My son is he who changed what we eat at home.) Sereni herself has a child, Matteo, who has been affected by psychosis from birth, an existential situation that has understandably changed Sereni’s and her family’s life and activity. In 1998, Sereni founded a charity organization by the utopian name of “Città del Sole” (City of the Sun), which focuses on the needs of those who are disabled or severely afflicted in their mental health. In 2004, Sereni’s husband Stefano Rulli, film-director, directed a documentary, Un Silenzio



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Particolare [A Particular Silence], in which both Sereni and her husband participate with their son Matteo, on their mutual life experience. 7

Regarding this aspect, see Giuliana Menozzi, “Food and Subjectivity in Clara Sereni’s Casalinghitudine,” Italica 71 (2) (Summer 1994): 217–27.

8

The grandmother Alfonsa offers the first recipes and narrative episodes in “Stuzzichini,” whereas aunt Ermelinda and the grandfather Lello intervene in the first episodes of the section “Primi piatti.” The two women are practically absent in the rest of the novel except when they return with their recipes in the last section “Conservare.” All these characters play a great role in Il Gioco dei Regni. For the exploration of this topic in this novel, see at least Giovanna Miceli-Jeffries, “Unsigned History: Silent, Micro-‘Technologies of Gender’ in the Narratives of the Quotidian,” in Maria Ornella Marotti and Gabriella Brooke (eds), Gendering Italian Fiction: Feminist Revisions of Italian History (Cranbury, NJ: Associated University Presses, 1999), 71–84.

9

A significant episode in Casalinghitudine that illustrates the narrator’s tension with her father is the episode recounting the preparation of “un impasto per polpette (senza parmigiano altrimenti [mio padre] mi avrebbe detto che sapeva ‘di vacca morta’),” which after cooking the author cuts into slices that “somigliavano ad una galantina, al famoso pollo ripieno di mammà” (72). The same reference occurs in Le Merendanze, but this time there is a transfer of the disgusting image from father to husband (62–3): “[Giulia] Deve preparare la galantina, la carne già macinata non consente attese, c’è il rischio che prenda quell’odore “di vacca morta” che suo marito era sempre pronto a rilevare.” ([Giulia] has to prepare the galantine, the already ground meat does not allow delays, there is the risk that it takes that smell “of dead cow” that her husband was always ready to point out.)

10 Another interesting reference to this tension of the narrator with her father, her step-mother and the Party is the episode recalling the time spent in “La casa di Formia” (C, 110; KH, 103: “the Formia house”), episode that is marked by the “frittata di zucchine” (“zucchini omelet”) from a culinary viewpoint: see also the pages dedicated to the house in Formia and the “frittata di zucchine” in C. Sereni, Il Gioco dei Regni, 357–8, 363–4, 375–6. 11 Considering what the narrator’s dialogue with her son Tommaso through and while cooking, one is reminded of what Massimo Montanari writes in the short section “Divide meat, share soup” in Massimo Montanari, Let the Meatballs Rest: And Other Stories About Food and Culture, Beth Archer Brombert (trans.) (New York: Columbia University Press, 2012), 8–9. 12 Regarding the importance of bread, see Massimo Montanari, The Culture of Food (Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell, 1996), 15–17, 47–51, and 105–7, as well as Montanari, Let the Meatballs Rest, 1–8. 13 Pages of Il Gioco dei Regni are useful for the understanding of this episode. First (335), a document written by the father states that Cirillina, that is, Clara (338), was born just when the association Italia Libera gave a reception in his honor. Then, as the father listens to the radio to find out the news about the resolution of the United Nations on Palestine, we are told that the mother Xenia takes “l’avanzo di spaghetti rimasto dalla cena” (365)

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD (the leftover spaghetti remained from dinner). Finally, having taken his wife Xenia to the Soviet Union in order to cure the cancer just discovered, on the way back to Italy “Durante la sosta a Vienna, per un brodo di carne pieno di parmigiano e di Italia la bimba accettò di mangiare. Furono necessarie altre fiabe ed altri giochi, poi Clara si addormentò: placata, e la febbre cominciò a calare” (373) (During our stop in Vienna, in exchange for a meat broth full of parmesan cheese and Italy the child agreed to eat. More fairytales and more games were necessary, then Clara fell asleep: placated, and the fever started going down).

14 In Le Merendanze, Laura and Giulia order “un punch al mandarino” (42) (tangerine punch). 15 Roots are mentioned in Casalinghitudine already in the episode in which the relation with Massimo’s parents are recounted, especially the rivalry with his mother, which expresses itself also in the elaborate and heavy dishes she prepares in the kitchen, until one day Massimo’s mother “per pranzo riciclò il pane secco nella minstra di sua madre, la minestra povera del paese dove è nata, scoprendo per la prima volta un pezzetto delle radici che aveva fino ad allora ritenuto did over nascondere sotto panna, sottilette, salse, sughi” (46). It is not surprising that references to the roots are present in Il Gioco dei Regni (22, 27, 42, 45, 133, 142, 184, 224, 248, 256, 293, 311, 408, 423); it may not be by chance, though, that a list of dishes for the Seder, the ritual opening Passover, precedes the first reference to that metaphor (22): “Le azzime, le erbe amare, la stracciatella e i carciofi, il vino, il bollito con la salsa verde: i piatti erano quelli della tradizione, […]”. After all, references to the metaphorical family roots come up in the novel unexpectedly: when explaining the recipe for “carnesecca” (153), the female ancestors are recalled: “La carnesecca di nonna Alfonsa era come il vov per zia Ermelinda: il suo pezzo di bravura.” Then, after mentioning that “Mio padre amava talmente quelle fettine rosse e irregolari che non insisté mai molto perché ne mangiassi anch’io,” the comments reflect on the fact that “sono state necesssarie intermediazioni, la morte di mio padre e la nascita di Tommaso così strette tra loro, perché questo cibo kosher entrasse a pieno titolo nella mia casalinghitudine, nel desiderio nostalgic e creative di un mondo in cui, come diceva zia Ermelinda, “ogni cosa ha il suo posto, e ogni posto la sua cosa” (154). Thus, generations are listed in the process of preserving that the recipe in question indicates, as though the recipe itself were the link from one generation to the next. It is significant that the beginning and end of the reflection are organized in the name of the grandmother, as the person from who the narrator received the excellence of the recipe, and the aunt, as the person who ultimately elaborates the proverbial sentence that puts order in the passage of generations. Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari write that “cured meats really guaranteed a continuity of exchange.” Capatti and Montanari, Italian Cuisine, 78. Although the scholar here understands that continuity in spatial terms (exchanges between different places), one may adapt that sentence to what Clara Sereni states in the recipe of the “carnesecca” and apply it indeed to the entire novel, provided that the continuity in question be understood in temporal terms (exchanges between generations). Regarding the image of the roots in the realm of cooking, see the last chapter “Roots: A Metaphor



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to Use All the Way” in Albert Sonnenfeld (trans.), Food Is Culture (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 139–40. 16 Emilio Sereni, Terra Nuova Buoi Rossi e Altri Saggi per una Storia dell’Agricoltura Europea (Turin: Einaudi Editore, 1981).

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5 Inspector Montalbano a tavola: Food in Andrea Camilleri’s police fiction Elgin K. Eckert

I

n Andrea Camilleri’s highly popular series of crime novels featuring inspector Salvo Montalbano, food is one of the recurring elements that readers come to know and depend on. Montalbano and the descriptions of food in the narrative appear to offer representations of Sicilian authenticity: in a setting of ravishingly beautiful landscapes, superlative food is offered in abundance on sun-drenched terraces by good-willed cooks, or made at home with genuine ingredients and lovingly prepared following old and time-proven recipes. Montalbano has by now become almost a brand name: a commercial good, something that can be marketed at home and abroad—and the descriptions of food in Camilleri’s novels play no small role in this. But just as Camilleri’s inspector is a hero only on the surface—the attentive reader will soon discover that the investigator is fallible—the Sicilian author’s use of food only appears to represent an idyllic reality of authentic Sicilian foodways. This chapter will analyze how Camilleri uses food, discussing what his representations signify within the novels and how his food helps represent Sicily to the non-Sicilian reader. In literature, culinary signifiers have a particularly powerful effect, as Gian-Paolo Biasin demonstrates in his ground-breaking book The Flavors of Modernity: Food & the Novel: “when the novel deals with food, a culinary sign, it adds richness to richness, it superimposes its own system of signs and meanings onto the signifying system, variously codified, of cooking.”1 Food in literature serves several functions. Its main purpose is most often a mimetic one.2 As “usually meals are social occasions in extra textual reality

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… novelists … use them, in the possible worlds they create, in a narrative function.”3 As Roland Barthes already noted, the inclusion of apparently extraneous detail serves an important purpose in narrative fiction: it gives the impression that a scene is “real” and enhances the illusion that the world described is fundamentally identical to the real world.4 But food also serves two other important functions: a cognitive and a tropological one. The cognitive function, as Basin argues, is “to stage the search for meaning that is carried out every time one reflects on the relationship among the self, the world, and others” while the tropological use of food can contain within itself an entire discourse that may be moral, ideological, affective, or social: it is the analogic transformation (metaphor), or the displacement by contiguity (metonymy), or the linking by comparison or similitude, or the arbitrary attribution of significance (symbol), whereby a given food is also other than what it is literally, and this other (a rhetorical figure) often contains within itself an entire discourse.5 At first glance, the mimetic aspect seems to dominate in Andrea Camilleri’s Montalbano series: the inspector’s frequent culinary exploits (insisted upon as well in the RAI television adaptation of the series, which also feature clever product placement of typical Sicilian products) are almost an advertisement for Sicily and its cuisine. Werner Wolf defines aesthetic illusion as the “pleasurable experiencing of the illusion of quasi-authenticity conjured up by a work of art, coupled with an underlying awareness that it is not real but simply an illusion.”6 Camilleri uses food in his narrative texts to create the “illusion of experiencing reality”7 especially in his non-Sicilian readers, who through the author’s descriptions of food appear to be partaking in everyday Sicilian life. But upon closer investigation, it becomes clear that Camilleri doesn’t describe the typical eating habits of the average Sicilian—his Montalbano is the exception. Food in the series, as will be seen, is used tropologically as defined by Biasin, where the analogic transformation and arbitrary attribution of significance are significantly more important than the mimetic function. Montalbano’s eating is a well-constructed fiction of the imaginary culinary behavior of a “typical Sicilian” who is “true to his roots”—but as such becomes almost a parody. While Camilleri’s food representations initially seem to reinforce the “real” Sicily and Sicilian, a careful reading of the texts expose them to be idealized constructions. The apparent realistic aspect food lends to the crime novels in itself starts to hold symbolic value and serves to highlight contradictions and tensions in Montalbano’s personality and Sicilian identity.



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Montalbano’s culinary habits For Montalbano, eating is a solemn act of self-expression, which he takes very seriously. He usually forgoes breakfast, preferring to drink several cups of freshly brewed black espresso on his veranda (the number of cups he consumes depends on what has happened the night before and how restorative his sleep has been). Without his morning coffee, he is “un omo perso” (he is a lost man).8 On those rare occasions in which he oversleeps or is sick, his housekeeper Adelina prepares the morning coffee and brings it to him while he is still in bed. The inspector also prides himself in his ability to brew a good cup of coffee, and is known for that among his colleagues. Lunch for the commissario is around 2 p.m., and always eaten at the same restaurant: in the first part of the series at the “Trattoria San Calogero,” in the latter part of the series at “Da Enzo.” It is the most important meal of the day for the inspector: often he eats enough for three people between antipasti of fresh seafood, pasta with seafood sauces, and grilled fresh fish accompanied by mineral water and white Sicilian “Corvo” wine.9 Montalbano doesn’t like to eat in company—when he is eating, he wants to dedicate all of his attention to the task at hand and the experience of the food. He abhors idle talking while eating and prefers to end his meal with the taste of fish still in his mouth, rather than following lunch with the traditional coffee or digestive bitter. After all that food, a long digestive walk on the jetty is usually called for, and the inspector will sit down on his favorite rock to smoke a post-meal cigarette (and at times, enter into semi-philosophical conversations with a crab). The times after a meal also serve for reflections on the case at hand, and it is not uncommon for the detective to reach some important insight during those moments. Only very rarely does Montalbano indulge in sweets, but when he does, he takes a lemon or coffee granita (crushed ice) with a brioche at the Caffè Castiglione in the center of town—and when he has a dinner invitation, he likes to buy freshly made cannoli (Sicilian pastries filled with fresh ricotta) and bring them as after-dinner treat. Dinner again is a mostly solitary affair for Montalbano, but unlike lunch, he does not like eating alone in a restaurant in the evening. So he counts on his housekeeper Adelina, her culinary imagination, and her cooking skills to keep him satisfied for that meal. If he has a dinner date with a beautiful woman, he likes making an impression upon her by taking her to a beautiful seaside restaurant in Fiacca, called “Peppucciu ’u piscatori,” that is famous for its fifteen different types of seafood antipasti (appetizers). After those, even the commissario will forgo the traditional pasta dish and skip directly to the main part of the meal: grilled fish! All accompanied by several bottles of perfectly chilled white wine, and an ideal evening

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is guaranteed. The only problem is that Montalbano regularly forgets how to arrive at that particular restaurant, and more than one woman has to endure adventurous rides over unpaved streets before finally arriving at destination. The metaphorical difficulty of “arriving at perfection” is interspersed with the aesthetic illusion provided by the descriptions of the oftentimes comical scenes. The commissario tends to eat the same things over and over again. His lunch consists of seafood, and for dinner Adelina cooks from her traditional recipes and leaves the meals for him. He only has to heat them up when returning from work in the evening. Otherwise his fridge is stocked only with the essentials: passuluna (black olives), cacciocavallo (a type of stretchedcurd cheese made out of sheep’s or cow’s milk), several bottles of white wine, and fresh bread. Montalbano has numerous favorite dishes, and by now cookbooks in several languages exist, giving instructions and recipes on how to prepare the dishes Camilleri often describes in great detail in his books. Adelina’s arancini, for example, which are described in detail in the short story Gli arancini di Montalbano (Montalbano’s Rice Croquettes) and are based on Camilleri’s grandmother Elvira’s recipe for the Sicilian riceballs, have become internationally famous. Not only has the story been made into an entire episode of the television adaptations of the series, featuring a long scene of the preparation of the dish, but even the Oxford Companion to Italian Food cites it.10 Montalbano’s absolutely favorite dish, however, is pasta ‘ncasciata, a dish “degno dell’Olimpo” (worthy of Olympus).11 Here the poetic description of a dinner enjoyed with his friend Ingrid, featuring that dish: If the pasta ‘ncasciata, when they had finished it off, was greatly missed, the melanzane alla parmigiana, when it reached its end, deserved some sort of long funeral lament. Meeting an honourable death along with the pasta was also a bottle of tender, beguiling white wine, while to the melanzane they sacrificed half a bottle of another white, which under a veneer of utter meekness concealed a treacherous soul.12 Camilleri is both challenging and reinforcing the way Sicilians use food to represent themselves: Montalbano is clearly constructed by his author as an example of what an ideal Sicilian “should” be like. Yet he is not a “stereotypical construct”—although he eats traditional foods and does not challenge the norms in that area, the inspector on the other hand regularly breaks down political boundaries, behaving in ways a traditional servant of the state should not behave.



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Nostalgia Food gives Camilleri the occasion to bring forth aspects of Montalbano’s character that can only be defined as traditionalistic and nostalgic. The inspector’s peculiarities when it comes to food and its consumption are representative of an important conflict: the conflict between Italian tradition and nostalgia for how life “used to be” (in itself naturally a construct) and life in a global, modern society. Francesco Erspamer has noted that especially when it comes to literature Italians are exceedingly “traditionalist” and have a tremendous nostalgia for their past—never “killing their fathers” while going as far as “idolizing their grandfathers.”13 One of the keys to Camilleri’s successes has been combining the Italian need for traditional and nostalgic elements with a highly modern (not to say postmodern) style of narrative. Food is one of the ways in which Montalbano the character reassures his readers: he is deeply traditionalist, and quite suspicious of anything new and unknown. This comes forth in his preference for regional dishes as well as in his choice of restaurants: he is wary to try new places, and once he is satisfied with one establishment, he will return there again and again, just as he prefers to eat the same dishes over and over. When food is present, the absence of both the cook and the lover add to Montalbano’s pleasures. Camilleri purposely paints this picture of a solitary eater—but this image defies the way food is thought of in the traditional (stereotypical) Sicilian contexts: boisterous, numerous get-togethers around long tables. Even when the television series presents such scenes (as in the aforementioned episode Gli arancini di Montalbano), the main protagonist is seen standing by himself, trying to eat alone and staying away from the traditional gathering of dinner guests. This is an important example of Camilleri playing with the apparent mimetic function of food: Montalbano is only superficially a “typical Sicilian eater.” Despite his predilection of regional dishes, the character rejects other traditionalistic aspects related to food. Food, in this case, becomes a signifier of his uniqueness: although the inspector is rooted in tradition and loyal to the state, he is nevertheless willing to step away from procedure and ignore the written law when in his opinion Justice (with a capital J) is not served by a strict adherence to the codex. In the series, the inspector is contrasted in culinary questions (as in so many other things) by his deputy police inspector, Mimì Augello. Montalbano is a refined eater who pays a lot of attention to the quality of the food he eats. Mimì is the exact opposite—he is somebody who enjoys without pretense. One example of the true “atrociousness” of Mimì’s culinary habits occurs in Il ladro di merendine when Augello covers his mussels with grated parmesan cheese—something Montalbano considers close to blasphemy: “Even a

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hyena, which, being a hyena, feeds on carrion, would have been sickened to see a dish of pasta with clam sauce covered with Parmesan!” the disgusted inspector exclaims.14 The deputy’s way of drinking coffee isn’t any better: “Mimì filled his cup halfway with sugar. The inspector felt like throwing up. The guy didn’t drink coffee; he turned it into jam and ate it,” Montalbano recalls at another point.15 Augello, as “man of the times,” frequents fashionable restaurants, which Montalbano tends to avoid, as they have the propensity to be too loud for the passionate solitary diner. Invited by his deputy to a place called “Central Park” one New Year’s Eve, Montalbano shows his typical distrust of Mimì’s culinary suggestions, remarking overly dramatically that the place is “a huge restaurant in the vicinity of Fela, ridiculous because of its name and its interior design, where once they managed to poison him with a simple cutlet and some boiled vegetables.”16 In matters of taste, Montalbano and Augello only share their love for whiskey (although Montalbano manages to drink it by the bottle without apparent ill effects, while Mimì does not hold his alcohol as well). It comes as no surprise that Augello’s attitude to food is the symbolic contrast to Montalbano’s: where Montalbano is traditionalistic in his private affairs, the unapologetic womanizer Augello is haphazard in his personal life. And Augello, concerned about trends and fashionable restaurants, also cares about career advancement and how his superiors at the Ministry judge him, while the solitary (eater) Montalbano is content with his station in life and does not seek to please those of a higher rank. Camilleri uses food as a chance to provide opposite paradigms of society within the pages of his books. But by insisting on and almost parodying Montalbano’s attachment to food and his culinary habits, Camilleri makes an implicit comment about those elements of Italian society that are exceedingly traditionalistic and nostalgic—those who are literally stuck in the past and are unable to move ahead. Montalbano in that respect cannot be considered an ideal representative of Sicilian society. The model provided by Mimì, on the other hand, is not the ideal model either: his unconscious eating behavior, where taste and traditions don’t matter at all as well as his nonchalance concerning the physical environment where food is consumed also are far from perfect.

Food, women and Eros In literature, food representations communicate ideologies of gender.17 These include familiar and contradictory models of femininity that satiate male hunger but also the power of women to seduce men by providing food. Food in Camilleri becomes the symbol of the inspector’s solitary character,



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dedicated to his work and justice and almost unable to be “seduced away.” This is why it is precisely food where Camilleri decides to make the two most important women in Montalbano’s life differ radically: Adelina, his housekeeper, prepares dinner for the detective, which she leaves for him in the oven or in the refrigerator. Montalbano “finds” the food, a gift that has been prepared for him (a surprise every day), which he will blissfully eat alone. The inspector arrives at home, sets the table on his veranda overlooking the sea and looks forward to his evening meal. Camilleri often offers hyperbolic descriptions of what awaits the by now hungry commissario: “He opened the fridge and let out a whinny of sheer delight. His housekeeper, Adelina, had made him two imperial mackerels in onion sauce, a dinner he would obviously spend the whole night wrestling with, but it was worth the trouble.”18 Livia, Montalbano’s longtime and long-distance girlfriend, is a miserable cook and more often than not her presence interferes in the inspector’s pursuit of decent sustenance by her threatening to cook herself or insisting on some other compromise, such as a picnic (which the inspector hates) or an outing to an unknown restaurant. Livia’s continuous obstruction of Montalbano’s need-fulfillment, which Camilleri highlights, is rather ironic. Her absence deprives him of the human contact he longs for on a certain level, but when she is present, she deprives him both of a source of decent food (housekeeper Adelina will not enter the inspector’s house while Livia is present), and of the pleasure of eating in silence or in the places he prefers. The maternal housekeeper feeds Montalbano literally and also metaphorically: she also “feeds” his work, allowing him to concentrate and dedicate himself to a case. Livia, on the other hand, “starves” Montalbano. She cannot cook and obstructs the concentration on his work when she is present. It is no wonder that the several women who begin to enter Montalbano’s life once his relationship with Livia starts to fall apart, do so by offering something in addition to, and not instead of, food. The detective’s first date with Arianna, the woman he will finally betray Livia with, is a dinner enjoyed in harmonious silence once the food arrives: “They didn’t speak again until they were finished. Every now and then they looked at each other and smiled.”19 Many years and books later, in Il sorriso di Angelica, the main protagonist of that book, Angelica, too, is more than happy to enjoy a meal together in silence.20 In Il campo di vasoio, the female character Angela has been set up to seduce the inspector—and she has been prepared on his peculiar culinary habits.21 Before he can even say anything, she confesses to him her “need” to eat in silence, and asks for his “understanding”—that plus the fact that she orders the exact same foods he does, leaves the by now elderly Montalbano completely smitten. This episode is interesting for many reasons, above all because it shows how Angela uses a ploy involving a highly private act— the consumption of food—to succeed in her ruse. Food is the key to make

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her fictional representation of an enamored woman appear authentic and seduces the otherwise weary detective to let down his guard (for at least a moment), before he becomes suspicious of her behavior again. In Il gioco degli specchi, Adelina invites the inspector to her house for her freshly made arancini. Montalbano, though, has a date with a certain Liliana he doesn’t want to forgo.22 But instead of denying himself the pleasure of Adelina’s arancini, he decides to take the woman with him. Liliana, who is an entirely secondary character, serves to underline one of historical girlfriend Livia’s major failings: she is at ease in the presence of Adelina and eats almost as many of the enormous rice balls as the inspector. But unfortunately Montalbano soon realizes that Lilliana’s representation of a woman who might provide physical satisfaction both on a sexual and a culinary level is only an illusion, like so many other things in that book. It becomes clear that Liliana (like Angela before her) is trying to seduce him because somebody is telling her to do so—and food is one component of her strategy. Only L’età del dubbio’s Laura, who Montalbano falls deeply in love with, is treated differently.23 Food moves into the background when Montalbano is with her. Laura and the inspector talk throughout their first and only shared meal: their intense attraction to one another takes precedence over culinary pleasure. They will try to eat together on other occasions, but for a number of reasons never manage to do so before she is killed.

Food, life and death Food is an affirmation of life, as is eros, sexual gratification. As has been shown, Montalbano has to make a choice between the two in order to remain true to himself and to his job. Camilleri therefore uses food to represent the life-affirming quality of his Sicilian detective, who is faced with death on a daily basis. Good food, in that way, becomes a symbol and a representation of one aspect in life that has the power to save Montalbano, even when the world around him appears to fall to pieces. Good food helps to right a wrong. It helps the inspector get over a disappointment at work or a quarrel with his girlfriend Livia—or a combination of both, as in the following case, in which Livia gives her boyfriend the cold shoulder at the same time as the police commissioner suspends Montalbano from the case he has been working on. Montalbano goes to his favorite restaurant, Enzo’s, and finds more than just compensation for his toils: Montalbano disgracefully took advantage of the free time and the fact that Livia was incommunicado. “Welcome back, Inspector! You picked



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the right day to come!” said Enzo. As an exceptional treat, Enzo had made couscous with eight different kinds of fish, but only for his favourite customers. These, of course, included the inspector, who, the moment he saw the dish in front of him and inhaled its aroma, was overcome with emotion.24 Food also reinforces a success and other joyful occasion. When Montalbano hears that an appointment with the police commissioner has been cancelled, for example, “his lungs filled with air and he felt suddenly ravenous. Enzo’s trattoria was the only solution.”25 Years before, when hearing the rumor that this very same commissioner would get promoted and transferred, he already celebrated in his own special way, back then “at the Trattoria San Calogero with a giant plate of grilled fish.”26 The rumor turned out to be untrue, however, and cooking genius Calogero went into retirement, to be replaced by Enzo in the succeeding novels. Montalbano describes food as “the accelerator of my brain’s functioning system.”27 While everything else falls by the wayside when the inspector is investigating a case—phone calls to or visits with his girlfriend Livia included—it is notable that he never skips a meal. Food is Montalbano’s source of brainpower when he is faced with the difficulties of an investigation. And when something inevitable makes him delay his lunch, he gets rather irritated. Montalbano will forgo anything for food. Albeit Montalbano continues to eat while investigating a case, his hunger changes as the series proceeds. In the early novels food can plainly be seen as a reaffirmation of life and a clear parallel food-death can be distinguished where food often completely replaces physical gratification as antonym of death. A careful look at Camilleri’s use of Montalbano’s food consumption and the protagonist’s comments on food show, however, that in more recent novels the inspector undergoes significant change in his relationship to food, which is paralleled by other changes in his behavior such as his increasing concern with old age, his more frequent betrayals of his longtime and longdistance girlfriend Livia, and certain self-harm he causes himself through his own theatrics.28 Already in one of the early novels, La gita a Tindari Montalbano has a violent physical reaction upon learning the true calamity of a crime. After finding out that a respectable doctor he has been investigating is involved in an organ transplant smuggling operation, where “less valuable” human beings are killed to supply organs for those who can afford to buy them, he vomits so violently, it appears to him that he is emptying his guts not only of food, but also of bitterness and hate. It isn’t until ten years later, in Le ali della sfinge, though, that Camilleri (through his mouthpiece Montalbano) makes a decisive statement about the impossibility of combining food and death. Montalbano

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asks the restaurant owner Enzo to shut off the television, because he cannot to eat while the TV broadcasts certain images: How quickly people had become cannibals! Ever since television had entered the home, everyone had grown accustomed to eating bread and corpses. From noon to one o’clock, and from seven to eight thirty in the evening—that is, when people were at table—there wasn’t a single television station that wasn’t broadcasting images of bodies torn apart, mangled, burnt, or tortured, men, women, old people and little children, imaginatively and ingeniously slaughtered in one part of the world or another.29 As always, Camilleri writes in his own Sicilian dialect when dealing with an emotional topic. And as happens frequently, it is not possible to distinguish the voice of the narrator from that of his protagonist: what could be an emotional outpour on Montalbano’s part could just as easily be a comment inserted by his author in the course of the novel. Camilleri makes an important statement with his description of Montalbano’s alimentary habits. The inspector represents an ideal that few people (as comes forth in the citation above) still manage to follow. Montalbano is somebody who does everything intensely. He is somebody who concentrates on the task at hand, whether it is pleasurable or not, and dedicates his full attention to it. Food symbolizes life, and while it can contrast death, it should not casually be combined with it. Montalbano is somebody very respectful of death, as can be seen on many occasions, and feels that the notice of death on TV deserves the respect, silence and concentration, which somebody engaged in other activities cannot give. While nothing could perturb the appetite of the younger Montalbano, as he gets older, even insignificant episodes have an effect on him. Although it is not surprising that he becomes nauseous after hearing that a young woman was not only murdered and thrown into the communal trash dump, but also shows signs of bite wounds, he is affected increasingly by other situations as well. A fight with Livia, for example, or a break-in at his house—both situations that years ago would have fueled his need to eat—now cause him to lose his desire for food and reach for a bottle of whiskey and a cigarette instead. It becomes clear that as time goes on, Montalbano starts to feel the need to evade rather than face the “real” and this change in him includes a refusal of food, which has always symbolized his life-affirming attitude. Camilleri represents degradation of society using Montalbano’s refusal of life affirming food as a marker.



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Montalbano loses his appetite In the three novels Il gioco degli specchi, Il sorriso di Angelica, and La caccia al tesoro, Montalbano is up against outside forces that manage to move his investigations into directions he does not want to take. In every instance, he loses his appetite.30 When he is not in control of the investigation, he refuses to nourish himself. And when in Il sorriso di Angelica he finally finds out the bare facts behind the facade that was put up to deceive him and he has to face a difficult decision—which includes arresting the woman he has fallen in love with—Montalbano forgoes lunch rather than strengthen himself for the task. To make the difference between this new Montalbano and the old one even more apparent, Camilleri in that book has the detective take his long walk on the usual jetty, after forsaking lunch—this time not for digestive reasons, but out of depression.31 La caccia al tesoro is an interesting novel for many reasons, including because it shows Montalbano for the first time seriously struggling with food issues. Food in this novel switches from being a life-affirming element to being potentially destructive, which in itself is already a clue that this novel is somewhat different than the others in the series. While in the previous novels the instances of vomiting, nausea and non-appetite have been increasing, they were still counterbalanced with the usual episodes of Montalbano eating appetizing meals in peaceful silence. In the surreal novel La caccia al tesoro, however, the inspector goes between fasting and gorging himself as he tries to figure out the riddles he is being sent anonymously, and which disquiet him more than they should. Even others, such as the restaurant owner, notice the changes. “Today you didn’t make me happy,” the disappointed Enzo complains after the commissario eats his lunch particularly listlessly.32 At another point, Montalbano overeats so completely, that for the first time in his life he is ashamed of himself because of his alimentary excesses. He reflects at length about this feeling of shame, and during his walk on the jetty, his long interior debate is on whether it is right or not to stuff himself with food, while somebody who counts on him to save her is in danger.33 At the end of the book, after observing the autopsy of the young woman, who has fallen victim to a horrific crime—and which for the first time in the entire series makes even the usually cold and distant forensic scientist Doctor Pasquano, who in the past has been seen toasting his one thousandth autopsy with champagne in front of that cadaver,34 vomit— Montalbano has an unusual reaction: at three o’clock in the morning, he has a binge-eating attack, eating everything he can find in his apartment, including eight enormous arancini and an entire bowl full of pasta.35 This time, Montalbano’s refuge isn’t evading reality by means of psychoactive

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substances, but mocking reality by overindulging in too much of it: binge eating again, after his previous binge-eating attack has caused him to feel guilty about neglecting his job and protecting the young woman, who now has fallen victim to her attacker. Upon finishing his meal, the inspector starts to sing and calls Livia to announce his imminent visit in Boccadasse, Genoa, where she lives (which is entirely unusual for him). This novel stands out in the Montalbano series for its grotesque detail and unreal, oneiric feel—it begins with a dream, and the reader can never be quite sure whether the narration is that of a nightmare or whether it is “real.” The final scene is an example of food not reaffirming death (after episodes of starving, gorging, guilt and new denial of food), but mirroring decay, and it fits perfectly within the bizarre framework of the novel.

Conclusions Food, or the “culinary sign,” is to be read first of all in its own mimetic value as a prime example of aesthetic illusion. And Camilleri certainly does use scenes centered on food consumption in order to construct an image of Sicily for the non-Sicilian reader. His minute descriptions of the food Montalbano consumes are enough to be read in their own right as accurate representations of traditional Sicilian cuisine—so much so that entire cookbooks and many websites as well as culinary tours now cater to readers intrigued by Camilleri’s recipes.36 But food is not just filling in the gaps or providing the casual backdrop of a realistic mimetic representation in the police series. Scenes centered on food in Camilleri’s narrative also do not simply follow in the tradition of classic mystery novels, in which the sleuth is often a voracious consumer of food, or even an expert gourmet cook (such as Manuel Vázquez Montalbán’s Pepe Carvalho, to cite only his namesake). Although the primary way in which food is used in Camilleri appears to be to enhance the aesthetic illusion of reality, as has been shown food is also an important narratological signifier that serves key symbolical and communicative function. The inspector uses food to come to terms with situations of death he encounters in his investigations and serves as an affirmation of life. Scenes focusing on food are interspersed at regular intervals throughout the series to highlight the traditionalistic, nostalgic characteristics of the inspector: through his refusal of non-traditional foodways and popular, trendy restaurants, he makes implicit statements about a postmodern, consumer-driven society. Montalbano’s consumption of food and food’s symbolic value changes over the course of Camilleri’s police series. At a certain point food is no longer enough to counterbalance the death and destruction Montalbano witnesses



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around him, and Camilleri has quite purposely changed Montalbano’s use of and reaction to food (symbol of life) in order to show an increased sensibility within the inspector’s character. A careful reading of the food texts and contexts in the Montalbano novels reveals that Camilleri uses food on many more levels than simply to give a touch of regional flavor to his series. Food is used as one of the ways in which the character of Montalbano differentiates himself from others, and also from his author: he is a traditionalistic, nostalgic eater who rejects the “new,” the “trendy” and all innovations especially if done for their own sake. He is the perfect anti-postmodern hero. Camilleri, though, didn’t shape Montalbano as his copy: he himself (although a generation older than his fictional character), is a post-postmodern writer, open to all kinds of innovations. And the moments in which Montalbano becomes almost a parody—such as in his quest for the perfect food experience—bring forth exactly this aspect. On a literary-narratological level though, the changes Montalbano undergoes in his eating habits and styles are highly interesting. The way Montalbano eats reveals much about the case at hand. Already in one of his early cases (La gita a Tindari) Montalbano vomited when discovering the true evils behind the crime: an international operation of human organ smugglers. In that case, the inspector was able to arrest the local culprit, but knew that he was unable to stop the operation at large. This pattern was to repeat itself in the future: when Montalbano is unable to stop a larger organization, his rapport with food changes drastically. While he is able to eat and nourish himself, enjoying his food (and reaffirming the “life fiction”), when chasing “regular,” small-time crooks, he cannot hold on to this illusion when unable to do anything in the face of global corruption. In those cases, his appetite vanishes and he is even seen vomiting. A careful reading of the food texts and contexts in the novels reveals that when Montalbano as a single police officer finds that he is unable to stop the ill in a world that seems to have gone wrong, he cannot eat beautiful, well-prepared meals on sun-drenched terraces in his beloved Sicily. Tracing Montalbano’s changing relationship with food, in both its thematic and symbolical function over the course of the series, it is possible to see how Camilleri’s attitude toward certain crimes and political situations changes over the years.

Notes 1

Gian-Paolo Biasin, The Flavors of Modernity: Food and the Novel (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999), 3.

2 Ibid. 3

Ibid., 13.

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4

REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD Roland Barthes, “L’Effet De Réel,” Communications Comm 11 (1) (1968): 84–9.

5 Biasin, The Flavors of Modernity, 16–17. 6

Werner Wolf, Ästhetische Illusion Und Illusionsdurchbrechung in Der Erzählkunst: Theorie Und Geschichte Mit Schwerpunkt Auf Englischem Illusionsstörenden Erzählen (Tübingen: Max Niemeyer Verlag, 1993), 31.

7

Ibid., xi.

8

Andrea Camilleri, “Il compagno di viaggio,” in Un Mese Con Montalbano (Milano: Mondadori, 1998). All translations, unless otherwise noted, are by Elgin K. Eckert.

9

Corvo wine is the product placed in the RAI television adaptation of the series. In his novels, Camilleri does not disclose which specific brand the Inspector favors. Corvo wine is mentioned once, however, in the novel Il ladro di merendine: an old man accidentally breaks a bottle of wine and Montalbano buys the wine—“una bottiglia di Corvo bianco” (a bottle of Corvo white) —for him so he will not get into trouble with his wife. Andrea Camilleri, Il Ladro Di Merendine (Palermo: Sellerio, 1996), 30. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Snack Thief, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Viking, 2003).

10 Gilian Riley, ed., The Oxford Companion to Italian Food (London: Oxford University Press, 2007), 23. 11 Andrea Camilleri, Il Cane Di Terracotta (Palermo: Sellerio, 1996), 120. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Terra-Cotta Dog, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Viking, 2002). 12 Se la pasta ‘ncasciata, quanno scomparse, fu rimpianta assà, le milanzane alla parmigiana si meritarono, arrivate al termine, ‘na specie di lungo lamento funebre. Colla pasta, trovò onorevole morte macari una buttiglia di un bianco tenero e ‘ngannevoli, con le milanzane si sacrificò invece ‘na mezza buttiglia di un altro bianco che, sutta ‘n’ apparenza di mitezza, ammucciava un animo tradimentoso. Andrea Camilleri, Le ali della sfinge (Palermo: Sellerio, 2006), 85. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Wings of the Sphinx, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2010). 13 Francesco Erspamer, La creazione del passato (Palermo: Sellerio, 2009). 14 Persino un jena ch’è una jena e si nutre di carogne avrebbe dato di stomaco all’idea di un piatto di pasta alle vongole col parmigiano sopra! Camilleri, Il ladro di merendine, 33. 15 Augello riempì a metà la tazza di zucchero e al commissario venne un conato di vomito, quello non beveva cafè, se lo mangiava a marmellata. Andrea Camilleri, L’odore della notte (Palermo: Sellerio, 2001), 120. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Smell of the Night, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2005). 16 un ristorante immenso dalle parti di Fela, ridicolo per il nome e per l’arredamento, dove erano stati capaci di avvelenarlo con una semplicissima cotoletta e tanticchia di verdura bollita. Andrea Camilleri, “Gli arancini di Montalbano” in Gli arancini di Montalbano (Milano: Mondadori, 1999), 495.



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17 Carole Counihan and Steven L. Kaplan, Food And Gender: Identity and Power (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1998). Carole Counihan, Around the Tuscan Table: Food, Family, and Gender in Twentieth Century Florence (New York: Routledge, 2004). Deborah Lupton, Food, the Body, and the Self (London: Sage, 1996). Fabio Parasecoli. “Feeding Hard Bodies: Food and Masculinities in Men’s Fitness Magazines,” in Food and Foodways 13 (1–2) (2005): 17–37. 18 Raprì il frigo e fece un nitrito di pura felicità. La cammarera Adelina gli aveva fatto trovare due sauri imperiali con la cipollata, cena con la quale avrebbe certamente passato la nottata intera a discuterci, ma ne valeva la pena. Andrea Camilleri, La gita a Tindari (Palermo: Sellerio, 2000), 126. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, Excursion to Tindari, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2005). 19 Non parlarono fino a quanno non finero. Ogni tanto si taliavano e si sorridivano. Andrea Camilleri, La vampa d’agosto (Palermo: Sellerio, 2006), 187. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, August Heat, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2010). 20 Andrea Camilleri, Il sorriso di Angelica (Palermo: Sellerio, 2010). Translation: Andrea Camilleri, Angelica’s Smile, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2014). 21 Andrea Camilleri, Il campo del vasaio (Palermo: Sellerio, 2008). Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Potter’s Field, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2011). 22 Andrea Camilleri, Il gioco degli specchi (Palermo: Sellerio, 2011). Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Game of Mirrors, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2015). 23 Andrea Camilleri, L’età del dubbio (Palermo: Sellerio, 2008). Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Age of Doubt, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2012). 24 Montalbano approfittò indegnamente della libera uscita e del fatto che Livia era introvabile. “Bentornato, dottore! Capita propio il giorno giusto!” fece Enzo. Eccezionalmente, Enzo aviva priparato il cuscusu con otto tipi di pisci, ma solo per i clienti che gli facevano sangue. Tra questi c’era naturalmente il commissario che appena si vitti il piatto davanti, e ne sintì il sciauro, ebbe una botta di commozione irrefrenabile. Andrea Camilleri, La pazienza del ragno (Palermo: Sellerio, 2008), 50. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Patience of the Spider, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2007). 25 i purmuna gli si slargarono e gli smorcò un potenti pititto al quale potiva far fronte solo Enzo, il trattore. Ibid., 21. 26 alla trattoria San Calogero con una gigantesca grigliata di pisci. Andrea Camilleri, “Sette lunedì” in La prima indagine di Montalbano (Milan: Mondadori, 2004), 45. This episode occurs many years earlier, before Calogero, the genius cook of the early Montalbano novels, goes into retirement and is replaced by Enzo. 27 acceleratore delle funzioni del mio ciriveddro. Andrea Camilleri, La caccia

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD al tesoro (Palermo: Sellerio, 2010), 215. Translation: Andrea Camilleri, The Treasure Hunt, Stephen Sartarelli (trans.) (New York: Penguin Books, 2013).

28 For more on these issues, see Elgin K. Eckert, “Montalbano ‘u tragediaturi’: teatro e teatricità nella serie giallistica di Andrea Camilleri.” L’Anello che non tiene: Journal of Modern Italian Literature 24 (2012): 38–52. 29 Come aviva fatto presto la gente ad addivintari cannibale! Da quanno nelle case era trasuta la televisione, tutti si erano abituati a mangiare pane e cataferi. Da mezzojorno all’una e dalle setti alle otto e mezza di sira, vale a diri mentre si stava a tavola, non c’era televisione che non trasmittiva immagini di corpi fatti a pezzi, sconciati, abbrusciati, martoriati di omini, fìmmine, vecchi, picciliddri fantasiosamente e ingegnosamente ammazzati in qualiche parte del munno. Camilleri, Le ali della sfinge, 50. 30 Camilleri, Il gioco degli specchi, 209. Camilleri, Il sorriso di Angelica, 187. Camilleri, La caccia al tesoro, 81. 31 Camilleri, Il sorriso di Angelica, 252. 32 Oggi non m’ha dato soddisfazione. Camilleri, La caccia al tesoro, 50. 33 Ibid., 215–16. 34 Ibid., 197. 35 Camilleri, La caccia al tesoro, 50. 36 Martina Meuth, Bernd Neuner-Duttenhofer, and Andrea Camilleri, Andrea Camilleris Sizilianische Küche Die Kulinarischen Leidenschaften Des Commissario Montalbano (Cologne: Lübbe, 2012). For websites, cf. Google keywords “montalbano food tour” and “montalbano recipes.”

6 There’s a mobster in the kitchen: Cooking, eating, and complications of gender in The Godfather and Goodfellas Peter Naccarato

P

erhaps one of the most iconic cinematic representations of masculinity writ large is the mobster character. From Little Caesar (1931) and The Public Enemy (1931) to The Godfather (1972) and Goodfellas (1990), the mobster character has blended crime and violence with loyalty and charisma to create characters that exude a particular brand of masculine power and authority. While such characterizations may be exaggerated, they nonetheless both rely upon and reinforce codes of normative gender behavior in both Italian and American culture. These films do more than merely reflect the gendered divisions of labor, power, authority, and space of the broader society in which they are produced and circulated; instead, they function to legitimatize them through their cinematic representations. Thus, rather than reading these fictional narratives as grounded in biological truths about masculinity and femininity, we must recognize the role of these representations in producing and reinforcing the images of Italy and the United States that emerge from them. In other words, rather than passively reflecting pre-existing normative gender identities within Italian and American culture, these films—like so many other forms of popular culture—utilize fiction to produce, sustain and challenge ideological “truths” about gender and identity.1 On first consideration, one might assume that the traditional mobster movie does little to challenge normative codes of gender. From their hypermasculine gangsters to female characters who range from helpless, fully

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domesticated, or completely invisible, these films seem to do little to contest traditional assumptions about the “proper” roles for men and women in Italian and American culture. However, I argue that upon closer examination, two “classic” mobster movies, Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather and Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas offer very complex depictions of masculinity that expose the fictive nature of gender while simultaneously reinforcing the expectation that men and women ultimately conform to culturally and ideologically determined codes of masculinity and femininity. While there are many contexts in which gender roles are explored in these films, I focus particularly on how scenes that revolve around specific food practices contribute to an exploration of gender within Italian and American culture. As Carol Helstosky notes, “Today, the close relationship between Italian food and Italian identity seems an unremarkable fact.”2 However, interrogating this relationship is essential for understanding how food and food practices—both as lived experiences in the lives of Italians and as symbolic representations across popular culture—function to naturalize culturally constructed values and ideologies. Specifically, I argue that while representations of food and foodways in Coppola and Scorsese’s films often serve to reinforce normative codes of gender, they may also serve to undermine them and the images of Italy and America that emerge from them.3

The gendering of food production and consumption Both Italy and the United States in the post-World War II period have experienced significant changes in how food is procured, prepared, and consumed; nonetheless, gendered assumptions about this work remain deeply imbedded in both societies. According to Johanna Mäkelä, “the division of labor has changed over the past few decades … however, a study by Susan Grieshaber (1997) shows that girls are still socialized in preparing, serving, and clearing up after meals at an early age, whereas such skills are not required from boys.”4 These dynamics have a broader role in establishing and maintaining an array of cultural values and ideologies. As Pierre Bourdieu emphasizes, a society’s eating habits and practices help to shape its broader economic and social landscape. Specifically, how a society eats is “associated with a whole conception of the domestic economy and of the division of labour between the sexes.”5 Carole Counihan and Steven Kaplan make a similar point, explaining that “the power relations around food mirror the power of the sexes in general.”6 Specifically, they argue that “gender is constructed through men’s and



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women’s roles in the production, distribution and symbolism of food.”7 While they acknowledge that for women to have primary responsibility for feeding the family can be read as “a potential source of influence on husbands and children through the ability to give them a valued substance—food,” at the same time, it is more typically linked with “female subordination through women’s need to serve, satisfy, and defer to others, particularly husbands and boyfriends.”8 Of course, such assumptions about this rigid separation between men and women’s roles fail to take into account the range of lived experiences that reveal a much more complex negotiation of these gender boundaries. Nonetheless, there is a normative framework against which individual men and women have been—and to a large extent continue to be—judged. While Joan Newlon Radner acknowledges that “a man can, of course, do certain kinds of ‘domestic’ work, like cooking or weaving,” she emphasizes that it is most culturally acceptable when “he does it outside the home.”9 This separation between domestic work performed in private and professional work done in public is important in establishing the relative social and economic value of each type of work. Specifically, the presumed invisibility of domestic work contributes to its devaluation.10 However, the boundary between the private, domestic, feminized space of the kitchen is not completely off limits to men. But even as Jessamyn Neuhaus acknowledges significant changes in rigid gender-based assumptions and stereotypes around the production and consumption of food, she concludes that cooking continues to be perceived as women’s work, quoting a columnist who makes this point in blatantly sexist and homophobic terms: Columnist Steven Bauer asserts that even though more American men cook, we still “think of the kitchen as a woman’s space, one that’s too risky for people of the male persuasion, even those who don’t flinch at bungee jumping, hang gliding or facing a frothy set of class VI rapids.” As Bauer explains, the risk of course, is perceived feminization: “What can be worse for a boy than to be ‘tied to mommy’s apron strings’? The message is clear: overexposure to pots and pans can seriously affect a man’s ability to make his way in the world.”11 While such sentiments are deeply problematic, they nonetheless reflect familiar attitudes about normative gender and sexuality. Consequently, men’s participation in the production of food must be negotiated in ways that protect their gender identity. In his essay, “Making Pancakes on Sunday: The Male Cook in Family Tradition,” Thomas Adler explores how such negotiations are made to accommodate the would-be male cook. While the professional­ ization of cooking within the public sphere allows for the celebration of the

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male chef as opposed to the female home cook, in the private sphere, men’s cooking must be characterized as special in other ways. As Adler explains, “Dad’s cooking exists in evident contradistinction to Mom’s on every level: his is festal, hers ferial; his is socially and gastronomically experimental, hers mundane; his is dish-specific and temporally marked, hers diversified and quotidian; his is play, hers is work.”12 Thus, when men produce food, it is a “special occasion” that stands in stark opposition to the day-to-day work performed by women. Rather than being identified with women’s work when they shift from consuming to preparing food, men are invited to differentiate their culinary forays from the day-to-day work performed by their female counterparts by characterizing is as special and therefore different from women’s daily domestic work.

Mobsters in the kitchen In his book An Offer We Can’t Refuse: The Mafia in the Mind of America, George DeStefano analyzes representations of the mafia across the American cultural landscape. In his chapter on sex and gender in the mythology of the mafia, DeStefano remarks: “Every mafia movie fan knows that food, its preparation and consumption in massive quantities, is a convention of the genre, from The Godfather to Goodfellas to The Sopranos.”13 This should not be surprising given the significance of food in Italian and American culture. However, more than serving merely as a prop or a backdrop in these films, food and foodways play an important role in reinforcing characterizations and themes that are central to them. This is particularly true as these films utilize normative codes of gender to situate characters along a traditional spectrum of masculinity and femininity. But rather than assuming that these films adhere exclusively to a model in which male characters rest securely at the masculine end of this spectrum while their female counterparts remain isolated and disempowered in their femininity, we must take into account ways in which these films complicate such assumptions and offer a much more ambiguous depiction of gendered identities. In doing so, they reveal how representations of food and food practices in Italian and American culture can be read as naturalizing a set of assumptions about gender and identity that are, in fact, culturally produced. To demonstrate this point, I analyze The Godfather and Goodfellas, focusing specifically on how depictions of food and food practices expose the performative nature of gendered identities while simultaneously attempting to conceal this revelation.14 From its opening scenes, The Godfather puts gender identity at the center of its narrative. On one level, it begins with a very traditional depiction of



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normative gender roles as innate as the Corleone family celebrates the wedding of Connie. Against this backdrop, however, the films also offers a complicated depiction of masculinity as culturally constructed as several weak, powerless, and emasculated men come to Don Vito Corleone on this special day in search of his help (as Tom Hagen explains, no Sicilian can deny a request on his daughter’s wedding day). First, it is the undertaker, Bonasera, whose daughter has been victimized and who has found no justice from the police or the courts. Unable to protect his daughter, Bonasera pleads with Don Corleone for justice. This sad, weak man is forced to pay tribute to Don Corleone by calling him Godfather and kissing his hand. Only after such emasculating subjugation, which includes indebting himself to the Godfather for a possible future service, can Bonasera be assured that Don Corleone will provide justice for his daughter. Clearly, this opening scene establishes the power of Don Corleone by conveying his masculine strength in comparison to Bonasera’s feminine weakness. The same dynamic is evident in a subsequent scene in which singing sensation Johnny Fontane comes to Don Corleone for his help and support. While Michael Corleone, Vito’s son, reveals that his father played a crucial role in launching Johnny’s career, Fontane now explains to the don that his career has stalled and that a vengeful movie producer is preventing him from getting a role that would be perfect for him and could re-launch his career. As he sits on Don Corleone’s desk, sobbing, “I don’t know what to do … I don’t know what to do,” Don Corleone reacts violently, grabbing him by the arms and yelling, “You can act like a man … What’s the matter with you? Is this how you turned out? A Hollywood finocchio that cries like a woman?”15 Clearly, the don has no patience for what he characterizes as Johnny’s pathetic display of weakness. As he mocks Fontane’s behavior, he combines an attack on his masculinity (he cries like a woman) with an insult to his sexuality (finocchio, the Italian word for fennel, is slang for homosexual16). As Don Corleone assures Johnny that he will take care of everything and that he should get something to eat, the Godfather’s masculine bona fides have been established in contrast to the weak and feminized Bonasera and Johnny Fontane. In both cases, however, masculinity is revealed not to be an innate characteristic of biological males, but rather a set of attitudes and behaviors that are (or are not) learned and practiced by specific individuals within their historical and cultural contexts. While these gendered dynamics continue to play out in different ways throughout the rest of the film, they do so in particularly interesting ways when explored through the lens of food and food-related practices. Of course, there are a number of such scenes that affirm traditional gender roles. When Sonny and Tom fight about how to proceed in the wake of the assassination attempt against the Godfather, Sonny realizes that he has crossed the line

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in criticizing Tom’s service as consigliere and makes a peace offering by inviting Tom to dinner, saying that “Mom made a little dinner.” While the men conduct business behind closed doors, the women tend to their domestic responsibilities, thus maintaining the appearance of a traditional family. The sanctity of the family meal is reinforced when Connie chides Sonny, “Papa never talked business at the table in front of the children.”17 When Connie’s husband, Carlo, says that he wants to talk with Sonny and Tom about his role in the family business, Sonny echoes Connie’s admonition by telling him that they don’t discuss business at the table. In the midst of the chaos caused by the assassination attempt, there is an effort to return to normalcy, with the men conducting business in the private corners of the home and the women maintaining the façade of domestic tranquility by cooking meals and taking care of the children. But, while scenes that show characters conforming to these assigned roles may serve to reinforce them as natural, other scenes function to challenge this assumption by revealing them to be malleable and adaptable to circumstances. Particularly interesting is a sequence of scenes that involve one of the caporegimes (captains) of the Corleone family, Peter Clemenza. In the first scene, Clemenza and Paulie are leaving Clemenza’s house and Clemenza’s wife reminds him to pick up the canolis. In this brief scene, traditional gender roles are emphasized as Clemenza goes off to work (albeit for the Corleone crime family) while his wife stays home to take care of the children and handle other domestic responsibilities. In fact, Clemenza dismisses his wife with “yeah, yeah, yeah” as she invokes his help in the traditionally feminine role of food procurement. As Clemenza, Paulie, and Rocco drive, the audience knows that Sonny Corleone has ordered Paulie’s execution because Sonny views him as responsible for the shooting of his father, which occurred on a day when Paulie, who was responsible for guarding Vito Corleone, was out sick, leaving Vito in the hands of his dimwitted son, Fredo. After Rocco shoots Paulie, Clemenza utters his now famous line, “Leave the gun. Take the canolis.”18 The next scene is one in which Clemenza has transitioned from overseeing Paulie’s murder to cooking for the Corleone crew. This is one of the only scenes in the film that takes place in the kitchen and it is important to note that it is composed exclusively of men. Presumably, following a string of attacks on the Corleone family, the women have been moved to a safer location while the men plot their next moves. Under these conditions, normal rules are suspended as the family transitions into survival mode. With the women moved to an undisclosed location, we find the men in the kitchen, with Clemenza playing the role of cook. While one might assume that Clemenza is feminized as he takes on the traditionally female role of cooking, the context in which he does so suggests a more complicated negotiation



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of gender. In fact, these are not normal circumstances, but rather a special situation in which rules can be temporarily suspended. Clemenza acknowledges this when he offers to teach Michael Corleone his trick for making tomato sauce, explaining, “You never know, you might have to cook for twenty guys someday.”19 The reason for this lesson, Clemenza makes clear, is not so that Michael can someday cook for his family, but rather in case he ever finds himself in an extraordinary situation in which the men need to cook for themselves. In other words, this is not about taking on the traditionally feminine role of feeding the family on a regular basis; rather, it’s about being prepared for a potential emergency when the women are taken away and the men are forced to fend for themselves. Nonetheless, it is precisely at such a moment that the fictive nature of presumably natural gender roles is revealed, with food serving as the unlikely vehicle by which this is accomplished. Clemenza’s physicality and demeanor in this scene also serve to undercut any sense that he is feminized by trading in his gun for kitchen utensils. First and foremost, Clemenza, as portrayed by actor Richard S. Castellano, has a very large frame and seems very secure in his masculinity. There is not a hint of femininity as he instructs Michael, “You see, you start out with a little bit of oil. Then you fry some garlic. Then you throw in some tomatoes, tomato paste, you fry it; you make sure it doesn’t stick. You get it to a boil; you shove in all your sausage and your meatballs … and a little bit of wine. And a little bit of sugar, and that’s my trick.”20 Phrases like “throw in some tomatoes” and “shove in all your sausages and meatballs” accentuate the masculinity that Clemenza exudes even as he takes on the feminine role of cooking. Nonetheless, this cooking lesson is dismissed by Sonny, who comes into the room and tells Clemenza to “cut the crap” because he “has more important things” to do. He asks Clemenza about Paulie and is assured that they won’t be seeing him again. Thus, Clemenza’s diversion to the role of cook is tolerated given that he has taken care of the more important business of killing Paulie. While Clemenza’s foray into the kitchen is framed in ways that prevent it from feminizing him, it nonetheless demonstrates that typical gender roles— and the normative identities that are sustained by them—are not absolute. Rather than presuming that women’s place in the kitchen is a natural consequence of a biologically based gender identity, such scenes reveal that these roles can be reversed and that gender, once it is disconnected from biological sex, can become a free-floating signifier. In other words, it is culturally prescribed roles that create and sustain gendered identities, not the reverse. However, this is not to suggest that crossing these gender boundaries does not come at a price. As we saw in the opening scenes of the film, a man like Johnny Fontane, who Vito Corleone sees as weak and helpless, is mocked by being called a woman and a homosexual. This example makes clear that

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a man who is perceived to be feminine loses respect, authority and power. Interestingly, the threat posed by such forays into femininity is suggested in another pivotal scene. The assassination attempt on Vito Corleone occurs outside of his office. Rather than going directly into his car when he steps outside, Vito tells Fredo to wait while he goes to buy some fruit. As he is doing so, the would-be assassins approach and gun him down in the street. In this instance, Vito is vulnerable to attack when he steps ever so briefly into the feminine role of procuring food. When he strays from the relative safety of his office or well-guarded home, he puts himself at risk. It is worth noting that he is at his most vulnerable when he makes his own foray across a traditional gender boundary. Thus, an analysis of representations of food and foodways in The Godfather reveals two messages. First, gender roles and the gendered identities that they create are culturally determined and therefore fluid; second, despite this fluidity, there is a price to pay for crossing socially sanctioned gendered roles, particularly when doing so threatens the assumed link between biological sex and gender. One discovers very similar messages in Martin Scorsese’s Goodfellas. Based on the true story of mobster turned informant Henry Hill, Goodfellas includes many familiar tropes found in the traditional mobster movie. Upon initial examination, this film, like The Godfather, seems to reinforce a rigid gender divide, with men conducting “business” and women worrying themselves with domestic duties. When Henry begins dating (and eventually marries) Karen, she confesses that she is attracted to his hyper-masculinity, which is displayed most prominently in a scene in which Hill tells her to hide the bloodied gun he just used to beat up a neighbor who had been aggressive with Karen. As he places the gun in her hand, the audience hears Karen’s voiceover, “I know there are women, like my best friends, who would have gotten out of there the minute their boyfriend gave them a gun to hide. But I didn’t. I got to admit the truth. It turned me on.”21 At the same time, Karen falls quickly into her traditional feminine role as eye candy on Henry’s arm when they are dating and as dutiful wife and mother once they are married. From joining the other mobsters’ wives at hostess parties to offering the police coffee when they come to search the family home, Karen initially accepts her place in the family. Additionally, her sexualized femininity is highlighted in a scene in which she is asking Henry for spending money. As he flips through a wad of cash, deciding how much of it to give her, she begins kissing him and eventually slips down to her knees knowing how to coax that money out of Henry’s hands. If Henry’s masculinity is accentuated through violence, Karen’s femininity is represented by a subtle mix of domesticity and sexuality. However, while much of the film reinforces familiar gender stereotypes, there are moments where rigid boundaries are crossed, thus exposing normative gender roles and identities as culturally constructed. At the



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same time, the film’s overarching narrative offers more of a warning about the consequences of rejecting traditional gender roles insofar as doing so is connected closely with the downfall of Henry Hill and his associates. Nonetheless, by depicting such gender play, the film undermines two central assertions, namely that gender identities and roles are grounded in a biological imperative and that gender identity is inextricably linked to one’s biological sex. While such gender play is evident throughout the film—consider, for example, the role reversal that occurs when Henry wakes up to find Karen on top of him, threatening him with a gun pointed at his face—it is particularly interesting when it is linked to representations of food and foodways. In two early scenes in the film, food simultaneously reinforces hierarchies of power and undermines a link between gender roles and biological sex. The first scene is at a backyard gathering as Henry Hill, through voiceover, explains the nature of “wiseguys” and their business. Paul Cicero is the head of the “family” and his status is reinforced by his position at the center of the scene as he sits eating his sausage and pepper sandwich. While he consumes food, others are clearly responsible for preparing it; however, there are no women to be found in this scene. Presumably, men are not only eating the food in the scene, they are preparing it as well. Although it is culturally acceptable for men to cross into the realm of food preparation when it involves an outdoor barbeque, the total absence of women in a scene that involves preparing and eating food in a “family” setting seems odd. This scenario is repeated in a subsequent scene in which Henry Hill reminisces about the night he first met Jimmy Conway. The scene takes place in a gambling hall filled with wiseguys. Once again, no women are visible. But, there are large deli trays with cold cuts and a young Henry Hill is seen making sandwiches and delivering them to wiseguys. Interestingly, Henry, who is just starting out at the bottom of the totem pole, is in the traditionally female role of preparing and serving food and drinks to men. While he is feminized in this role, Jimmy Conway is his masculine counterpoint, tipping Hill (and all of the other staff) very generously, instructing him to keep the cocktails coming. While both of these scenes are devoid of any women, they nonetheless use preparing, serving, and eating food to establish gender-based hierarchies. At the same time, these scenes could also be read as reinforcing a rigid boundary between “family” business and more traditional family time, like the birthday parties and wedding celebrations where the whole family comes together and women are seen taking on traditional feminine roles. Such an artificial boundary between family and “family”—also evident in The Godfather when Connie rebukes Sonny for talking about business at the table—is important insofar as it reinforces a supposedly natural separation between the masculine world of the wiseguys and the feminine world of their wives. However, scenes that revolve around food and food practices offer an important indication that such a boundary is

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a fictional one that degrades over the course of the film and is completely breached by the end. An initial gesture towards such boundary crossing occurs when Henry, Jimmy, and Tommy make a late-night stop at Tommy’s mother’s house to pick up a shovel so that they can bury the not-quite-dead body of Billy Batts, which is in the trunk of the car. While they had hoped that they could sneak in and out of the house without disturbing Tommy’s mother, she hears them coming in and offers to make them something to eat. Although at first they decline, the next scene has them sitting around the table, which is covered with food. So far, the boundary between the world of the wiseguys and the realm of the family is safe as Mom prepares food for her son and his friends, though the camera does move teasingly from the men around the table to a shot through the dining room window, with the trunk of the car shaking as a reminder of the work yet to be done. This subtle link between these two worlds is taken further when Tommy tells his mother that he needs to borrow her large kitchen knife. Having concocted a story about hitting a deer, Tommy says that he needs the knife to cut its hoof from the fender. In fact, he will use his mother’s kitchen knife to finish the job they had started at the bar, namely killing Billy Batts. Thus, the knife serves as a physical object that reveals how easily the boundary between the domestic world of Tommy’s mother and the violent world of the wiseguys can be crossed. In addition to this play with the physical separation between these two worlds, the scene also hints at Henry’s struggle to maintain a psychological or emotion separation between them as well. As the men are eating, Tommy’s mother notices that Henry is very quiet and isn’t eating very much. She asks if there is something bothering him and while she moves the conversation to a humorous joke, she has nonetheless exposed that fact that Henry (unlike Tommy and Jimmy) seems incapable of separating the violence of the previous scene, in which they bludgeoned and shot Billy Batts and threw his body into the trunk of the car, from what should be a convivial scene of eating together. While Henry can move physically from one world to the other, he seems less capable of separating them psychologically or emotionally. If this scene offers an early indication of the porousness of the boundary between the masculine world of the wiseguys and the feminine world of the kitchen, a subsequent scene totally erases it. When a group of wiseguys finds themselves in prison, they are forced to take on the feminine role of preparing their meals. Of course, their status gives them unique access to prime living conditions and foods but it also requires that they take responsibility for procuring and preparing their meals. In one scene, Henry explains through voiceover their usual routine: In prison, dinner was always a big thing. We had a pasta course and then we had a meat or a fish. Paulie did the prep work. He was doing a year



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for contempt and he had this wonderful system for doing the garlic. He used a razor. He used to slice it so thin that it used to liquefy in the pan with just a little oil. It was a very good system. Vinnie was in charge of the tomato sauce … I felt he used too many onions but it was still a very good sauce … Johnny Dio did the meat. We didn’t have a broiler so Johnny did everything in pans. It used to smell up the joint something awful and the hags used to die but he still cooked a great steak.22 Like Clemenza teaching Michael how to make tomato sauce in The Godfather, these men find themselves in unique circumstances in which women are not available to cook for them so they take responsibility for doing so. Like Clemenza, these men may take on a traditionally female role, but the specific circumstances in which they do so prevent them from being feminized. While they are perfectly capable of doing this work, the only do so when conditions make it necessary, thus preserving the “normal” model in which women do the cooking and men do the eating. Nonetheless, such roles are revealed to be culturally constructed, as these men prove perfectly capable of preparing their own food when circumstances require it. In fact, Goodfellas links the collapse of this traditionally gendered division of labor with Henry’s downfall. Despite Paulie’s warnings to stay away from drugs (and Henry’s promises to listen to Paulie’s advice), near the end of the film, Henry has become fully immersed in the drug scene, working with his babysitter to transport them, with his girlfriend to prep them, and with both his girlfriend and his wife to take them. The beginning of the end for Henry’s life as a wiseguy is on Sunday, May 11, 1980. Within Italian and Italian-American culture, Sunday is traditionally a day free from work that usually features a big family dinner.23 As scenes in both The Godfather and Goodfellas indicate, such family time—particularly the family meal—is meant to be separated and protected from the harsh realities of the men’s work. By this point in Henry’s life, however, all such rules have been broken, including those that would make the women responsible for preparing the Sunday dinner. As he explains through voiceover, he not only has work responsibilities to meet, he has also taken charge of preparing dinner. He explains: See I was cooking dinner that night and I had to start braising the beef, pork butt, and veal shanks for the tomato sauce. It was [Henry’s brother] Michael’s favorite. I was making ziti with the meat gravy and I’m planning to roast some peppers over the flames and I was going to put on some string beans with olive oil and garlic. And I had some beautiful cutlets that were cut just right that I was going to fry up just before dinner just as an appetizer.24

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At the same time that he was tackling this work, he was also going to meet with Jimmy and then meet up with his girlfriend at her apartment to prepare a shipment of drugs that his babysitter was supposed to transport to Atlanta later that night. As Henry explains his plan, the camera pans a messy and chaotic kitchen. Because Henry has so much other business to attend to, he has solicited everyone’s help in the kitchen, including his wife, the babysitter, his children, and his brother, whom he leaves in charge of watching the sauce, making sure that it doesn’t stick. Henry rushes to bread the cutlets because he needs to leave again to meet his girlfriend and prepare the drugs. The family doesn’t get to the table until late that night, and Henry needs to rush through dinner so that he can take the babysitter to the airport. It is when they are leaving that the cops finally catch up with Henry, stopping him as he is backing out of his driveway. It turns out that drug enforcement agents have been trailing Henry and they have all of the evidence they need to convict him. Knowing that he would be an easy target for the wiseguys whether he was in or out of prison, Henry decides to testify against them and enter the witness protection program. His life as a wiseguy is over. As Henry’s life devolves into chaos, his loyalty to Paulie and his trust of Jimmy are shattered. His supposedly ideal family life, complete with wife, children, and a beautiful home, is exposed as an illusion. In short, all of the boundaries through which his life as a wiseguy had been constructed and maintained erode. This reality is represented perfectly as Henry attempts to juggle cooking dinner for his family and preparing drugs for transport. The barrier separating the work of the wiseguys from their family lives has been violated as Henry’s family members have become implicated in his drug dealing and as his business has ruined the sacrosanct family meal. With Karen both helping to prepare and taking large quantities of drugs, she is incapable of maintaining her traditional role as family nurturer and caretaker. Similarly, Henry has violated the space of the family home by attempting to cook the family meal while also attending to business. In the end, while the collapse of these boundaries reveals their artificiality, the consequences of crossing them indicate their importance in a heteronormative society. Like the mafia lifestyle depicted in these two films, heteronormative Italian and American culture relies upon various rules that govern the proper places and roles for individuals within it. And one of the primary tools for constructing and maintaining these rules is gender. By gendering physical spaces in order to separate men from women and to dictate what work can be performed by whom within these spaces, culturally driven roles are naturalized insofar as they are identified with presumably biological gender categories. As these filmic representations expose the fluidity of the boundaries separating these gendered spaces, however, a very different image of



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Italy and the United States emerges. Rather than reinforcing the hegemonic gender identities that support broader hierarchies of authority, status, and power in both countries, these films open up spaces in which these hierarchies can be undermined. And ironically, while we might expect to see such hierarchies firmly intact in the classic genre of the mobster movie, what we encounter in The Godfather and Goodfellas is a much more complicated depiction of gender and identity. Surprisingly, there are many instances in both films where the link between gender and biological sex is challenged, with the most revealing examples of such boundary crossing revolving around food. Even as men’s forays into the kitchen (or the prison cell turned kitchen) are framed in ways that make them exceptions to the norm, the very fact that such coding happens reveals the fragility of gender-based identities. By stepping outside of hegemonic masculinity, these men reveal the performative nature of gender identity even as they work to protect its role in creating and sustaining images of Italy and the United States.

Notes 1

For more on the relationship between media, popular culture, and identity, see Dustin Kidd, Pop Culture Freaks: Identity, Mass Media, and Society (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2014); and on food in popular culture, see Fabio Parasecoli’s Bite Me: Food in Popular Culture (New York: Berg, 2008).

2

Carol Helstosky, Garlic & Oil: Food and Politics in Italy (New York: Berg, 2004), 155, emphasis added.

3

For more on how representations of food and foodways can reinforce and challenge prevailing ideologies, see Edible Ideologies: Representing Food and Meaning, Kathleen LeBesco and Peter Naccarato (eds) (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2008).

4

Johanna Mäkelä, “Cultural Definitions of the Meal,” in Herbert L. Meiselman (ed.), Dimensions of the Meal: The Science, Culture, Business and Art of Eating (New York: Aspen Publishers, 2000), 13.

5

Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste, trans. Richard Nice (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1984), 185.

6

Carole M. Counihan and Steven L. Kaplan (eds), Food and Gender: Identity and Power (Amsterdam: Harwood Academic Publishers, 1998), 4.

7

Ibid., 3.

8

Ibid., 4.

9

Joan Newlon Radner, ed., Feminist Messages: Coding in Women’s Folk Culture (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1993), 39.

10 For more on the role of gender in devaluing domestic work, see Marjorie DeVault’s Feeding the Family: The Social Organization of Caring as Gendered Work (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991).

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11 Jessamyn Neuhaus, Manly Meals and Mom’s Home Cooking: Cookbooks and Gender in Modern America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2003), 265. 12 Thomas Adler, “Making Pancakes on Sunday: The Male Cook in Family Tradition,” Western Folklore 40 (1) (January 1981): 45–54. 13 George DeStefano, An Offer We Can’t Refuse: The Mafia in the Mind of America (New York: Faber and Faber, 2006), 218. 14 For more on the performative nature of gendered identities, see Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity (New York: Routledge, 1990). 15 Francis Ford Coppola, dir. The Godfather, 1972. 16 See http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=finocchio (accessed October 12, 2016). 17 Coppola, dir. Godfather. 18 Ibid. 19 Ibid. 20 Ibid. 21 Martin Scorsese, Goodfellas, 1990. 22 Ibid. 23 See Douglas Harper and Patrizia Faccioli, The Italian Way: Food and Social Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010). 24 Scorsese, Goodfellas.

7 In cibo veritas: Food preparation and consumption in Özpetek’s “queer” films Elgin K. Eckert and Zachary Nowak

F

ood, as part of every person’s everyday life, is an ideal bearer of meaning; throughout cinematic history directors have used the semiotic flexibility of food to encode ambiguous meanings. The same food in different scenes and contexts, can symbolize poverty or opulence, suffering or joy, the quotidian or the exceptional.1 The foregrounding of food in many cinematic works provides an appealing look at the representation of culture, traditions and mores. The sumptuous visual images and verbal-visual narratives centering on food and its figurations in film are often symbolic and carry meaning beyond the obvious. Cinematic depictions of food provide ritualistic satisfaction, display familial ties and represent the culture—either in a traditional way or as a challenge to tradition. Turkish-Italian director Ferzan Özpetek has established himself as “a resolutely Italian director, reaffirming that he is above all both tastemaker and chronicler of modern Italian life.”2 Özpetek combines different categories of otherness (gay, trans, immigrant, among others) in his films in order to imagine a utopian Italian society based upon multiculturalism and freedom from binary sexual categories such as “homosexual” and “heterosexual.”3 He often does so through representations of food. Given both Özpetek’s dedication to unsettling gender roles in contemporary Italy, and the centrality of food in his movies, it is striking that while critics have used spatial, discursive, and even auditory analyses, they have not paid much attention to the food being served throughout his films. Özpetek uses all aspects of Italian food culture to challenge and probe cultural norms of what it is to be Italian,

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and whether queerness can map onto that identity.4 Two of Özpetek’s most important and well-known films, 2000’s Le fati ignoranti (His Secret Life) and 2010’s Mine vaganti (Loose Cannons) prominently feature scenes that center on food while focusing on homosexual relationships in contemporary Italy. In these films, family dinners are upset, mothers drink tea instead of coffee, and pastries are used for suicide rather than to impress hosts. The two movies interact with one another as they explore the representation of “queerness” in Italy today. In the past, critics have pointed out that certain elements in Özpetek’s films use juxtapositions of symbols of Italianness and queerness to unsettle the assumed separation of those two identities. Luca Caminti praises him for being one of “only a handful of directors [who] have shown interest in investigating the spaces of contact, or the encounter of peoples in the new geographies of […] late capitalism and multinational market expansion.”5 Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio has suggested that the director’s modeling of his protagonists’ behaviors” enables him “to also address global issues like religious tolerance or lack thereof, immigration, and cultural difference.”6 Rebecca Baumann has suggested, however, that these “queer” spaces usually do not challenge hetero-gendered spaces.7 Neither Baumann nor Caminiti pursue their analyses focusing on scenes that deal with food in particular, focusing instead on other important issues. This chapter aims to partially fill that gap in scholarly research of Özpetek’s work by extending the analyses that have already been made as well as opening up new avenues of inquiry. The authors’ intent here is to show that through the repetition of and insistence on scenes related to food production/preparation/consumption, Özpetek underlines the tensions between traditional (hetero) society and mores with new spaces of contact. The two films discussed in this chapter force Italian viewers into a queer environment, but do so through the gentle use of familiar symbols and metaphors centered on food. Le fati ignoranti is about a love triangle with a twist: after the unexpected death of her husband Massimo, his widow Antonia discovers that he has kept a love affair hidden from her for the last seven years of their communal life. When she sets upon discovering her rival in love, she finds out that her husband’s lover was Michele—a man. The film focuses on Antonia’s coming to terms with this fact, and on her budding friendship with Michele and his circle of friends. Özpetek’s Mine vaganti, filmed ten years later, picks up on many of the same issues. The film centers on a family dynasty in the city of Lecce, in the Southern Italian region of Puglia. Brothers Antonio and Tommaso both feel entrapped by their father’s decision to pass the family pasta factory on to them. They also share a secret: both of them are, unbeknownst to the other, gay. Tommaso reveals this to his brother that very evening at the dinner table. When a new partnership with an important investor is to be celebrated,



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he will “out” himself—hoping to be thrown out by his conservative father, and thus avoiding the responsibilities that would arise from being a co-owner of the business. At the dinner, however, it is Antonio who “embezzles” his brother’s idea, and confesses being gay in front of the assembled guests. Sharon Marcus has pointed out that “we now have the tools to pry labels that segregate homosexuality from the family, queer studies from feminism, and lesbians from women.”8 She asserts that it’s clear today that, despite Library of Congress subject headings that are far apart on the shelves of libraries, race, gender, and homosexuality are all mutually constitutive. In the two films discussed in this chapter, Özpetek uses food to resituate two seemingly separate categories, Italian national identity and queerness, to examine the intersections between them. The choice of food and drink as a lens is not a coincidental one. As Alberto Capatti Massimo and Montanari have asserted, the national cuisine of Italy has been and continues to be every bit as important to national identity as language and political power.9 Özpetek uses instances of consumption as well as production of food to highlight how queer Italians are: both just as Italian as any heterosexual, and where the two identities—Italian and homosexual—are mutually exclusive. As Rigoletto states, “the question of dissident sexuality is not dealt with in conventional obfuscatory terms but is conducive to the expansion of normative sexual knowledge towards a more diverse and multifaceted system of interaction.”10 Food scenes in both films underline moments of tension, growth, and change in Özpetek’s characters: moments in which the protagonists challenge or come to terms with what it means to be Italian in contemporary Italian society. It is during these scenes that new multifaceted interactions start to become a new norm.

Drinks across boundaries After her husband’s death, Antonia decides to find out more about her husband’s affair. Through a painting and a cryptic dedication on the back, she manages to find out the address of her presumed rival. As she arrives at the building, she runs into Serra, a blue-haired Turkish immigrant who invites Antonia into her apartment after recognizing the painting. As Antonia does not feel well, Serra offers her a drink: a strange, red liquor taken from a crystal decanter. Özpetek does not have Serra offer Antonia a glass of water (as might the logical choice if somebody is not feeling well), and this drink thus has two important symbolic functions: first it represents the exotic nature of the Turkish immigrant woman, whom Antonia and the viewer meet for the first time. Second, it stands for the strange world that Antonia is about to

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enter—a world to which Serra holds the key. As Stefano Giani has pointed out in his work on food and film, an “exotic” food, while recalling “the fascination created by the seduction of small paradises” in fact represents simply that which is outside, foreign but not necessarily in the national sense.11 This “exotic” drink, then suggests the foreignness of the lgbqt world into which Antonia is about to step, and it remains to be seen how Italian that world can be. Serra and her red liquor contrasts starkly with Antonia’s mother, who continuously offers her daughter tea in order to comfort her. This tea, too, is laced with meaning. Antonia’s mother does not make coffee for her daughter nor does she prepare a chamomile herbal tea—a mother’s standard remedy for situations of stress and discomfort. Rather, she offers a beverage rather strange for a typical Italian mother. During the film, of course, this “untypical” representation of the mother finds ample confirmation. In the end it is this woman, Antonia’s unsympathetic and harsh mother, who manages to give her daughter the strength to go and live her own life, breaking away from traditional (national and culinary) boundaries, just as her tea had done. Drink situations in Mine vaganti center on alcohol and appear to be included for comic effect. Most of these focus on Aunt Luciana, a middleaged woman who unapologetically enjoys her alcohol. Several scenes show her vice, but as the film progresses it is revealed that Luciana uses alcohol to relive the one moment of her youth in which she was free from the traditional and patriarchal constraints imposed upon her by her family—her escape to London with a good-for-nothing man, which she fondly remembers as her one moment of adventure in life. By drinking, she recalls her youth and beauty, providing her with the perfect escape from having to represent an upstanding member of a prominent family in Southern Italy. This quotidian, domestic drinking routine, however, is juxtaposed with a scene set at a café in Lecce’s main square. Tommaso and his father, Vincenzo, sit down for a drink. Instead of ordering a coffee or a light liqueur, Vincenzo (terrified that the whole town has heard about his gay son, and desperate to keep up appearances) orders champagne. This choice of a French drink, rather than prosecco, Aperol, or a Spritz, underlines Vincenzo’s feelings about homosexuality. It’s something foreign as well, and the only way to hide his shame is an expensive foreign drink.

Challenging the norm at mealtime Both films prominently feature important moments of more or less structured conviviality. As Gaye Poole reminds us, “food is a popular and effective way of providing dramatic focus because writers, scenarists and audiences



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instinctively understand it and its cultural patterns.”12 Özpetek’s food-filled scenes at the lunch and dinner table, then, are opportunities for viewers to watch the director intersperse ideas about sexuality and national identity among the courses that sustain the dialogue. Le fate ignoranti includes several scenes of Sunday lunches at Michele’s house—lunches that were an important part of the relationship between Michele and Massimo: out on his terrace, an assorted group of friends met and gathered around the long table each week. Stefano Giani has shown how it is at these meals that Antonia recognizes the extent of her late husband’s double life.13 These meals, though, are not the typical Italian Sunday lunch affair, which tends to be a formal sit-down meal comprising appetizers, first and second courses, as well as side dishes, desserts and coffee. Lunch is a much simpler affair at Michele’s house: the time Antonia is asked to join the friends for lunch, only a large bowl of mixed salad is served. Özpetek underlines the non-traditional aspect of the group by this strange choice of feast-day food. While the group eats, they have a discussion about what it means to be a man or woman in contemporary Italy: Mara, Michele’s transgender friend, is torn between the desire to return to her Southern Italian family and attend her brother’s wedding to see her almost one-hundred-year-old grandmother again and keeping her secret that she is now a woman. Despite having accepted the invitation to lunch, Antonia is a stranger to this “queer” world, and has trouble understanding the “language” that is spoken around her. Özpetek uses sweeping camera movements and dolly shots, never capturing the speakers directly, to convey the sense of confusion Antonia feels.14 The discussion soon moves away from Mara and onto the conflict between Michele and Antonia (who unbeknownst to her is sitting in Massimo’s spot), and when Michele during a toast insults his ex-lover’s widow and what in his eyes she represents (traditional family), Antonia gets up and leaves this unorthodox lunch gathering. Gabriele Marcello argues that in this scene “the place of convivial pleasure is transformed into a battleground, where the two contenders meet with unequal arms … and where the circular geometrical element is exasperated.”15 When Antonia leaves the gathering, she “doesn’t escape only because she isn’t ready to accept the truth, but also because that toast is full of disdain for her femininity, not accepted completely by her husband. It is with this escape that Antonia starts her journey, which in her being a woman, displays a masculine force.”16 Indeed, even at her second meeting with Michele, Antonia uses food to show how she did indeed know her husband: “We ate from the same plate, we drank from the same glass …” Antonia shows that she is not yet ready to accept the realness of her late husband’s “other world”—actually the same world the two of them inhabited—because, like any good Italian husband, he was always home in time for dinner.17

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In Mine vaganti, it is a dinner, not a lunch, that becomes the setting for an uncomfortable truth. Özpetek clearly refers back to his previous film during the dinner scene, this time presenting a comedy rather than a drama, turning the scene upside down.18 The entire Cantone family clan has gathered to celebrate a business deal with the new partner Brunetti, who is present alongside his daughter Alba. The long table—reminiscent of the one in Fate ignoranti—is very elegantly set: silverware, china, and candlesticks are of the best quality, the dinner guests are dressed elegantly, and the traditional, sumptuous food is served by the household help. The conversation, however, is as chaotic as the discussion in the previous film and Özpetek uses the same technique of sweeping camera movements that don’t quite capture the speaker within its frame to show the confusion. This time, though, the confusion centers on an off-color, anti-gay joke. While the joke is being told, Vincenzo Cantone’s somewhat unrefined son-in-law Salvatore jumps in several times as he finds the idea of the police officer, his stick shift and the “gay” punchline so hilarious. The expensive, traditional food served in a formal context provides an interesting juxtaposition both to Salvatore’s lower-class crudeness and to the scene in Özpetek’s previous film in which the characters discuss the important topic of coming out transgender in a traditional Southern Italian context. The joke is never finished, though, as Tommaso asks for everybody’s attention with the intention of confessing his secret. But he also doesn’t get a chance to deliver his punch line: his brother Antonio takes over the situation and announces that he is gay. And while the previous film had Antonia leaving the scene, this time there are two exits: Antonio, who is thrown out by his father, and Vincenzo Cantone, who has a heart attack at the table, tearing down the tablecloth with all of its contents as he collapses—symbolizing the break-down of the traditional family structure. Only the alcoholic aunt Luciana manages to rescue her role in the family: her glass of red wine survives the disaster, as she keeps on nipping from it. The striking difference between these scenes is that in Le fate ignoranti, they reoccur, while in Mine vaganti, the family never fully reunites around the table. In Le fate, Antonia’s repeated presence at mealtimes allows her to break down her misconception that her husband had existed in two separate worlds. Her understanding is that his public (fake) persona was that of a straight male, while in his private (real) life he was a gay male. Instead, Özpetek makes it clear that homosexuality should not be placed in a binary with heterosexuality, but rather with being Italian. It is Italian society that rejects the idea of a gay man cooking meatballs, or his transgender female friend describing highlights of the soccer game he will later recount to his wife. In Mine vaganti, there are no more scenes where the whole family gathers around the table to establish their Italianness through food, regardless of sexuality.



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Gender at the factory The male protagonists in both films are all connected to the food supply chain: Michele runs the food distribution in the local market in Rome while the Cantone brothers, Tommaso and Antonio, are designated heirs to the Cantone Pasta Factory, which has been producing pasta for many generations in Lecce, Apulia. These spaces of food production and distribution are the places in which Özpetek first confronts the challenges between traditional and non-traditional society. After not finding her husband’s supposed lover, “Signorina Mariani” at the address she has been given, Antonia goes to the market where this “woman” is working the night shift. Under the sign reading “Ditta M. Mariani” (which leaves the first name of Mariani ungendered), a young, blond woman is giving instructions to one of the deliverymen. A series of reverse shots and close ups draw the audience into Antonia’s point of view, where it becomes clear that the blond woman is the person she is looking for. “This scene works as a paradigm of the way the film establishes a subject position for the spectator coinciding with Antonia’s point of view and her heteronormative standpoint,” Rigoletto correctly analyzes.19 In this same location—the market—Antonia and Michele also have their first major falling out while discussing who knew the “true” Massimo and who was living a life of lies. In Mine Vaganti, the pasta factory—which produces that most Italian of foods—clearly represents tradition and repression of self-expression, and through the story of the two protagonists it symbolizes the oppressive mainstream attitude against any non-normative lifestyle and the importance of keeping up appearances. It is here, in front of the production line, where Tommaso starts being honest with his brother. While an over-the-shoulder shot includes both brothers in the frame while showing the workings of the production line in the background, Tommaso confesses the three things that make him unfit to carry on the Cantone pasta making tradition. As he explains that he doesn’t really study business administration in Rome, wants to be a writer, and—more importantly—is gay, the camera tightens on the two brothers, now alternately focusing on them in 60-degree reverse shots. By doing so, the factory and pasta production become removed from view, as the possibility of Tommaso’s taking over the pasta-making business disappear from the horizon of possibilities. If pasta represents the sexual straightjacket of the past—something alluded to by the flashback scenes of the grandmother and her lover, who ran the company together—then the factory hints at the possible reconcilability in the future of being Italian, and being gay. Two other short moments in the film suggest that the past and present of queer life collide in the pasta factory. The past is presented by the detail that it was

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in the pasta factory where Tommaso’s brother Antonio had met his gay lover (whom he had to abandon in order to carry on the tradition) while the present is shown through the Elena’s (Antonio and Tommaso’s sister) complete acceptance of Tommaso’s confession that he is homosexual. During a conversation with his grandmother, in which she explains how much the pasta factory meant to her, and how she used to love touching the pasta before packaging it, Tommaso exclaims that he, too, will touch the pasta the next day—almost accepting his “fate” of taking over the family business. Pasta, that most Italian of products, is the acid test: if it moves you, if you feel its warmth and eat it, you can join heteronormative Italian national culture. Tommaso’s wise grandmother, who has seen through his fiction and knows that her grandson is gay and has no passion for the business, discourages him from doing so, however. The next day, Tommaso is shown touching the freshly produced pasta and stealthily eating it when nobody observes him. It doesn’t work, though. In one of the final scenes of the film, he confesses that he felt nothing while doing so: he tells his father that the family business isn’t his passion. In reality, he wants to be a writer, a novelist, and go back to Rome. And yet Özpetek is careful to make the food, rather than the factory, the acid test. The pasta factory, where Özpetek’s lens lingers on the hypermodern, stainless steel machinery, is clearly not a traditional space, despite the bucolic scenes on the label of the product it produces.

Gender in the kitchen When it comes to the actual preparation of the food for larger meals, it is the women who are doing the actual work. It is interesting to note that in Le fate ignoranti transgender Mara has entered completely into her role as a woman as she is seen chopping vegetables and performing other food-related tasks together with Serra and Luisella. At one point, the women encourage Antonia to partake in their activities, slowly inviting her to become part of their reality. Aware that she will have to face harsh realities in Michele’s apartment, it is no coincidence that the women ask her to “chop onions”—a vegetable notorious for causing tears in those who handle it. Antonia, accepting the task, also accepts leaving behind part of her traditional role and identity. In fact, she is a professional in a medical facility and except for the scenes at Michele’s apartment, she is never seen preparing food. Yet at the apartment, she sheds her upper-class identity and becomes a traditional food preparer and caregiver, something that Paula Salvio has defined as “re-domestication.”20 While the women prepare food, Michele is seen creating a complicated artistic composition on the mezzanine—mentally and physically removed from his friends’ food preparation and absorbed in an almost hostile way in his own



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activities that have nothing to do with nourishment. Antonia, too, shuttles back and forth between the interior of the apartment and the outside terrace: Luca Caminti reads this as her speaking to us “from a plural space establishing a dialogical perspective where the terms at play are Italian/foreign, gay/ straight, middle-class lifestyle/alternative lifestyles, and life/death.”21 When Antonia comes back to the apartment after the fight at the lunch gathering, she states that she has come back to “chop onions.” Michele is overjoyed to see her and asks her to come in. Although no actual onions are involved, both of them will be on the verge of tears after their confrontation. But first Michele has to be brought onto a more human plane. Özpetek does so by showing him this time involved in food preparation. He is preparing a traditional and simple meal for his sick friend Ernesto: pasta with tomato sauce and grated cheese. And Michele prepares it with almost paternal love: he carefully puts some fresh basil onto the sauce and he neatly arranges the plate on the tray. His first real bonding with Antonia takes place when he asks her to add the cheese to the dish, participating in his food preparation. Here Özpetek provides an alternative model of caretaking within a family. The unruly, boisterous atmosphere of previous scenes in the same kitchen has been replaced with a scene of loving care: the unusual couple of a gay man and his dead boyfriend’s widow preparing a traditional dish together for a sick friend is presented in the same natural manner in which a mother could be shown preparing food for her sick child.22 Even Massimo comes back from the grave in the context of food preparation: one day, Serra shows up at the apartment and asks Antonia to try the meatballs she has just prepared. Antonia is surprised to find out that Serra has tried to replicate one of Massimo’s recipes. Serra confides to her that the times in which Massimo cooked were some of the happiest times together at the apartment—and Antonia, who never knew that her husband could or would want to cook, is astonished. This scene again shows food in the context of (auto)representation: while Massimo represented the traditional male to that part of society who expected him to play that part (including his wife), once outside of the confines of traditional representation, he was able to let himself go and indulge in an activity not considered typically male. The scene also serves another purpose, as Marcello points out: it isn’t until Antonia tastes Massimo’s meatballs that her union with her husband’s “other family” is sealed: “beginning at that point all protagonists start to be filtered through Antonia’s gaze, free from prejudice.”23 This is in stark contrast to the scenes of food preparation in Mine vaganti, which are either absent or remarkably minimalist. Tommaso’s mother makes much of meal planning: her rapid-fire orders to the two silent servants are followed by quick cuts, rather than scenes of food being made. The only actual meal preparation is done by Alba during Tommaso’s visits, and then she

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only prepares small tramezzini sandwiches. These absences, however, can only challenge gender roles so much; ultimately, the servants (both female) are still suggested as the people who will make the food. Alba’s efforts at “feeding her man,” though insufficient by Italian standards, still place her within the sphere of Italian femininity. Nonetheless, Alba and Tommaso soon develop a close relationship, which very much resembles Michele and Antonia’s relationship once they let go of their rancor over Massimo. Rigoletto rightly suggests that in both films “it is not homosociality and heterosexuality that structure the triangular schematization of erotic relations but the heterosocial bond.”24 Alba and Tommaso’s bonding also takes place over food. Over a simple (untraditional) dinner of tramezzini sandwiches, Alba tells Tommaso that she knows he is gay.

Bitter sweets: Conclusion What should be the melodramatic part of the meal (and therefore saccharine sweet) is only just bittersweet in both films. Özpetek uses dessert to mark the collision of hetero-Italianness and its parallel universe, Italian homosexual culture. In Le fate ignoranti, Michele and Antonia share a carefree moment in the park while eating ice cream. They engage in flirty, almost couple-like behavior just as Antonia’s live-in maid Nora walks by. The scene, underwritten by cheerful jazz music, opens with Michele walking into focus, carrying two ice cream cones. As he sits down next to Antonia, Özpetek uses an over the shoulder shot, allowing the audience to almost secretly observe the two protagonists, who by now have clearly become very comfortable with one another. The camera then slowly pans around Antonia and focuses on her sudden uncomfortable expression as in a series of reverse shots Nora is shown walking past them with two friends (also eating ice cream cones). The camera angle on Nora is a slight low shot, making her seem the dominant element in this scene—the moral judge of Antonia’s behavior. Antonia tries in vain to hide behind her ice cream cone, and as Nora walks out of view, the atmosphere between Michele and her has clearly changed as she brusquely refuses a taste of his ice cream, thus ending a short moment of carefree intimacy. It is interesting to observe the irony in this scene, as Antonia is clearly uncomfortable being perceived as flirting with a man so shortly after her husband’s death, which shows her awareness that in a heteronormative society the possibility of her companion’s queerness (which would be exculpatory in this case) is not even taken into account. In Mine vaganti, it is again the ageing, diabetic grandmother who forces the family to confront the rupture caused by Antonio’s ejection from the house after coming out. In an almost painfully slow series of sequences,



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Özpetek shows mirror images from a variety of angles of the grandmother getting dressed up, putting on make-up, and embracing the past and the present, traditional as well as untraditional elements in her and her family’s life as she gorges herself on the pastries that will moments later lead to her death from diabetic shock. Both films conclude with a question mark (rather than a full stop or an exclamation point) about the possibility of overlap between queerness and an Italian national identity. Indeed, Le fate ignoranti’s closing credit sequence shows the actors in the film participating in the World Pride Day parade that took place in Rome in 2000. This hope for a future where all Italians can sit at the table together is not, however, realized in Mine vaganti, produced in 2010. Though Özpetek shows a rapprochement between Antonio and his father, the scene is shot on the streets of Lecce after the grandmother’s funeral; there is no final scene at the family home, around the table, where the disruption of the first formal dinner is finally resolved. The absence of the family meal to resolve Italianness and queerness must be considered intentional. Rigoletto is correct in claiming that “even in [his] ultimate heteronormative reordering of life, [Özpetek] creates space for a specifically queer narrative of ambivalence and openness.”25 Rather than force his protagonists to accept the heteronormative family meal as the ultimate venue for meaningful interaction, Özpetek in both films examined here suggests that reconciliation is not simply straight spaces accepting queerness. The food scenes in these films pull familial interactions into these spaces: an ice cream shared between two friends, tea as a calming drink, men making meatballs, and “family” meals where no one is related challenge the hegemony of the (hetero) family meal, and in doing so challenge Italians to accept that Italian and queer identities can overlap.

Notes 1

Laura Delli Colli, Il Gusto in 100 Ricette del Cinema Italiano (Rome: Elleu Multimedia, 2002), 7.

2

Rebecca Bauman, “Divi Ambigui: Ferzan Özpetek’s Starstruck Gaze,” Italian Studies 70 (3) (August 2015): 391.

3

Bauman, “Divi Ambigui,” 392.

4

The authors will follow Doty in using the word “queer” to encompass a variety of definitions. See Alexander Doty, Flaming Classics: Queering the Film Canon (New York: Routledge, 2000), 6–7.

5

Luca Caminti, “Filming Coming Communities: Ferzan Özpetek’s Le Fate Ignoranti,” Italica 85 (4) (2008): 455; There are voices of dissent among the paeans to Özpetek’s transnational openness. Elisabetta Girelli, speaking

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD specifically about his film Hamam but making what could be a general comment, has said that “this image of Turkishness is a textbook Orientalist representation, resting on Western notions of Oriental difference, antiquity, seduction, and alternative lifestyle.” Elisabetta Girelli, “Transnational Orientalism: Ferzan Özpetek’s Turkish Dream in Hamam (1997),” New Cinemas: Journal of Contemporary Film 5 (1) (April 30, 2007): 23–4; Another critic who suggests that much-praised hybridity ascribed to Özpetek is really simply the result of an international cast is Giuseppe Gariazzo. See “Italia Anno Zero Zero,” in Giovanni Spagnoletti (ed.), Il Cinema Europeo Del Metissage (Cannara, Italy: Il Castoro, 2000), 210–11.

6

Serena Anderlini-D’Onofrio, “Bisexual Games and Emotional Sustainability in Ferzan Özpetek’s Queer Films,” Journal of Bisexuality 6 (4) (January 1, 2007): 123.

7

Bauman, “Divi Ambigui,” 391. Referring to a scene on the beach in Mine vaganti (one of the two films analyzed in this present article), she asks rhetorically whether the protagonist’s distance from his gay friends’ campy performance is counterproductive, “relieving a mass audience from more direct interaction with a queer environment.”

8

Sharon Marcus, “Queer Theory for Everyone: A Review Essay,” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 31 (1) (September 2005): 192.

9

Capatti and Montanari very explicitly set out to contest the idea that there is no such thing as an “Italian cuisine,” but rather simply a collection of regional dishes. To the contrary, there has been an Italian cuisine based on regional dishes and products that circulate through markets. As noted above, in Le fate ignoranti, Michele works in a market, and that the family in Mine vaganti owns a pasta factory. Capatti and Montarnari claim that “the most successful ‘typical’ products in the history of Italian food are those with the strongest industrial support (we have only to think of pasta, Parmesan cheese, and tomato sauce.” Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History, Aine O’Healy (trans.) (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), xiii–xx for the argument on circulation as creating Italian cuisine and identity, and p. xvi for the comment on “industrial products.”

10 Sergio Rigoletto, “Sexual Dissidence and the Mainstream: The Queer Triangle in Ferzan Özpetek’s Le Fate Ignoranti,” The Italianist 30 (2) (June 1, 2010), 206. 11 All translations, unless otherwise noted, are the authors’. Stefano Giani, Cinema à la carte: percorsi tra film, storia e cibo (Rome: Gremese, 2015), 63. For more on the geneaology of the word “exotic,” see Jon May, “‘A Little Taste of Something More Exotic’: The Imaginative Geographies of Everyday Life,” Geography 81 (1) (1996): 57–64. 12 Gaye Poole, Reel Meals Set Meals: Food in Film and Theatre (Sydney: Currency Press, 1999), 15. 13 Giani, Cinema à la carte, 80–1. 14 Sergio Rigoletto, “Sexual Dissidence and the Mainstream: The Queer Triangle in Ferzan Özpetek’s Le Fate Ignoranti,” The Italianist 30 (2) (June 1, 2010): 208–9.



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15 Gabriele Marcello, Ferzan Özpetek: la leggerezza e la profondità (Recco, Italy: Le mani, 2009), 88. 16 Ibid., 89. 17 Indeed, just before the two worlds collide, Antonia says to him plaintively, “You’re not even coming home for dinner [before you leave on business]?” 18 In her introductory essay to her edited collection, Anne Bower notes that scenes with food can seem to represent familiarity, but then quickly change into scenes of disruption of norms. Reel Food: Essays on Food and Film (New York: Routledge, 2004), 4. 19 Rigoletto, “Sexual Dissidence and the Mainstream,” 207. 20 Paula M. Salvio, “Dishing It Out: Food Blogs and Post-Feminist Domesticity,” Gastronomica 12 (3) (Fall 2012): 32. 21 Caminti, “Filming Coming Communities,” 459. 22 It’s important to note that not all commentators are as sanguine about these seemingly pacific hetero-homo interactions. Baumann suggests that “Özpetek’s divi ambigui therefore indicate a still uneasy confrontation between queer modalities and ideals of masculinity and virility within Italian national identity, creating images that leave more questions than answers.” Bauman, “Divi Ambigui,” 401. 23 Marcello, Ferzan Özpetek, 91. 24 Rigoletto, “Sexual Dissidence and the Mainstream,” 206. 25 Ibid., 204.

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PART THREE

Marketing, packaging, and advertising Italy

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8 Producing consumers: Gendering Italy through food advertisements Diana Garvin

Introduction

I

talian women historically manifested their power in the family through food.1 Serving food, rather than food itself, held gendered connotations, in that domestic labor equated to women’s work. Specific foods, like jam or beer, were gender-neutral. But in the late 1950s and early 1960s, seismic social and economic waves rocked these traditional modes of culinary expression. As employment surged, affordable public housing expanded and the cities filled. As Eric Hobsbawm put it, the Economic Boom allowed the average Western European citizen “to live as only the very wealthy had lived in his parent’s day.”2 Mass production provided the means for consumers to satisfy their every material desire. But this cultural pivot prompted questions as well as solutions. Because women’s work could now imply labor in both the public and private spheres, traditional notions of womanhood became destabilized. Food advertising thus emerged in response to the pervasive question: what observable qualities can we use to delineate female and male gender? With this cultural framework in mind, we see that this media form eases social anxieties unique to a certain time and place by establishing and communicating new definitions of gender, and that this move serves as a novel means to sell food products. Let’s turn to our specific case study. In the late 1950s and early 1960s, the female readership3 of the Italy’s longest-running4 cooking magazine,

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La Cucina Italiana, would have noticed a decisive shift in the periodical’s advertising. Economic Boom5 ads ceased to hawk basic products such as rice, pasta, and margarine for their capacity to cheaply fill the belly, abandoning a once common refrain from the leaner years of the early twentieth century.6 In lieu of addressing their audience as a hungry monolith, advertising agencies began to divide and conquer. For the first time in La Cucina Italiana’s history, the majority of food advertising campaigns directly invoked the consumer’s gender.7 Resulting ads highlighted how a single foodstuff influenced female and male physiology in different ways. Economic Boom food advertisements from this popular magazine both reflected and affected cultural changes in the conception of gender in Italy. Among these, ads featuring women vividly evoke concern for food’s effect on personal appearance. Ads featuring families similarly highlight this issue for mothers and daughters, but point to the importance of product flavor and digestibility for husbands and sons. Because these advertisements portray consumer food requirements and desires (such as caloric content, taste, and nutritional value) as being fundamentally distinct for male and female bodies, I argue that they not only evoke preexisting conceptions of gender division, but actually work to create new, biologicallydetermined differentiations between male and female consumers.

Context Vibrancy and rarity characterize previous scholarship of twentieth century Italian mass media. Karen Pinkus’ Bodily Regimes mapped the popular iconography of Fascist period tropes. Analysis of historical marketing techniques grounds Adam Arvidsson’s Marketing Modernity. David Forgacs and Stephen Gundle’s ethnographic inquiries flesh out the consumer’s reception of mass media themes. Few researchers examine advertising to elucidate Italian culture, and none focuses exclusively on food advertisements.8 In addition to incorporating novel materials, this study also builds on pre-existing scholarship by incorporating techniques from multiple disciplines. Literary and art criticism unlock meaning in advertisements as well as highbrow works. Historical analysis and theoretical exposition contextualize and extend the significance of recurring themes. While many scholars only employ methods common to their respective fields, I use a spectrum of techniques to analyze Italian food advertisements. This novel, hybrid approach permits wide application of the study’s conclusions. Examining how a subset of advertisements represent gender division reveals place- and period-specific cultural assumptions that anchor this expansive theme. Kathleen LeBesco, Peter Naccarato, and Victoria De Grazia



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have explored mass media’s role in American and Italian gender construction at the theoretical level, pointing to iconic examples to illustrate broad cultural currents. Their foundational work provides the conceptual framework used here. Specificity guides this study; one cannot trace the genesis or apotheosis of gender division in mass media to Italy, a single country, or the Economic Boom, a discrete time period. Bearing this in mind, I selected advertisements that a) appear in multiple magazines over a multi-year period and b) illustrate the iconic themes emerging from a corpus of well over 2,000.9 Frequency and intensity, shown in the repetition of specific words and images, helped me to identify the motifs for analysis. For this reason, this chapter seeks first to identify emergent themes associated with gender division, such as the linea (female figure), measurement tools, and the dinner table as a place of battle or judgment, and then to explain their social significance within the context of Economic Boom Italy.

Overview To open this chapter, I analyze four food advertisements from the 1930s showing women alone, and in a family context. Most food ads appearing in La Cucina Italiana from the 1930s to the early 1940s10 show the product and brand name, perhaps accompanied by simple graphics related to the food, such as a steaming plate of pasta. When ads do include people, they tend to highlight profession or vocation rather than familial roles. Chefs and nuns far outnumber housewives. As such, the proliferation of women and families in 1950s advertisements indicates the ascending visibility of the housewife as a cultural figure as well as increasing commercial focus on private family lives. In Series 1, the first two ads sell beer and jam to women by emphasizing the pleasures of the product (refreshment, taste, varied flavors) and its positive effects on the body (cooling, nourishing). The advertisements in Series 2 hawk pasta to families. Buitoni’s spaghetti al sugo (spaghetti with sauce) ad showcases a variety of body types, all produced by consuming the same pasta. A man takes on the traditionally female work of food preparation, with no resulting loss in masculinity. Barilla hawks its product based on its disparate effects on different family members. Age and strength, not gender, differentiate the bodies in this ad. Focus on food’s taste, nutrition, and capacity to sustain both young and old characterizes many food ads published prior to the upsurge of mass consumption in the late 1950s. Such a frame serves to cast the gender divisions of Economic Boom food advertisements into sharp relief, rather than to diagnose the social significance of the body’s treatment in early twentieth century food advertising.

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Gender division blooms into a widespread advertising trope for comestibles during the late 1950s and early 1960s. To demonstrate how advertisers distinguish between female and male bodies in both image and text, I will give a visual tour of two sets of thematically grouped advertisements from La Cucina Italiana. In Series 3, the first three ads center on women, and highlight the supposed needs and wants of the female body. These advertisements use imagery of scales, measuring tapes, and textual references to lightness and thinness to suggest that the most important characteristic of women’s food is low caloric content. Food’s primary value lies in its capacity to restructure the female body. The second set of advertisements from the Economic Boom consists of family portrayals. The two ads in Series 4 showcase the differing needs and wants of female and male family members. They do not approach the consumer as a neutral entity, or the family as a holistic group. Instead, they target their arguments. As in Series 3, these ads point to the product’s ability to slim the female body. They assign importance to taste and ease of digestion to male bodies. But because all of these ads address a female audience, they cast the potential satisfaction of the male body through product purchase in terms meant to appeal to women. This move reveals the supposed emotional cravings of a particular time and place: a tasty meal for the husband leads to compliments, or at least the absence of criticism, for the wife. If both father and son enjoy smooth digestion, then their character changes as a result. For male bodies, food’s effect on behavior is the major selling point. These ads suggest that in Economic Boom period Italy, pervasive principle held that women wanted to use food both to slim their bodies and to improve their male family members’ comportment. But more broadly, the changing gender norms promoted by these advertisements speak to national shifts in Italian domestic life, as writ in the idealized representations of Italy’s private sphere.

Series 1: 1930s food ads with women “August Shivers” Early twentieth-century food advertisements aimed at women focused on the agreeable effects food had on the body, as this beer ad from the August 1930 edition of La Cucina Italiana demonstrates. A consortium of beverage companies cooperated to produce this ad, part of a series to promote beer regardless of brand. I will refer to this ad by the descriptive title “August Shivers.”11 In 1930s Italy, both genders enjoyed beer, as evidenced by the neutral Italian subject “Chi” (lit. “the one who”) in the campaign slogan “He



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FIGURE 8.1  Collective Beer Advertising Campaign “Chi Beve Birra Campa Cent’Anni,” “August Shivers,” Rome, 1930 (La Cucina Italiana [August 1930]). who drinks beer lives for a hundred years.” The accompanying portrait of transgenerational beer drinking miniaturizes another ad image in this series. In striking contrast with Economic Boom food ads, including those for beer, this ad copy argues that the product ameliorates the woman’s experience of consumption. Later ads for foods and beverages contend that their sundry

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products improve women’s corporeal aesthetics by decreasing body size and weight. Regardless of time period, food’s effect on the body remains central to the arguments in favor of product purchase. Both image and text highlight the delights of drinking cold beer to refresh the body in summer heat. The text reads, A shiver in the heat: in this torrid August it is a true joy to quench one’s thirst with beer. It is as though a reviving shiver of air gathers at the edge of the glass. Beer is truly a light, healthy, delicious beverage that refreshes and gives pleasure. To feel it go down the parched ways of the throat seems like being reborn. It quenches and does you good at any time. Drink Italian beer.12 The presence of a woman next to the ad copy combined with ad placement in a magazine of largely female readership mark women as this ad’s intended audience. Yet the gender-neutral tone of the arguments for beer drinking could apply to both women and men. Quenching thirst and cooling the throat to provide relief from heat constitute gender-neutral bodily changes. Beer affects one body part in particular, the gola (throat). “Inner” body parts such as this point to commonalities between female and male bodies, whereas visible, gendered parts, such as breasts or the waist, highlight bodily differences. Along these lines, the ad presents an image of a female body that suggests more overlaps between female and male bodies than divergences. The broad torso, trim body, and upright posture of this figure render it gender-neutral from neck to the knees. Gendered hourglass dimensions and stereotypically feminine facial features, such the as the pronounced eyelashes and lips omnipresent in later ads, are notably absent. Clothing and accessories (skirt hem, necklace, bonnet, heels, parasol) and fashion-plate pose mark this silhouette as female. In this ad, outer accoutrements mark gender, rather than features of the body. The ad copy frames beer’s benefits to the female consumer in terms of physical satisfaction. Beer is a “joy” to drink because it offers “pleasure” by quenching thirst. In describing cool shivers emanating from the lip of the glass, the ad elicits vicarious sensory enjoyment of beer. The bolded text, “A shiver in August,” points to the particular loveliness of this sensation during summer months. Leggera (light) and sana (healthy) signify beer as an ideal beverage to combat heat. With the onset of the Economic Boom, these adjectives connote a different goal: maintenance of low body weight. In the 1930s beer “does one good” (fa bene) by refreshing the female body. By the 1950s, ads deploy these same words to suggest that their product slims the body. From the interwar years to the Economic Boom, the same words in food ads



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evoke noticeably different aims for female bodies, suggesting the creation of new, biologically determined conceptions of gender. These new images worked to naturalize gender difference at the level of the cell, suggesting that female and male bodies not only looked different on the outside, but also worked differently on the inside. A person’s gender, they suggested, ultimately controlled bodily processes like digestion, vitamin absorption, and fat storage. To understand why ads might have introduced representations of bodily gender difference during the Economic Boom period, one need only consider the fact that the increased potential for employment unevenly affected women and men, offering more and better opportunities for work for the latter group than the former.13 As such, these new representations may have been attempts to explain, rather than to create, a new cultural phenomenon: the rise of the company man and the housewife.14

“Bride and Bonnet” Cirio, purveyor of preserved foods, produced a striking advertisement aimed at newly married women for the October 1931 issue of La Cucina Italiana. As with “August Shivers,” the ad “Bride and Bonnet” hawks its product for its effects on the female body. Although concern for pleasure remains present, arguments for the product’s nutritional benefits predominate. The ad’s key image depicts a beautiful young woman’s face, her hands folded under the right cheek to partially reveal a baby bonnet. Rendering of her classically female facial features suggests aesthetic styles of the day: softly curled blonde hair, plucked eyebrows in half-moon arches, as well as visible eyeliner and lipstick mark her as a savvy consumer of popular 1930s beauty products. Though figureless in the sense that we do not see her body, she constitutes an aspirational figure. The suggestive presence of the baby bonnet coupled with the omission of the woman’s body below the neck evokes the idea that a baby may be “present” in this ad as well. At the very least, the image of the bonnet and extensive textual discussion of the nascituro (baby-to-be) indicate that the effects of the product on both the woman’s and the future baby’s body provide motives for buying Cirio jam. Dense text accompanying this image focuses on the female body in terms of its abilities and capacities during pregnancy. The opening phrase frames the consumption of Cirio jam as a means for women to increase their vitamin intake, and thus produce hale and hearty children, “You know to nourish yourself well if you want to give birth to strong, healthy babies.” Physical symptoms accompanying pregnancy emerge in graphic details rarely used in contemporary Italian advertising, let alone in Economic Boom ads. An unstinting narrative of morning sickness’ effects on the

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FIGURE 8.2  Cirio, “Bride and Bonnet,” Rome, 1931 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1931). Courtesy of Gruppo Conserve Italia.

female body—lack of appetite (inappertenza), irrepressible vomiting (vomiti incoercibili), and convulsive states (stati convulsivi)—indicates that pregnant women in particular benefit from Cirio jam, as this product addresses their concomitant needs for flavor and energy. Adjectives describe the product as pleasing (gradevole) and varied and flavorful (variato e gustoso) to suggest an enjoyable dining experience that includes beneficial nutrients “capable of giving you strength at the same time.” In contrast to Economic Boom advertisements, this ad highlights high caloric content and added sugars as virtuous product attributes providing strength, rather than negative qualities triggering undesirably high body weight. In the 1950s, food ads aimed at expectant mothers shun such arguments—the social castigation associated with weight gain menaces even during pregnancy. The text’s tone and content treat the jam’s ability to please the mother’s palate and nourish her developing baby as dual goals. We see this equanimity in the penultimate phrase: ten varieties of fruit type allow the mother to select “the fruit [she] likes best, day by day” and thus “fortify, through your own, the organism of the baby to come.” Providing aesthetic pleasure for the woman results in nourishment for the baby. So while Cirio jam contends that their product benefits pregnant, and thus definitionally female, bodies, the



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arguments made for taste and nutrition specifically address needs associated with temporary bodily state rather than gender.

Series 2: 1930s food ads with families “A Surprise at Home” While La Cucina Italiana’s readership skewed female almost from its inception, neutral address in articles from 1929 to 1931 suggest magazine editors assumed a mixed audience. The October 1929 Buitoni pasta advertisement “A Surprise at Home” portrays a family, but addresses the male demographic of La Cucina Italiana’s readership. The “surprise” of this ad turns on normative gender roles governing food preparation. Directly addressing men, who would likely identify with the tie-clad, would-be chef in the accompanying image, the ad copy exhorts, “Surprise your family members by demonstrating that you know how to perfectly prepare pasta without ever having been interested in cooking.” In the description that follows, Buitoni’s ten-minute boil-in-a-bag dinner emerges as the means to “prepare a splendid pasta for four people better than the most expert cook.” The advertisement depicts the temporary assumption of stereotypically female food preparation work as a potential fount of affirmation for the male ego. This product’s merits for men lie in its flavor, ease of preparation, and capacity to impress the family—all arguments that 1950s ads use to entice female consumers to purchase products. The image and text clarify that this role shift does not threaten the consumer’s masculinity. Ensconced in the domestic sphere, the ad’s protagonist gains his family’s attention while maintaining a dominant familial role. The reedy wife holds the man’s hat and jacket for him, her mouth open in astonishment, while the son arches his back to follow the culinary work taking place on the stovetop above. Turned away from the action, but with her eyes on the progress of this culinary experiment, the stout grandmother puts her hand on her hips, perhaps indicating frustration that a male family member has successfully usurped her domain for the evening. Contrast between the wife’s beanpole frame and the grandmother’s rounded figure serves to identify their familial roles. In other words, grandmothers and wives are definitionally stout and slim, respectively. This image suggests that differences in weight among female bodies correspond with age, rather than the consumption of particular products. Clad in office attire and surrounded by family, the man maintains the traditionally male roles of breadwinner, husband, and father even as he engages in female work. All heads turn towards him as he lowers the package into

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FIGURE 8.3  Buitoni, “A Surprise at Home,” Rome, 1931 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1931]). Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.



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the ready pot. Although the text suggests that boiling Buitoni pasta provides the man with the additional role of chef, the image of the family gathered around a single pot on a small stove firmly grounds this particular act of food preparation in the private, domestic sphere even as the prepackaged product, as well as the ad itself, evokes the larger systems of food production and distribution that surround the home. The Italian family represented here thus stands as metonym for the shifting consumption patterns that occurred at the national level during the 1930s.15 As Carole Counihan has noted in Around the Tuscan Table, food preparation and the ability to please one’s family provided women with a circumscribed form of power up to the industrial era. This ad, and the spectrum of emotions displayed by this family, evoked the first jolts of these economic and social shifts.16

“Everyone Benefits” Prior to the Economic Boom, ads for pasta primarily categorized bodies based on age, strength, and activity level, as this Pasta Fosfina Barilla ad from the May 1937 edition of La Cucina Italiana demonstrates. I will refer to this ad as “Everyone Benefits.” The nutritional needs of the family

FIGURE 8.4  Barilla, “Everyone Benefits,” Rome, 1937 (La Cucina Italiana [May 1937]). Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

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first emerge monolithically in the titular phrase, “Everyone benefits from eating Phosphorous Pasta,”17 and then individually in the product slogan, “Barilla Phosphorous Pasta gives strength to the weak, sustains the strong.” These claims work in combination: the family unit benefits from the product because the pasta aids strong and weak bodies alike. Further, it suggests a broader need to promote the Italian nation as strong at this particular historical moment, that is, on the eve of Italy’s formal entrée into World War II. The ad catches this family mid-meal, with spoons raised to their lips. The matriarch gazes at the viewer, almost appearing to speak the bolded ad copy beside her head. Despite employing a rhetoric of biology to highlight the pasta’s nutritional benefits, the ad copy prescribes this product on the basis of bodily ailments rather than gender divisions. “Phosphorous is an indispensable nutrient for developing organisms, as those that must be defended from loss of strength caused by excessive work, prolonged nervous tension, sicknesses, etc.” The ad copy’s scientific tone flattens male-female distinctions, referencing “organisms” rather than gender-specific family titles. Relative robustness distinguishes between bodies. Bodily distinctions primarily focus on age and health. By contrast, pasta ads from the Economic Boom emphasize myriad, distinct biological effects of a single food product on the basis of gender.

Series 3: Economic boom food ads with women “The Angry Scale” Perhaps the Economic Boom triggered this shift: when Italy’s economy surged, proper nutrition became an expectation, not a goal. With the family’s survival assured, the consumer could select products to meet desires rather than needs. Now that the precondition of familial survival was easily met, desires ranging from delicious food to marital accord could afford to emerge. Near exclusive emphasis on the woman’s figure in these advertisements illustrates the intensity of this shift, as evidenced by the following advertisement. Perhaps the most visually arresting example in this series is the advertisement for rice produced by the National Rice Board (Ente Nazionale Risi ), which appeared in the March 1959 edition of La Cucina Italiana. The warlike declaration, “Rice defends the figure,” captions this emotionally drenched cartoon image. A glowering scale bends forward, pushing a bag of rice towards an abashed woman. The needle points skyward, indicating an inappropriately high, though numerically undisclosed, body weight. No clear quantitative boundary distinguishes heavy from light, leaving the reader



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FIGURE 8.5  Ente Nazionale Risi, “The Angry Scale,” Rome, 1959 (La Cucina Italiana [March 1959]). Courtesy of Ente Nazionale Risi.

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to question where she stands in the spectrum of bodily acceptability. In the ad, the woman’s hand rises to her cheek in an expression of surprise and embarrassment. In this black-and-white image, darker shading on her cheek suggests a deep blush. The scale prescribes rice as a remedy for the woman’s supposedly high weight. This visually arresting ad centers on the woman’s miniscule waist, a fixed point in the swirl of temporarily frozen motion created by the scale’s downward swoop and the voluminous eddies of the woman’s skirt. Her exaggerated, hourglass figure would be unattainable for the readers of La Cucina Italiana. Because the ad provides a petite beauty to exemplify heaviness, it manufactures anxiety in the reader and creates demand for the product. An anthropomorphized scale, with its medical gaze, takes on the authoritative power of prescribing foods to reduce female body weight. Food serves as a change agent, rather than an element of nourishment or a source of pleasure. As such, this advertisement typifies the intense and exclusive attention that the National Rice Board devoted to the diminishing effect of rice on the female body. This gambit suggests an underlying assumption that among all possible bodily modifications achievable through foodstuffs, women most wanted to lose weight. The use of shame implies a further distinction: the motive for this change primarily lay in the woman’s selfconception rather than in her relation to a broader audience.

“Margarine Scales” Foglia d’oro margarine produced a similarly themed advertisement for the October 1959 issue of La Cucina Italiana. This ad employed the trope of the linea to sell its product, stressing margarine’s slimming effect while omitting any mention of flavor. “Margarine Scales” features weight as the key motivating factor for product purchase in image and text. The ad’s design renders the woman in the same scale as the tub of margarine, emphasizing her elfin proportions. She poses on a dinner plate, a measuring tape pulled tight around her diminutive waist. This platform rises gently above its neighbor, which supports the tub of margarine. Viewed in this way, the dinner plate morphs into a scale plate. The ad not only renders the woman and the margarine in the same scale, but also places them on the same measuring scale. Because she eats margarine, the woman’s weight appears to plummet below that of the palm-sized product. Further emphasizing the theme of weight loss, the ad copy repeats the word light (leggero) twice. The text proclaims, One acquires or loses the waistline at the table! But be careful! … It’s not what you eat that counts, but how you season. Quite so! Ask the doctor. If [everyone] ate without seasoning then no one would get fat! To eat well while



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FIGURE 8.6  Foglia d’Oro, “Margarine Scales,” Rome, 1959 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1959]). Courtesy of Unilever.

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preserving the waistline one absolutely needs a light condiment, without heavy fats! The lightest condiment you could wish for is Foglia d’Oro.18 As with the National Rice Board ads, this ad copy adopts a bellicose tone. The dinner table becomes a battleground, where women win or lose the ideal linea. Weight and measurement determine victory in this arena. The exhortation to “ask the doctor” grants the medic, not the chef, authority to judge the merits of the ad’s claims. Foglia d’Oro sells its product based almost solely on the promise that it trims the female body. The scales, measuring tape, and nod to the doctor depict food consumption as an act requiring medical monitoring to ensure progress towards the goal of weight loss. Taste, cost, and convenience go unmentioned. Such a framework appears predicated on the assumption that food’s value for women lies solely in its biological capacity to diminish rather than nourish the body. While Italian food advertising’s focus on female body size and weight predates the Economic Boom period, several key features of this trope are unique to the late 1950s and early 1960s. A noteworthy frequency and emotional intensity of weight loss edicts emerges in this period, as does an almost obsessive focus on the waistline. This new emphasis might be due to expanding American influence on Italian advertising during this period. In addition to products like Coca-Cola, Ritz crackers, and Kraft cheese that flooded the Italian market as a result of the Marshall Plan, wasp-waisted stars like Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell also constituted popular American exports during this period. Artistic composition consistently places the waist at the center of these ads. The predominance of measuring tapes and nipped dresses also highlight this part of the body. Measurement, in the form of medical opinion and devices, provides supposedly objective validation for the ads’ promises. These motifs coalesce around a single issue: quantitative information on the body leads to qualitative self-assessment. Food assumes a medicinal quality, in its ability to manipulate the terms of this equation. The trope of the table as a battleground pits women against food, with their waistline at stake in the skirmish.

Series 4: Economic boom food ads with families “Well done! With Gradina.” With the rise of consumerism, selecting among basic food products for their capacity to change the body provides a new way of constructing the self, with potent, emotional rewards. Series 3 visually and textually depicted the



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FIGURE 8.7  Gradina, “Well done! With Gradina.” Rome, 1957 (La Cucina Italiana [February 1957]). Courtesy of Unilever.

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emergent idea that food served as a powerful tool for women to sculpt the body and the self. Series 4 similarly suggests that food works as a tool that women can control to change bodily processes. In these advertisements, the nature of that change differs. Food’s utility arises from its capacity to change the comportment of male family members, and thus to improve to female consumer’s home life. First, let us consider “Well done! With Gradina,” a February 195719 margarine ad that parcels out product benefits according to the consumer’s gender in a family setting. This advertisement suggests that Gradina margarine both satisfies the culinary desires of male bodies and enables female bodies to maintain trim figures. This portrayal suggests an underlying assumption that men and women judge the worthiness of a product by different criteria. The ad highlights the product’s benefits to both genders by alternating between male and female narratives. The voice of the husband splashes across the top of the image in a titular fashion, “… Well done! You were right …” before continuing below the image “I ate well with Gradina.” His compliments on his wife’s cooking continue in italics in a smaller paragraph below. Two and a half lines in, the wife’s voice interjects, “Sweetheart, Gradina is the one to thank.” She continues her complimentary description of the product for the next two and a half lines of text. Three bullet points in neutral ad copy voice follow, outlining the virtues of Gradina in terms of its lightness, nutritional value, and versatility. The photographic image shows a family at the dinner table. The husband’s back faces the viewer. By obscuring any identifying features, the ad allows the viewer to picture her husband in his place. This reader would likely identify with the wife, who has just won her argument for Gradina’s superiority as a product by dint of a delicious dinner. And yet she appears subordinate, inclined toward her husband in a half-bow of thanks for his compliment. The realistically rendered scene takes place just after dinner. While the husband sits at the table with his newspaper half-open in his lap, the picture of relaxation, the wife and her daughter stand by the table clearing away the dishes. A smaller image in black-and-white photography reprises the image of the wife in an identical posture and smile, this time bent over the pans on a stove. According to her own objection in the text, the product rather than culinary skill has triumphed. This image of male satisfaction points to the fact that advertisers assigned value to product taste primarily in the context of male consumers. The clean plates and the husband’s bolded compliment point to male appreciation for the tastiness of the product, and define the wife’s value by her ability to satisfy the male body with culinary prowess. In contrast to the ads analyzed thus far, this ad emphasizes the virtue of the product’s lightness only secondarily. As the ad portrays the woman in a subsidiary position in imagery, the analogous subordination of the perceived needs of the female body in the ad



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copy is not surprising. Only the wife and the ad copy speak of lightness, a product characteristic meant to appeal to the women. The three bullet points at the end appeal to women as well. None concern flavor, but rather how margarine affects the body by promoting weight loss and offering nutrition.

“A Court of Gourmets” “Well done! With Gradina” suggests that one product can fulfill the separate needs and desires of female and male family members, but gender division in La Cucina Italiana’s October 1958 Sesia pasta ad “A Court of Gourmets” goes further. This advertisement highlights food’s supposed capacity to produce disparate biological effects on family members’ bodies in accordance with their gender. Rendered in pen and ink, the central image of this ad shows an elegant family seated at the dinner table. The eyes of two men, one elderly and one middle-aged, coolly assess a dish of pasta arriving at the table in the hands of a maid. A young boy and girl eagerly lean towards the serving plate. Only the matriarch in pearls looks directly out from the ad, as if to address the viewer with the bolded text above the image, “Every family is a court of gourmets!” The table is no longer the battleground of the “Margarine Scales” ad, but a courtroom where the family judges the matriarch’s culinary direction. As with “Margarine Scales,” the table emerges as an emotional fraught space. The multifaceted product promises to bring familial reconciliation and peace to the beleaguered woman. From this point, the ad copy switches to smaller text, and the narrative voice aligns more closely with the advertiser’s voice than the matriarch’s. References to the husband, daughter and son in the ad copy suggest the assumption that the reader is also a married woman with children. The paragraph below the familial scene evokes the intensity of their potential critique: “… of very exacting gourmets ever ready to criticize.” This ad promises, “Everyone will agree on Pasta Sesia,” because it can work on different bodies in different ways. The husband will digest better, which changes his character. Pasta Sesia makes him both “more serene and more active.” This pasta also affects the son’s comportment, causing him to study with greater application. As for the daughter, this product addresses purely physical concerns. Eating Pasta Sesia means that she won’t have to worry about the famous linea, or how this dish will affect her complexion (“your daughter will finally be able to eat without worrying about her figure and complexion.” How this product benefits the matriarch goes unmentioned, perhaps because the ad assumes that her aesthetic concerns overlap with those of the daughter. And of course, like the wife of the “Well done! With Gradina” ad, “A Court of Gourmets” suggests that pleasing the husband is the woman’s primary goal. By contrast, early twentieth century food ads

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FIGURE 8.8  Sesia, “A Court of Gourmets,” Rome, 1958 (La Cucina Italiana [October 1958]). Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.



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showing the family portray her primary aim as providing nutritious food, and her secondary aim as providing a tasty meal. These objectives target the family unit as a whole, rather than the husband. Food advertisements began to allocate desires on a gendered basis. “A Court of Gourmets” demonstrates this phenomenon: while the familial tribunal may agree on the verdict, this ad suggests that each jurist responds to a separate argument. Monolithic claims branch into multidimensional appeals.20

Conclusion Economic Boom period La Cucina Italiana advertisements repeatedly emphasize different aspects of the same foodstuff, making separate appeals for women and men. Ads for rice, margarine, and pasta aimed solely at women contend that the lightness of these products helps to diminish the linea and aid with weight loss. When these ads address the needs of the family at large, the copy points to different product benefits for men, such as taste and ease of digestion. By purchasing one product, the consumer simultaneously but separately addressed male desire for taste and female desire for weight loss and a peaceful home life. As such, the food’s digestibility, nutritional benefits and taste are not collectively enjoyed by any one diner, but are rather divided out according to gender. Prior to the 1950s, ads such as “Everyone Benefits” also claimed that foods worked on different bodies in different ways, but highlighted age and health as distinguishing factors. Economic Boom period La Cucina Italiana advertisements show that in the 1950s, food emerges as a key site for the materialization and articulation of gender division in Italian mass media. Because food provides a concrete way to translate abstract ideas about gendered work, family structures, and national traditions into a set of concrete actions oriented around food preparation and consumption, Italian companies had to engage with questions of household norms in their advertising, making sense of the wave of economic affluence that inundated Italy during the 1950s, and the social changes that followed in its wake. Using advertising from La Cucina Italiana to decipher this phenomenon allows for broad applicability of these deductions. In detailing the evocation and creation of gender division from a cultural perspective, ads provide three, key advantages over other types of materials. First, magazine advertisers made a conscious effort to construct new gender differentiations as a marketing tactic during the late 1950s. La Cucina Italiana’s ads played a decisive role in this construction, as Adam Arvidsson notes in Marketing Modernity.21 Extensive consumer research also went into the creation of these ads. As Marshall McLuhan admits in Understanding Media, “No group

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of sociologists can approximate the ad teams in the gathering and processing of exploitable social data.”22 So, these ads show the foundation of preexisting societal attitudes and the emergent strata of new concerns. Finally, the atavistic punch of these specific ads evokes the aspirations and fears of the society that created them. At once didactic and dream inducing, they play a fairy tale-like role in Italy’s Economic Boom consumer culture.

Notes 1

Carole Counihan notes that Italian women traditionally “attained and manifested” identity through food provisioning, which could in turn influence the behavior and values of their families. See “Female Identity, Food, and Power in Contemporary Florence,” Anthropological Quarterly 61 (2) (1988): 51.

2

Eric Hobsbawm, The Age of Extremes: A History of the World, 1914–1991 (New York: Vintage, 1996), 264.

3

During the Economic Boom, publishers and editors of La Cucina Italiana assumed their readership to be female. When directly addressing this group, writers use feminine terms, such as care lettrici (dear readers) or casalingue (housewives). All translations in this chapter are the author’s own.

4

Because the first issue of La Cucina Italiana ran in 1929, this study uses tropes from no earlier than the 1930s to frame Economic Boom period food ad themes.

5

This period, known as “il boom economico” in Italy, extends the early 1950s through the late 1960s. The Italian economy experienced an average rate of growth of GDP of 5.8 percent per year between 1951 and 1963, and 5.0 percent per year between 1964 and 1973. For further explanation of the economic factors leading to Italy’s industrial development, see Mauro Rota’s “Credit and growth: Reconsidering Italian industrial policy during the Golden Age,” European Review of Economic History 17 (4) (2013): 431–51.

6

“Basic” foodstuffs constitute foods bought on a regular basis, including dietary staples such as rice and pasta, as well as beverages and condiments such as beer, margarine, and jam. Note that the attribution of “staple” to foods changes over time; in the 1930s jam frequently substituted for fresh fruit, and thus constituted a staple.

7

For the purposes of this discussion, “gender” refers to a biological definition of male and female. “Sex” refers to a social construction of male and female roles. Discussion of additional orientations lies beyond this study’s scope and purpose.

8

Karen Pinkus, Bodily Regimes: Italian Advertising under Fascism (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1995); Adam Arvidsson, Marketing Modernity: Italian Advertising from Fascism to Postmodernity (New York: Routledge, 2003); David Forgas and Stephen Gundle, Mass



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Culture and Italian Society from Fascism to the Cold War (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2008). Food Studies scholars frequently examine food advertisements to demystify cultural phenomena. For a classic example, see Fabio Parasecoli’s “Feeding Hard Bodies: Food and Masculinities in Men’s Fitness Magazines,” in Food and Culture: A Reader (New York: Routledge, 1997), 187–201. 9

Primary research sites include Biblioteca Gastronomica Barilla, Archivio Storico Barilla, and Centro Studi e Archivio della Communicazione. Secondary sites include Wolfsonian-FIU and Museo della Figurina. Visits took place in October 2009 and June–July 2010. Examining roughly 850 Economic Boom ads permitted me to a) identify motifs related to gender division, and b) select six, characteristic examples.

10 La Cucina Italiana halted circulation during the late war and postwar years from 1943 to 1952. Other popular periodicals advertisements of the 1940s exhibit similar content and style to La Cucina Italiana’s 1930s food ads, indicating that increased commercial attention to gender crests in the late 1950s and early 1960s. 11 All advertisement titles are the author’s own. I intend these inventions to both evoke ad content and be memorable for the reader. 12 La Cucina Italiana also ran cropped, black-and-white versions of this ad in their January 1957 and April 1957 editions. 13 Adam Arvidsson points to La Cucina Italiana’s role in this change, “According to advertising professionals, the weekly press, and in particular, the women’s magazines—like La Cucina Italiana, which addressed its readership as casalinghe during this period—would serve as a kind of schooling in modernity. […] Pedagogically they would present modern consumer goods as part of a new gendered ideal,” Marketing Modernity, 70. 14 The Italian text reads, “Un brivido nella calura: In questo Agosto infocato è una vera gioia dissetarsi con birra. E come se una superstite brivido d’aria si raccogliesse su l’orlo del bicchiere. La birra è veramente una bevanda leggera, sana, squisita, che rinfresca e dà piacere. A sentirla scendere giù per le arse vie della gola, pare di rinascere. Disseta e fa bene a ogni ora. Bevete birra italiana.” 15 Fabio Parasecoli explores similar issues in American food advertising in “Food and Popular Culture,” in Paul Freedman, Joyce E. Chaplin, and Ken Albala (eds), Food in Time and Place: The American Historical Association Companion to Food History (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014). 16 For an examination of the new traditionalist thinking in the Economic Boom period, see Carol Helstosky’s, “The Tradition of Invention: Reading History Through La Cucina Casareccia Napoletana,” in Carol Bonomo Albright and Christine Palamidessi Moore (eds), American Woman, Italian Style: Italian Americana’s Best Writings on Women (New York: Fordham University Press, 2011). 17 Rachel Black adeptly contextualizes these economic changes and their social markers at the level of a single marketplace in “Fare La Spesa:

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD Shopping, Morality, and Anxiety at the Market,” in Porta Palazzo: The Anthropology of an Italian Market (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 65–92.

18 Barbara Ketcham Wheaton has convincingly argued for the use of similar sources as lens with which to observe societal shifts at the level of the everyday. See, for example, “Cookbooks as Resources for Social History,” in Paul Freedman, Joyce E. Chaplin, and Ken Albala (eds), Food in Time and Place: The American Historical Association Companion to Food History (Los Angeles and Berkely: University of California Press, 2014). 19 The Italian text reads “La linea si acquista o si perde a tavola! Però attenzione! … Non conta come mangiate ma come condite. Proprio così! Chiedetelo al medico. Se i cibi si mangiassero sconditi nessuno ingrasserebbe! Per mangiare bene salvando la linea occorre assolutamente un condimento leggero, privo di grassi pesanti! Il condimento più leggero che possiate desiderare è Foglia d’Oro.” 20 Food advertising in Italy has continued to move towards personalization, using different vectors of identity to market their products. For a detailed study of how personal identity links with national representation through visual forms of culinary culture, see Ronda L. Brulotte and Michael Di Giovine’s Edible Identities: Food As Cultural Heritage (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014). 22 Adam Arvidsson, Marketing Modernity: Italian Advertising from Fascism to Postmodernity (New York: Rutledge, 2003), 70. 21 Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (Abington, UK: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1968), 228.

9 “A kitchen with a view”: The modernization of gender roles in Italy through Barilla’s 1950s and 1960s advertising campaigns Antonella Valoroso

T

his chapter analyzes several advertising campaigns launched by the Barilla Company in Italy between the early 1950s and the end of the 1960s.1 Its main purpose is to highlight the peculiar intertwining of eating habits, cultural history, and gender roles. It will argue that the necessity of modernizing pasta, a food generally considered poor and of sparse nutritional value, contributed significantly to the renovation of the female role models presented to the mainstream audience. The choice of representing women in more modern clothes, settings, and attitudes certainly helped Barilla achieve its goal, and also had a relevant impact on the national collective imagination, fostering the entry of Italian women into modernity. According to the copywriter and historian of advertising Gian Paolo Ceserani, “advertising is one of the best ‘windows’ to observe social change” and in the 1950s “communication reflects and records a crucial clash: that between the traditional peasant culture and the world of technology and ‘plastic’, between soap and washing powder, and above all that between the ethics of sacrifice and the dawning hedonism.”2 By the same token, advertising very well represents the clash between the idea of woman as “angel of the house” and the emergence of new female subjectivities that aimed

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FIGURE 9.1  Cover of the 1939 Barilla calendar. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.



Producing consumers

FIGURE 9.2  Barilla noodle ad, 1956 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

167

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to play a major role in Italian society. Between 1949—the year in which the Marshall plan starts positively affecting the Italian economy—and the first half of the 1960s, both GDP per capita and private consumption doubled. Refrigerators and TV sets appeared in most houses, more and more cars circulated in the streets and tourism became a mass phenomenon.3 During the years of the country’s economic boom, Barilla’s advertising is marked by the activity and creativity of the graphic designer Erberto Carboni, who was in charge of all the campaigns from 1952 to 1960. In previous years Carboni had occasionally cooperated with the company and in 1939 he had designed for Barilla a calendar with the significant title “Homage to the Italian woman”. The calendar’s cover, created with the assemblage technique—one of the artist’s favorites—presents a remarkable background of a glowing white eggs on which the Italian woman is portrayed as a healthy peasant with blooming breasts and simple clothing; her only embellishment consists of the straw hat that frames her smiling face just like the Madonna’s halo.4 Such a picture could easily belong to the nineteenth century and perfectly embodies the ideals of Fascist Italy. For his advert­ isements of the 1950s, however, Carboni usually preferred abstract shapes, metaphors and a symbolic language. Until 1956, he chose not to represent women, but when he finally did, he opted for a very different female model whose look was much more sophisticated, and whose clothes and attitudes were definitely modern. Nonetheless, in the caption accompanying this picture, the woman is still identified as “brava massaia,”5 a term much more suited to Italian society circa 1939. The Italian word “massaia” was traditionally used to identify the wife of the farmer (“massaio”) and it was therefore a term closely associated with rural life. Later on, its meaning was extended and it came to signify every woman who, as her main occupation, took care of her house and family. During the 1950s and 1960s, however, the word “massaia” was gradually replaced by the more modern “casalinga,” meaning housewife. The abovementioned 1956 advertisement—like all the ones of the 1956 campaign—presents therefore a striking contrast worthy of attention: if the image chosen to portray the contemporary woman is absolutely modern, the language used to accompany it is extremely old-fashioned. This inconsistency between visual and verbal communication is a perfect example of the phenomenon described by Ceserani when he writes that in the 1950s: “Italy did not have a modern culture, she did not have adequate images for the new times, she even lacked suitable words to describe the dawning modernity.”6 Therefore, people kept saying and writing massaia even if the word was clearly outdated. The 1956 campaign is focused on packaging and therefore the female images only play a secondary role.7 But in the 1958 campaign, women are presented in a much more dynamic way as consumers. As consumption and shopping habits were quickly changing,



“A kitchen with a view”

FIGURE 9.3  Barilla noodle ad, 1958 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

169

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD

FIGURE 9.4  Barilla noodle ad, 1958 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.



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women were in fact more and more seen as mainly responsible for product selection. In connection with this, it is important to remember that the first supermarket—soon to be followed by many others—had opened in Milan only a year earlier in 1957. With the rise of supermarkets8 shopkeepers gradually lost their traditional role as mediators between products and buyers and it became crucial to start addressing the consumer in general, and the female consumer in particular, in a different way. The word massaia is not used anymore in the captions that rather illustrate the nutritional qualities of the product9 and try to convey the idea that pasta is indubitably a great meal to “fare bella figura” (to make a good impression) on one’s guests.10 One of the images used for the 1958 campaign is of particular interest: it shows a middle-class woman speaking on the telephone while seated on a gigantic box of pasta (once again Carboni is using the assemblage technique).11 This theme will be re-presented several more times and aims at highlighting the relationship between modernity—symbolized by the telephone—and the choice to consume pasta with both family and guests.12 It is, however, only in the 1960s that consumers become the true protagonists of the advertisement. Carboni in some sense takes a step back from the previous campaigns, probably judged a bit too sophisticated, to cater more to the average person’s tastes. The slogan too presents an explicit reference to traditional and Catholic culture: “con pasta Barilla è sempre domenica” (with Barilla pasta every day is Sunday). However, by suggesting that every day can be a special day and that the traditional “Sunday meal” can be enjoyed every single day of the week, Carboni’s new campaign seems to mark the beginning of a crucial transition in Italian society: that from a religiously-focused country in which the consumption of delicious/luxury food is justified by religious holidays to a county in which the consumption of good quality food does not need any excuse and becomes a value in and of itself. The 1960 campaign also marks the debut of a theme destined to enjoy great success in the following years: that of the wife making her husband (and kids) happy thanks to a delicious pasta meal because “la felicità comincia in cucina” (happiness begins in the kitchen).13 In the 1960s Barilla’s communi­ cations begin emphasize the idea that pasta could and should be considered a modern food. During the years of the economic boom “socio-cultural elites in fact considered pasta a coarse food from the gastronomic point of view and an unhistorical one from the nutritional perspective.”14 The etiquette books for ladies absolutely prohibited its use in formal dinners while “skipping the first course” was becoming more and more a symbol of cultural modernity. However, the Barilla Company was invested in making sure that pasta possessed all the necessary credentials to become part of the diet of Italian modernity: on the one hand, it was affordable and easy to prepare; on the other hand, it could satisfy the demand for variety and taste.15 It was

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FIGURE 9.5  Barilla noodle ad, 1960 print advertising campaign, designer Erberto Carboni. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.



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therefore necessary to carry out a “didactic effort” to incorporate pasta into modern Italian lifestyle, to free it from the prejudices with which it had been traditionally associated—it was considered provincial, if not even plebeian; it makes you gain weight—and to persuade consumers that pre-packed pasta should definitely be preferred over pasta sold loose. As a consequence, the new protagonist (and ideal target) of the advertising campaigns was a supposedly “modern” woman well aware that a good pasta dish could be her best ally in every circumstance. The underlying idea was that even if the woman of the 1960s could not be called a massaia anymore, that did not at all imply she had stopped being a cook as well as a wife and mother.16 This helps to explain the genesis of Bettina, the character created in 1964 by the international agency CVP to be the protagonist of a series of television commercials that presented an up-to-date female role model to the Italian audience.17 Bettina is young and pretty and has quite a busy social life, even if in the advertisements she appears most frequently in the domestic space of her fully equipped American-style kitchen.18 Bettina does not (and maybe cannot) make homemade pasta, but her cupboard is full of packages of egg pasta. In each of the twenty-two episodes of the series, Bettina has a different problem to face and unfailingly ends up solving it with a delicious dish of wide-egg noodles. In one of the commercials most relevant to this study, Bettina apparently calls her husband on the telephone to ask him what he would like to eat for lunch, but actually “forces” him to ask for wide-egg noodles. In fact, when he first asks for risotto she observes he would have to wait longer and in the meantime fix a leaking faucet; whereas if he chose a soup that meal would, in her opinion, end up being too light for him. The implicit message could not be more evident: tagliatelle are the perfect meal, quick to prepare and satisfying to eat. It is also important to highlight the message entrusted to the voice-over that, at the very end of the commercial, reminds the audience that Barilla egg pasta “tastes just like home-made pasta and stays firm.” In other words, the commercial is suggesting that there is no need to make pasta at home anymore and that everybody can cook it with no risk of making a mess. It is no accident that in another ad in this series, while Bettina is away on vacation, even her husband proves capable of preparing the infamous tagliatelle all by himself. However, the fact that this ad campaign only lasted for one year before being filed away may suggest that the Italian audience at this time wasn’t quite ready for this innovative (and maybe too British) model of housewife. Perhaps Italian women were not yet ready to identify with Bettina’s modern lifestyle (despite the fact that in 1965, 55 percent of Italian families possessed a refrigerator and 49 percent owned a TV set), and with her childless family, which at the time would not have been even considered a family.

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FIGURE 9.6  Still frame from the “Bettina” TV commercial, 1968. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

The year 1965 is marked by the debut of a new campaign destined to have good success: that of the “revealed cook”; meanwhile the “didactic effort” to teach all Italian women how to cook pasta goes on, too19 and Barilla promotes a massive campaign in women’s magazines to teach easy recipes.20 The strategy is quite simple: the advertisement shows a beautiful pasta dish accompanied by all the necessary instructions to make it, and suggests that by using Barilla pasta it will certainly come out good because Barilla pasta will help “reveal” the “great cook” hidden inside every (Italian) woman. It is precisely in the second half of the 1960s that both the de-regionalization and the Italianization of pasta (whose effects will be manifest later on) take place. The “didactic mission” of the company is also evident in the choice to include exact cooking times for each type of pasta on the box (Barilla was the first company to do this, in part because its standardized production process guarantees the uniformity of the product). Such a choice made the preparation of pasta easier and increased its consumption in the North of the peninsula, the geographic area where traditionally people mostly ate rice and polenta.21 The campaign of the “revealed cook” had two main goals: on the one hand, it aimed at dignifying pasta and making women not feel guilty if they did not (or could not) make it at home; on the other hand, it presented cooking not simply as a daily domestic duty but as an act of individual creativity highly



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FIGURE 9.7  Barilla spaghetti ad, “Revealed Cook” print advertising campaign, 1965. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

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enhanced by the supposed “magical” quality of the pasta. This is evident in the catchphrases: “There’s a Great Cook is inside you … and Barilla reveals her” and “You and Barilla, together, make a cooking masterpiece.”22 The actual revolution in Barilla’s campaigns, however, occurred with the decision to hire the pop singer Mina, the most transgressive, modern, and sexy of 1960s’ celebrities, as a spokeswoman. In 1965 Mina’s career was at a turning point: the twenty-five-year-old singer was in fact back on TV screens after she had been blacklisted for more than a year from state television23 because of her “irregular” love affair with the actor Corrado Pani, who at the time was married. In a country where divorce did not exist yet and the traditional family model did not seem to permit any exception,24 Mina had decided to make public both her liaison with Pani and her pregnancy (her son Massimiliano had been born on April 18, 1963); she consequently paid for that choice. The majority of the public, however, sided with her from the very beginning and supported the singer’s decision to challenge hypocrisy and conformism. Mina’s return to television was therefore perceived both as a personal triumph for her and a collective victory of modernity over the oppressive rules of bourgeois Catholic respectability. It is not an exaggeration to say that Mina’s private life contributed significantly to the transformation of Italian society, and made the country take a step forward towards the great cultural reforms of the 1970s.25 In 1965, Mina’s popularity was skyrocketing, yet hiring her as a spokeswoman seemed quite a risky choice. What did Mina have in common with pasta and the Italian housewife? Little or nothing. Yet Mina was the star of the day and her association with the product had the potential to transform pasta into something new and desirable: precisely a pasta-diva. The first TV commercials of the campaign had a simple format and were built around the coupling of pasta with sex. They usually began with a performance by the singer followed by a short clip in which Mina talked about Barilla pasta with her charming voice while touching the pasta boxes with sensual movements of her hands.26 Furthermore, from 1967 onwards, an authentic revolution occurred in the language used: not only did Mina address the female spectator with the informal “tu,”27 but she invited her to prepare pasta “per il [suo] uomo e i [suoi] ragazzi” (for her man and her kids), no longer for her husband and/or family.28 Another important commercial of the “Mina” series was produced in 1968. The plot is quite simple: the pop star is rehearsing a new song in the recording studio and, once her rehearsal is over, she invites the staff members to her house for a nice dish of spaghettini with tomato sauce. Even in this case, however, Mina is never shown actually preparing the meal— the viewer can only see her hands—and she does not seem to be exactly comfortable in the role of the cook. She almost forgets to salt the water,



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FIGURE 9.8  Still frame from the “Mina” TV commercial, 1965. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy. the flame in her stove burner is too high, she does not seem to really know where the necessary ingredients are, and so forth. Nevertheless, the result is a wonderful dish. The underlying message is clear: preparing a pasta meal is the best choice even for the most modern and unconventional of women, especially if one is not that familiar with pots and pans. Mina’s clumsy attitude invites spectators not to feel guilty or inadequate if they are not great cooks and suggests that with the right pasta there is always a chance to “to make a good impression” with one’s guests. It is not a surprise and it makes perfect sense that this commercial was shot in the infamous year of 1968: the year the marked the beginning of the students’ protest movement in Europe and Italy, and the opening of a decade of crucial changes both in Italian society and in Italian civil rights legislation.29 The pop singer’s successful collaboration with Barilla went on for two more years, but in the early 1970s, as a consequence of the economic crisis, the Italian government imposed a controlled price on pasta and the company had to drastically cut its advertising budget. The investment made in the advertising campaigns during the previous decade, however, was destined to leave a lasting mark on the behavior and consumption habits of Italians. Therefore, with the advent of the 1980s, as the country recovered from its economic crisis, the consecration of pasta as a cultural and gastronomic icon of Italy inside and outside of its national borders could continue.30

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FIGURE 9.9  Barilla pasta, 1984 print advertising campaign. Courtesy of the Historical Barilla Archive, Parma, Italy.

After a decade of crucial reforms for women’s rights, the new decade also began with the promise of a more equal society in terms of gender roles. Real life would eventually prove to be more complicated and nuanced than one would have expected (the gender gap in Italy remains to this day), yet looking at one of the advertisements of the Barilla campaign of 1984 reveals that something had changed nonetheless.31 The picture shows a young couple dressed in casual clothes (they are both wearing blue jeans) and enjoying dinner on a lovely terrace. The two are exchanging loving glances, but while he is holding a fork and seems ready to eat his pasta, she is just looking at him and appears more interested in hearing his comments on the food than in trying some herself. This picture, however, reveals a relevant transformation in gender relations because for the first time the woman does not appear standing while bringing the food to the table,32 but rather she is sitting at the table to enjoy the food, and is therefore on the same level as the male figure, at least in the ideal world of Barilla advertisements. The unique story told by Barilla’s commercials is one of continuous changes in the Italian society. Between the 1950s and the 1970s Italian women gradually ceased to be “massaie” (the word itself quickly became obsolete) and conquered the right of being—and being represented as—more modern social agents whose daily responsibilities still included the preparation of the meals for the family but were not limited to that anymore. Barilla’s advertising



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campaigns effectively portrayed this transformation and to some extent (in particular in the mid-1960s) they also contributed to the renovation of the female role models presented to the mainstream audience. This is why today we can look at the different “portraits of Italian ladies” presented in Barilla’s commercials between the 1950s and the 1960s and ideally read the story of a slow-yet-steady process of transformation that allowed the entry of Italian women into modernity.

Notes 1

The copyright for all the images published in this article (which belong to the collection of Archivio Storico Barilla in Parma, Italy) is exclusive property of the Barilla Group. I wish to express my deepest gratitude to Roberto Pagliari—curator of the Archivio Storico Barilla—who helped me with my research, and to the Barilla Group who granted me the permission to publish all the images I discussed in my article.

2

Gian Paolo Ceserani, “Miracolo italiano,” in Giancarlo Gonizzi (ed.), Barilla: Centoventicinque anni di pubblicità e comunicazione (Milan: Silvana, 2003), 34.

3

For further information on postwar Italy and the economic miracle see Paul Ginsborg, A History of Contemporary Italy 1943–1980 (London: Penguin Books, 1990), 210–53; and Carol Counihan, Around the Tuscan Table: Food, Family, and Gender in Twentieth-Century Florence (New York and London: Routledge, 2004), 54–6.

4

The picture is also published in Giancarlo Gonizzi (ed.), Barilla: Centoventicinque anni di pubblicità e comunicazione, vol. 2 (Milan: Silvana, 2003), 251.

5

More pictures of the 1956 campaign are published in Albino Ivardi Ganapini and Giancarlo Gonizzi (eds), Barilla: Cento anni di pubblicità e comunicazione (Milan: Silvana, 1994), 22. Here is the full text of the caption of Fig. 2: “L’uovo, alimento naturale e completo, è sempre una grande risorsa per la brava massaia. Nelle tagliatelle Barilla nido di rondine le freschissime uova di gallina integrano ed esaltano i valori nutritivi della pura semola di grano duro. Delicate, fragranti, gustosissime, come fatte in casa, le tagliatelle all’uovo Barilla rinnovano ogni volta il piacere della buona tavola.” (“The egg, a natural and nutritious food, is always a great resource for the good homemaker. In Barilla ‘swallow nest’ egg noodles the extra fresh hen eggs perfect and enhance the nutritional values of the pure durum wheat flour. Delicate, fragrant, tasty, just like home-made ones, Barilla egg noodles reinvent every time the pleasure of a great meal”).

6

Ceserani, “Miracolo italiano,” 35.

7

It is important to remember that Barilla was the first company to sell packed pasta only. Many other companies—especially the smaller ones— kept selling it loose until 1967, when a national legislation established that selling pasta in packages was mandatory.

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8

See Emanuela Scarpellini, “Shopping American-Style: The Arrival of Supermarket in Postwar Italy,” Enterprise & Society 5 (4) (2004): 625–68.

9

Here is the text of the caption of Fig. 3 as it appears in Gonizzi, Barilla: Centoventicinque, vol. 2, 84: “il miglior acquisto della giornata è sempre quello della pasta all’uovo Barilla nella nuova confezione protettiva. Ricca di valori nutritivi ed energetici, rende agili i bimbi, distende e rasserena gli adulti, ridona vigore agli anziani, ravviva l’agilità dell’intelletto in coloro che studiano o s’affaticano nel quotidiano lavoro” (“the best purchase of the day is always that of Barilla egg pasta in its brand new sealed box. Rich in nutritional and energetic qualities, it makes the kids lively, it relaxes and calms down the adults, it helps the elderly regain strength, it rekindles the sharpness of the intellect in those who study or get tired because of their daily work”).

10 To guard one’s “good face” of bella figura is part of an idea of “civiltà” and “essere civile,”,which is crucial in defining the role of the individual within the community, especially in an urban context. See Sydel Silverman, The Three Bells of Civilization: The Life of an Italian Hill Town (New York: Columbia University Press, 1975), 1–11. 11 In this advertisement, the caption simply reports the words the woman is supposedly saying. See Gonizzi, Barilla: Centoventicinque, vol. 2, 84: “allora d’accordo … venite a cena da noi questa sera, vi faremo trovare un bel piatto di tagliatelle all’uovo Barilla. Le tagliatelle nido di rondine, ti assicuro, quando arrivano in tavola fanno venire l’acquolina in bocca … E come rendono alla cottura!” (“Here’s the plan … come to our place for dinner tonight, we’ll have a nice dish of Barilla egg noodles ready for you. Let me tell you, the ‘swallow nest’ egg noodles really make your mouth water when you see them on the table … And you can’t imagine how much you get out of one single box”). 12 The telephone also played an important role in some commercials of the Bettina series of 1964, and was used again in the 1967 campaign. 13 On cooking as a crucial component of Italian women’s reproductive labor, identity and power see Counihan, Around the Tuscan Table, 89–95. More pictures of the 1960 campaign can be seen in Gonizzi, Barilla: Centoventicinque, vol. 2, 78. 14 Giampaolo Fabris and Luca Vercelloni, “Evoluzione dell’immagine Barilla”, in Albino Ivardi Ganapini and Giancarlo Gonizzi (eds), Barilla: Cento anni di pubblicità e comunicazione (Milan: Silvana, 1994), 381. 15 Giampaolo Fabris and Luca Vercelloni, “Valori della marca e immaginario familiare,” in Albino Ivardi Ganapini and Giancarlo Gonizzi (eds), Barilla: Cento anni di pubblicità e comunicazione (Milan: Silvana, 1994), 383. 16 On the shift in woman’s role within the family in the 1960s see Ginsborg, A History, 244: “With the new emphasis on house-based living and consumption, more Italian women than ever before became full-time housewives. In the North, it was their responsibility to care for children, who were staying on at school longer than ever before; theirs too was the task of looking after the needs of a husband whose day’s work, with overtime and commuting, often amounted to between twelve and fourteen



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hours. The women’s magazines and the television advertisements of the time exalted this new figure of the modern Italian woman, “tutta casa e famiglia,” smartly dressed, with well-turned-out children and a sparkling house full of consumer durables.” 17 The international agency CVP, whose headquarters were in the U.K., took inspiration from a successful series of TV advertisements produced for a British soap company. 18 The 1960s witnessed a true revolution in the field of Italian home decor and home design with the introduction of the so-called “American-style kitchen.” As a consequence of the American cultural colonization, Italian factories started to produce kitchen furniture based on modules (“cucine componibili”) that could easily be adapted and customized according to the consumers’ needs. In the new “American-style kitchen,” the traditional separation between diningroom and kitchen was abolished while the stove and the cooking appliances were not hidden anymore but showcased as something to be proud of. The production of the first “American-style” kitchens in Italy was started by the Snaidero company in the new industrial district of Majano del Friuli, Udine (opened on January 9, 1960). 19 Fabris and Vercelloni, “Valori,” 383. 20 Some of the recipes are really basic such as the one for “spaghetti con aglio e olio” (spaghetti with oil and garlic) presented in Fig. 7. 21 On the other hand, the proud southern women considered a heresy the idea that one should look at the instructions on the box in order to know the cooking time of the pasta. 22 On the crucial role of cooking in the definition of female identity in Italy see Counihan, Around the Tuscan Table, 80–7. 23 The state monopoly on television in Italy lasted until 1976. 24 Divorce was introduced in Italy in 1970 and the new legislation was immediately opposed by the Catholic world. Nonetheless, the attempt to repeal the law through a referendum failed in 1974. For further information on family patterns and dynamics see Chiara Saraceno, “The Italian family from 1960s to the present,” Modern Italy 9 (1) (May 2004): 47–57. 25 On December 1, 1970, the Italian parliament approved legislation in favor of divorce. The legislation reforming family rights (Law 151, Riforma del diritto della famiglia) was passed on May 19, 1975. On December 9, 1977 legislation covering equal rights at work (Law 903, Parità di trattamento tra uomini e donne in materia di lavoro) was approved. Lastly, on May 22, 1978, the parliament passed Law 194 on protection of maternity and the termination of pregnancy. The referendum promoted to repeal Law 194 failed May 17/18, 1981, and this fact is usually considered the ideal conclusion of a decade of crucial reforms. 26 The choice to make a close-up of Mina’s hands was a brilliant one, since the way in which she moved her arms and hands while singing was very peculiar and soon came to identify her performing style. 27 In the 1960s, the options for formal discourse still included both the “Voi” and the “Lei” forms. In the years of Fascist rule the “Voi” form had been

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD imposed while the “Lei” had been forbidden because it was mistakenly considered a borrowing from Spanish. Yet even after the end of Fascism the “Voi” was often preferred in movies and tv commercials. By choosing the informal “tu,” however, Barilla’s copywriters bypassed the question and modernized the language of their commercials.

28 Here are the exact words pronounced by Mina in the promotional segment of the commercial: “Senti, due parole sulla pasta Barilla. È la nostra pasta la pasta Barilla, perché è fatta per il tuo uomo, per i tuoi ragazzi, perché trovino più gioia nei buoni cibi di casa tua. Tu sai come cuoce, come tiene, e quel bel colore dorato che ha quando il tuo piatto è pronto per loro. Continua ad adoperarla ed avrai sempre un piatto da favola con pasta Barilla. E poi o sai: in te c’è una gran cuoca e Barilla la rivela” (“Listen, a couple of words about Barilla pasta. Pasta Barilla is our very own pasta, because it is made for your man, for your boys and girls, so that they can find more joy in the good home-made food you prepare for them. You know how well it cooks, how it stays firm, and you know what a beautiful color it has when your dish is ready for them. Keep using it and with pasta Barilla you will always have a fabulous dish. And, you already know that: there is a great cook inside of you and Barilla reveals her”). 29 See Ginsborg, A History, 298–346. 30 The perception of Italy as a modern and successful country was highly reinforced by the victory of the Italian soccer team at the World Championship of 1982. Only a few years earlier, in 1977, the German magazine “Der Spiegel” had published the infamous cover with a gun on top of a spaghetti dish to denounce the increasing violence and power of organized crime in Italy. Even if in this case the message conveyed was a negative one, the choice to represent Italy through a spaghetti dish seems to me a good example of the iconic power of pasta. 31 The picture can also be seen in in Ganapini and Gonizzi, Barilla: Cento anni, 331. 32 For examples of advertisements representing women bringing food to the table see Ganapini and Gonizzi, Barilla: Cento anni, 181, 239, 384.

10 Semiotics of sauce: Representing Italian/American identity through pasta sauces Maryann Tebben

P

erhaps the most pervasive myth of Italian cuisine is the identification of spaghetti and tomato sauce as the national dish. As has been well established by food scholars, the now ubiquitous sauce was not a regular feature on Italian tables until the nineteenth century and it is hardly representative of the vast Italian culinary landscape. In fact, Italians have an astounding number of sauces for pasta but these sauces remain stubbornly regional, such as ragù from Bologna, carbonara from Lazio/Abruzzo, Ligurian pesto, Roman puttanesca and Neapolitan cacio e pepe, all dependent on local ingredients and often linked to a specific pasta of the region. The association of tomato sauce with Italian cuisine in fact may be explained by the dis-unification of food in Italy, where one sauce does not predominate. In contrast, when Italian immigrants recreated their food in America, they presented a unified and entirely constructed menu of “Italian” specialties, repackaged as comprehensible foods under a unified “Italian” identity in order to foster native adoption of these foreign and at times suspicious foods. Tomato sauce for pasta is therefore more American than Italian; the conception of a universal sauce for pasta better fits American cuisine and the American idiom. Tomato “gravy,” as Sicilian-Americans name the sauce, has dominated Italian-American cuisine since the nineteenth century. The American sauce may contain only ground meat or a stew-like hodge-podge of sausages, cuts of pork and beef, and meatballs; its recipe is as all-encompassing as its name. Even commercial tomato sauce in America is at once an imitation and a distortion of Italian sauce. The most popular jarred sauce for pasta in America is the fortuitously named “Ragú.”

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Examining the problematic representation of tomato sauce for pasta as Italian, this chapter pays particular attention to the naming of sauce as it transcends the fractured culinary landscape of Italy, crosses the ocean, and is retroactively codified as wholly Italian by Italians in and outside of Italy. In spite of globalization elsewhere, sauce in Italy retains its regional character because the Italian language resists a unilateral designation for “sauce” or even “pasta,” while American English and the American-Italian1 tradition embraces “spaghetti sauce” and “tomato gravy.” The representation of Italian sauces and Italian-American cuisine is expressly tied to the marketing of Italian food and the Italian ethnic identity at the turn of the twentieth century in the United States, where immigrants hoped to be accepted, and in Italy, where political actors hoped to establish a powerful cohesive identity for the newly unified Italian state. The new Italian-American cuisine with one pasta and one sauce presented an image of frugal wholesomeness, replacing the garlic-heavy, vegetable, and cheese-laden cooking that evoked the unfamiliar, impenetrable Little Italies and their residents. Concurrently, industrialization fueled development of packaged sauces and dried pasta in the U.S. and the Americanized version of Italian food swiftly gained a foothold. Italian immigrants later adopted the middle-class American habit of Sunday dinners with meat-rich “gravy” so as to “advertise” their arrival as successful Americans who nevertheless claimed an Italian identity, implying that this “tradition” had come over from the old country. As part of the marketing of Italian food to Americans, industrial jars of “Italian” tomato sauce became as authentically Italian-American as the performance of eating nonna’s meaty sauce at Sunday dinner. Italian-American culinary habits created practices more American than Italian, produced by the circumstances of the immigrant experience, and particularly durable as a new ethnic identity. In spite of Vittoria Agnetti’s Cucina nazionale (1910), in spite of the Fascist nationalist project of the 1930s, Italian cuisine does not exist as a unified whole.2 This contention alone might explain why “pasta sauce” is meaningless in Italy, but an examination of the particulars of sauce in Italy sheds light on the reasons that the terms “Italian cuisine” and “spaghetti sauce” have meaning in the U.S. The argument that Italy’s fragmentary culinary identity is due to late nationalization and entrenched regionalism is straightforward and well known; I leave that discussion to others. The “grammar” of Italian sauces for pasta as related to American food customs, however, merits further exploration. The date of the first use of tomato sauce on pasta in Italy has been widely debated; there is evidence that Italians were eating this dish as early as the 1820s.3 In published cookbooks, recipes for pasta with tomatoes appear in Ippolito Cavalcanti’s Cucina teorico-pratica (1837) and Cucina Casareccia in Dialetto Napoletano (1839), including vermicelli with tomato sauce. The former cookbook addresses more elite diners and the

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latter is “home cooking,” indicating that pasta with tomato sauce crossed class boundaries in the nineteenth century.4 Cucina Casareccia contains significantly more recipes for pasta with tomato sauce than Cucina teoricopratica, however, suggesting that the combination of pasta and tomato was more at home in humbler contexts, a characteristic that is important for the appearance of Italian sauce in the U.S., since immigrants generally belonged to lower classes. Tomatoes were used in sauce for meat centuries before tomato sauce was married to pasta, however, and the association of the tomato with meat in sauce is important to the reception of tomato sauce on pasta as a global food later. The first reference to a cooked preparation of tomatoes is in an Italian text, Petrus Andreas Matthiolus’ botanical guide of 1554.5 The earliest recipe for tomato sauce in European sources appears in 1692 in Antonio Latini’s Lo scalco alla moderna in Naples, a spicy sauce for boiled meats.6 Much later, Vincenzo Corrado’s Il cuoco galante (Naples, 1773) includes tomato sauces for meat but not for pasta. Similarly, the first references to tomato sauce in American sources in the early nineteenth century are sauces for meat (or “gravy”), including Richard Alsop’s recipe for “Tomato or Love-Apple Sauce” (The Universal Receipt Book, 1814) and N. K. M. Lee’s four recipes for tomato sauce in The Cook’s Own Book (Boston, 1832).7 Of course, sauces for pasta in Italy are not limited to tomato-based preparations, and in fact a number of sauces contain little or no tomato. Italian sauces are above all marked by variety and ties to regional identity. Specific names for sauces, like names for pasta, depend on the region in which they originated and the vocabulary of the ingredients they contain. The first recorded recipe for Genoa’s pesto with basil is in the 1863 cookbook Vera cuciniera genovese, although recipes with similar ingredients were in print centuries earlier. Green sauces prepared in a mortar certainly predated Ligurian pesto, including a fourteenth-century sauce with parsley, mint, spices, and garlic and a fifteenth-century sauce with parmesan, fresh cheese, and arugula, but these are likely sauces for meat.8 Basil pesto for pasta remained relatively unknown outside Liguria until the late twentieth century. Spaghetti alla carbonara, a substantial sauce with pancetta or guanciale, garlic, beaten eggs, and parmesan or pecorino, is mythically associated with the coal miners of Lazio and Abbruzzo who needed a hearty meal to sustain them. The Abruzzan town of Amatrice lends its name to sauce all’Amatriciana (with guanciale, tomatoes, chili peppers, and pecorino) served on bucatini or perciatelli, hollow forms of spaghetti.9 Cacio e pepe, grated cheese with black pepper and a bit of water from the pasta pot, evokes in a direct way the poverty and simplicity of the food in Naples, where plain or lightly dressed pasta was often the only food available. Ragù is both the meaty sauce for tagliatelle known in Bologna or a slow-cooked meat dish served with short pasta in Naples.10 Proper ragù from Bologna eschews tomato, according to Gillian Riley: “Bologna, la dotta

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e la grassa, had a name for intellectual rigor and good living long before the tomato came along to muddy the waters and add what is not necessarily a helpful dimension to a rich meat sauce.”11 The complex signification of bolognese sauce depends on the wealth (intellectual, economic, and culinary) of Bologna, exemplified by meat; it is corrupted, in Riley’s reading, by the New World fruit that does not carry the requisite symbolic weight. Given the tomato’s background as a suspicious edible, such a statement is not surprising, but Riley’s antipathy for the tomato may also reflect a rejection of the American influence on European cuisine, especially the retroactive designation the world over of spaghetti with tomato sauce as iconic Italian food. Riley endorses a “supercharged version” of ragù bolognese that attempts to reposition this sauce in the medieval and Renaissance culinary traditions (with the addition of star anise, coriander, cloves, and fish sauce), as if to re-legitimize it as wholly Italian. She admires this kind of innovation as it is backward-looking, historically grounded, and subtle, with none of the flash of the eighteenth-century “red revolution” when tomatoes and chili peppers entered the culinary fray.12 It also seems to reposition ragù in particular and Italian sauce in general as Italian-Italian, set up against the simplified ItalianAmerican form that supplanted the richer native Italian sauce tradition in global conceptions of Italian food. The tension between “authentic” Italian and Americanized-global Italian in sauce is a recent phenomenon; in the present age of foodie tourism “an establishment advertised simply as ‘Italian’ risks being perceived as passé or lacking in ‘authenticity.’”13 As in other cuisines, eating habits and individual foods form part of a culinary “grammar” in Italy.14 The elements of the culinary language are manifested in its basic units (individual foods), its processes (ways of preparing these foods), and the structure of its sentences (food pairings or the order of courses in a meal, for example). For proper culinary and semantic expression, Italian sauces must be paired with the appropriate pasta shape. A mismatch between pasta and sauce is the equivalent of a misconjugated verb; the culinary sentence will not make sense. In his comprehensive study of pasta and pizza, Franco La Cecla confirms that the culinary system of pasta is also a cultural system, much like a language that must be learned: “It is difficult to explain to someone who does not know the whole system.”15 For Carol Helstosky, “anyone who has tried to serve pasta shells with pesto to an Italian understands the importance of the culinary language of pasta and sauce.”16 In addition, the sheer number of combinations of pasta shapes and sauces requires a suitably large vocabulary and resists simple classifications. It is therefore difficult to generalize about sauce in Italian cuisine because sauce depends on pasta. The word “pasta” is insufficient in Italian as a general term since it can mean a first course of soup (pasta in brodo or minestra), “dough” or pastry, or a platform for sauce; pastasciutta is a weak equivalent, but the

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true translation depends on the region, the dish, or the cook. Serventi and Sabban include sauce in their carefully considered definition of pastasciutta: “pasta made with durum wheat semolina, manufactured industrially, served with thick sauces.”17 The editors of the English translation of the seminal Italian cookbook The Silver Spoon make the same connection, inviting their Anglophone readers to “try to imagine spaghetti without a fragrant fresh tomato sauce, trenette without the subtle aroma of pesto, or baked lasagne without the delicate texture of a béchamel.”18 These pastas are linked to specific sauces in the Italian culinary system, presupposing a familiarity with the “grammar” of the pairings. For those fluent in pasta, the commonplace spaghetti accommodates the familiar tomato, and trenette, a ribbon-like pasta from Liguria (pesto’s birthplace) naturally pairs with pesto. Even the term al dente has no translation in English; both the word (“to the tooth”) and the concept (pasta that seems undercooked) are hard to grasp for non-Italians. The elements of the complete dish (pasta and sauce) are misleadingly simple, but Italian cuisine as a language has a formal structure and a firm set of rules. In order to make Italian cuisine comprehensible to non-natives for social and cultural reasons, immigrants to the U.S. flattened and simplified these differences, leaving only the common spaghetti and the familiar tomato. Pasta shapes follow the regionality of sauce in Italy, since the two food products are necessarily tied together. Claims that pasta is the foundational and unifying factor in Italian cuisine are weakened when one considers that sauces are matched to individual pastas and that no one pasta serves all sauces.19 The effort to unify pasta and sauce for Italian-Americans as a demonstration of a unified Italy inside and outside its borders was a dramatic imposition, a purposeful but artificial construct meant to bring Italy forward on the world stage as an economic and political power, but an unstable one given the native self-representation of Italy as proudly diverse. In a geographic study of pasta shapes in Italy, David Alexander concludes that the remarkable variety of pasta shapes in Italy “almost certainly reflects the desire of each city-region to have its own distinctive gastronomy, an extension of the rivalry that existed when they were remarkably self-contained fiefdoms.”20 Similar or identical forms of pasta might have different names in the regional dialect: vermicelli in Naples are fedelini in Sicily, for example. Even after Agnetti attempted a national cookbook in 1910, fifty years after unification, regional differences in sauce persisted: pesto, for example, does not appear in Cucina nazionale or in Artusi’s La scienza in cucina (1891), another purportedly national cookbook that has a decidedly “north-central model of cuisine”21 although it progressively includes more of the South as it expands over fifteen editions. The presentation of food at the Rome 1911 Ethnographical Exhibition (a sort of National Fair) similarly emphasized regional diversity, even as a direct means of fixing a national identity for Italians fifty years post-unification;

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as part of a “mosaic of collective regionalist identities” Italian food in this ethnographic display was part of a “nation-building programme based on the idea of the regional, the local and the peasant” in distinct contrast to the vision promulgated in America by Italian immigrants.22 Domestic economists like Ada Boni in the 1930s praised regional diversity of cuisine as did travel writers, even against a backdrop of heightened nationalism.23 Italian cuisine began to homogenize only in the twentieth century as a result of its global voyage and regeneration in the U.S. The Guida gastronomica d’Italia, first published in 1931 attempted to spread knowledge of regional specialties nationwide and promoted the “new mentality that looked at traditional products as ‘specialties’ and ‘typical products’ that could attract tourists.”24 In the 1950s, restaurants catering to tourists in Italy served spaghetti with tomato sauce, veal cutlets, and a smattering of regional dishes from all over Italy, no matter the location of the restaurant.25 The effect of industrialization, feeding strong demand by immigrants abroad for canned tomatoes and dried pasta, then led to a market inside Italy for these same products.26 In the early twentieth century, tomato canning plants opened in Naples, Parma, and Turin, producing brands popular with upper and middleclass consumers in Italy.27 Advertising of Italian products to immigrants outside Italy inscribed a cohesive Italian identity that coincided with political aspirations of the mother country “to unify Italians worldwide through the consumption of Italian goods.”28 Of these products, the most widespread and most closely associated with Italianness were spaghetti and tomatoes. In the mid-nineteenth century, despite evidence that Italians were eating tomato sauce on pasta, the dish was still relatively unknown to Americans. Beginning in the 1830s, French tomato sauces appeared in English-language cookbooks and restaurants began to serve tomato sauce with meats.29 In the late 1890s, the Coney Island restaurant Village Giulia served spaghetti with tomato sauce and Romano cheese, mortadella, and veal with garlic and olive oil to an exclusively Italian immigrant customer base, conscious that this food was not compatible with American tastes.30 Tomato sauce is clearly marked as ethnically Italian in Sarah Rutledge’s The Carolina Housewife (1847) in a recipe for “Macaroni a la Napolitana.”31 The recipe title in Italian and the use of “macaroni” mark this dish as foreign food. Macaroni as a term for pasta is fairly authentically Italian, later to be replaced by “spaghetti” as tomato sauce (and pasta) became more familiar in American cuisine. The term “spaghetti” first appeared in the English language in Eliza Acton’s Modern Cookery (London, 1845) in a list of cooking terms, spelled “Sparghetti,” and defined as “Naples vermicelli.”32 The word “spaghetti” lost its close association with Italy over the nineteenth century in the U.S. and was the generic term for dried pasta until the 1980s when it began to be replaced by “pasta.”33 The 1950 English translation of Ada Boni’s Il talismano della felicità (1929) shows

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that spaghetti was a recognizable word in English in recipes for “SpaghettiNeapolitan Style” (“Vermicelli alla napoletana” in the original Italian) and “Chopped Meat Sauce for Spaghetti.” Spaghetti became the pasta of choice for Americans likely because it is one of the least regional pasta shapes and can be paired with a number of sauces. Of 160 shapes of pasta in Italy, Alexander identifies four shapes with “no very clear regional or local origin”: spaghetti, penne, shells (or conchiglie) and farfalle (563). In fact, the museum of pasta at Pontedassio (Genoa) is called the Museo Storico degli Spaghetti. There are, of course, regional versions of these pastas (strozzapreti in Emilia/Marche, for example), but the standard form of string pasta traversed Italy and was ripe to be passed along to the U.S. market as one of “the simple and natural ones that formed part of the Italian culinary culture.”34 In addition, most sauces paired with spaghetti in Italy are relatively simple: aglio e olio (garlic and oil), tomato sauce, butter and parmesan cheese, carbonara (pancetta, pecorino, and eggs). Of these, tomato sauce best lent itself to mass production in a shelf-stable can or jar, giving it an edge at a moment of rapid industrialization of food. Pasta consumption in the U.S. was especially fueled by industrialization: beginning in the late nineteenth century, Italian producers acceded to American requests for half-pound or quarter-pound individually wrapped packets of pasta in place of the bulk crates or baskets that had previously been used, and the packaging included English instructions for cooking.35 Finally, of the traditional Italian sauces for spaghetti, tomato sauce was the most adaptable to American food “grammar” because tomato sauce for meat already had a place on American tables. Sauces with garlic were still too obviously “ethnic” and although American GIs stationed in Italy during World War II who were “homesick for their bacon and eggs” appreciated carbonara sauce, eggs and bacon belong on the breakfast table not the dinner table, leaving aside American squeamishness for lightly cooked eggs.36 In the 1930s, however, the U.S. Army supplied troops with Chef Boy-Ar-Dee canned spaghetti and tomato sauce as rations, proving definitively that “industrialization had transformed spaghetti into an all-American food.”37 Spaghetti and tomato sauce dominated in the U.S. for another reason— because Italian-American immigrants ate differently than they had at home. The common explanation for this change is an economic one: workingclass immigrants could afford more and better food and they adjusted their diet accordingly to include larger meals, more meat, and other high-status products. But the construction of the Italian-American diet was also affected by family dynamics, market forces, and an internalization of food scarcity. Despite better access to food and more disposable income, immigrants in New York and in other Italian-American enclaves around the country ate a limited number of foods including pasta, tomato sauce, red wine, olive

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oil, cheeses, preserved meats, and vegetables.38 These foods were still an improvement on the working-class diet in Italy of bread and vegetable soups, but Italian immigrants in the early twentieth century did not generally buy new foods but more of the foods they were accustomed to eating. Memories of food austerity did not disappear even as Italian immigrants adapted to a relative abundance of food.39 Italian immigrants were especially resistant to nutritional guidelines promoted by U.S. government agencies that disdained, among other Italian traditions, “zestful spicing” and cooking with garlic, believed to be hard to digest.40 In addition, Italian women in ethnic enclaves in New York were shielded from mass marketing of industrial products and continued to purchase fresh food mainly from local grocers.41 These habits presented a unified picture of “Italian food” and created an identity more quickly than a disparate set of foods would have. Helstosky confirms that for Italians new to America “resistance to dramatic dietary changes played a critical role in the forging of an immigrant identity.”42 Particularly for Italian immigrants, maintaining an allegiance to Italian exports like wine and olive oil while abroad both strengthened ties to Italy and helped to solidify an Italian identity in the United States.43 This was the initial stage of Italian eating in America, a cautious focus inward. Simone Cinotto shows that Italian-Americans in New York in the 1920s consciously used food as a construction to resist Americanization and preserve and perform their ethnicity.44 Food traditions reflected family traditions as well as ingrained behaviors shaped by poverty that “made acquisition of any new goods a possible provocation to jealousy, competition, and disruption of the communal group.”45 This period of insularity produced an Italian-American identity—different from the Italian identity of the old country—manifested in new food traditions that appeared old and were later retransmitted as “Italian” to the peninsula. Cinotto argues that ItalianAmericans used this reconstructed identity as a defense against encroaching Americanness on the family unit, a threat to the concept of “amoral familism” in which the family, not the public sphere or the community, is the source of all moral teachings and traditions.46 The foods and customs of Italian immigrants in New York were not American, having “unified and coherent patterns that differed from other foods and cuisines (notably so-called American cuisine)” but they were not strictly Italian either.47 The family unit itself, site of these recognizably Italian-American food practices, was new and old at once: “Because the famiglia was an ingrained if mostly unrealized ideal in the rural Mezzogiorno, immigrants could call on this ideal as a tradition that would help them navigate the changes they were facing.”48 Italian immigrant food preparation adapted to new ingredients and techniques “but the resultant Italian American cuisines were held and felt as authentic on the account of their cohesive social relevance,” that is, their ability to

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transmit “Italian-Americanness” to a new public.49 The effort to “market” this new ethnic identity to an American public was deliberate and necessary for Italian immigrants’ successful incorporation into their neighborhoods as consumers and business owners. An Italian-American immigrant and educational reformer in Harlem at the turn of the century, Leonard Covello sought to transmit “good” Italian culture (food, dance, folklore) to Americans to ingratiate Italian-American immigrants in their new home.50 During a radio broadcast by the Italian Chamber of Commerce of New York encouraging consumption of imported Italian products, Covello intoned: “Even our American friends have learned to appreciate and enjoy those foods that often represent for us the real essence of Italy and remind us of some of the most interesting traditions that have made our country famous throughout the world.”51 Food functioned as an inoffensive ethnic tradition, apolitical, and easy to transmit. Capatti and Montanari’s query, “What is the glory of Dante compared to spaghetti?”52 illuminates this strategy: it is easy to translate the appeal of spaghetti, but much harder to convey high culture and much riskier to engage in a political debate. In the first half of the twentieth century, immigrant “enclave” food production and consumption began to filter into the marketplace.53 Italianowned shops served immigrants from all regions; the result was merchandise labeled “genuinely Italian” with images of Italian locations not necessarily representative of the food’s origin and “vast community infrastructures to sell and buy food labeled Italian.”54 Immigrant owners of Italian restaurants also participated in this conflation of multiple identities into one set of symbols that conveyed “Italianness”; by serving spaghetti and veal scaloppini in dining rooms decorated with images of the Coliseum and Vesuvius, they could transcend the many Italian national divisions and “assemble a meaningful and empowering idea of nation” that would draw customers and dispel stereotypes.55 Marketing and promotion of Italian-American food paid off in “the positive attitudes of the native-born non-Italians toward this new hybrid food” that in turn allowed Italian immigrants to perform their Italian identity openly and in new ways.56 The Food Administration, which had earlier condemned Italian immigrant cooking, eventually endorsed Italian food as a healthy, frugal, and patriotic choice for native-born middle-class Americans, inserting a political connection no doubt influenced by the Italian government’s efforts to promote political unity via food. As America’s ally in the first World War, Italians (and their food) gained a new privileged status: “No longer the foul-smelling sustenance of crime-ridden little Italies, Italian food was now what fortified America’s sturdy ally in the war against the Hun.”57 Conversely, food companies marketing to Italian communities in America “used shared ethnicity to create feelings of trust” in their mass-produced food by advertising that vast numbers of Italian-American families used their

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products, such that “branded ethnic foods—albeit produced industrially and on a mass scale—gradually became part of the everyday lives of Italian American families.”58 As newly constituted Italian food entered the marketplace and was accepted by middle-class Americans, Italian immigrants began to imitate middle-class behaviors permitted by their improved economic status, creating new eating habits: a daily meal cooked by a mother or grandmother and eaten as a family, and festive dinners every Sunday rather than only on holidays.59 This practice did not bring an Italian tradition to America; in fact, few working-class families in Italy could afford to gather for a substantial family meal. Instead, it replicated Anglo-Protestant middle-class values on display in Norman Rockwell’s illustrations of family dinners, for example.60 That is, American foodways rebuilt the Italian ethnic identity into the “new Italian” or American-Italian culinary identity, perhaps defensively as a reaction against encroaching American ideals, but effectively as a means of spreading palatable Italian culture. American-Italian cuisine presented a friendly ethnicity and included foods that could be adapted to any economic status. As noted earlier, domestic scientists in the U.S. between 1870 and 1900 judged most immigrants’ diets to be lacking in meat and milk, but vegetable-heavy Italian cooking became a recommended model of frugality during wartime shortages.61 On the other hand, U.S. pasta makers in the 1920s began a campaign to give pasta a positive image, mainly to contradict the notion that pasta was part of a peasant diet for those too poor to eat meat.62 The connection between pasta and sauce heavy with meat no doubt emerged from this change in pasta’s status. Italians in America at the turn of the century consumed more meat than their compatriots at home (once per week in the U.S. compared to three times per year in Italy) and early twentieth-century government surveys indicate that meat was the largest expenditure in their food budgets.63 Given the status of meat as a food tied to the display of wealth in Italy, it has a certain symbolic importance for sauce among Italian-Americans. The incorporation of old standards of family insularity and the preponderance of meat in America resulted in a sauce that was “readably” Italian augmented by newly accessible status foods, like meat and sausages, that could be showy and traditional at once. Sunday gravy and long-held secret recipes for this sauce emerged from there. In terms of symbolic displays of wealth via food, no dish is more ItalianAmerican than Sunday “gravy” or meat sauce. More than a sauce, it is a showcase of excess, with sausages, pork chops or ribs, meatballs, and stuffed beef rolls (braciole, another American-Italian invention). It is also a fundamental part of Sunday dinner, the invented practice that attempts to realize a mythical Italian past and appropriate American middle-class behaviors. “Gravy” is a hybrid term that connects meat sauce to pasta sauce; the first

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tomato sauces were in fact gravies for meat. Not a mistranslation, the term is entirely appropriate as a unique signifier in American English for this meatcentered, pasta on the side, old and new Italian-American dish. It combines the former tomato sauce for meat with the new tomato sauce for pasta, and the result is a platter of meats, rich sauce, and pasta with tomato. But this dish (and symbol) that seems wholly American is also a transformation of an Italian dish, the timballo or savory pie. Meat pies have long been a vehicle for demonstrating social status, usually telegraphing wealth and plenty with fanciful ingredients (such as live birds at noble banquets).64 Montanari notes that “meat pies not only include but also actually contain the ingredients, lending themselves to all kinds of distinctions and to a broader range of signifiers, though these are not obviously available given the invisibility of the contents.”65 Although the torta or pasticcio has appeared in the diet of all social classes since the twelfth century, the timballo marked the transition for dried pasta from low to high food in Naples.66 Corrado’s recipe for a timballo in Il cuoco galante (1773) contains low-status macaroni but it is cooked in beef broth and combined with sausages, truffles, pork, and prosciutto, all seasoned with beef gravy and covered with a pastry crust.67 Hidden inside a casing of dough, the timballo/timpano in the celebratory scene from the American film Big Night (dirs. Campbell Scott and Stanley Tucci, 1996) contains pasta, salami, provolone, hard-boiled eggs, meatballs, and ragù, all of the previously inaccessible (to working class Italians) high status foods at once.68 Transformed by Italian-Americans into a pot of rich, meaty sauce with the same ingredients (pork, beef, meatballs), the timballo’s hidden signifier of plenty becomes an obvious sign of plenty (Sunday gravy, in all of its linguistic senses) on an open platter, a visible marker of prosperity in a new country that still shares a connection to the old. Sunday gravy takes part in the cultural practice of Sunday dinner, another constructed tradition that binds old and new as it depends both on the insularity of the family and the demonstration of wealth to outsiders with food. Recipes for “gravy” are often closely held family secrets, committed to nonna’s memory and rarely written down. When they appear in print, they are generally found in community cookbooks linked to a church fundraiser or a cultural event. As such, “gravy” remains closely tied to the insular family and community structure held over from the old country by Italian immigrants in the U.S. At the same time, Sunday dinner allowed Italians new to America to display hospitality with food and to make a show of eating, gestures that had been the province of the rich in the old country but that eventually “became a hallmark of [Italians’] behavior in America.”69 The American association of meat with plenty continues in contemporary versions of pasta sauces, even as some chefs attempt to return the sauces to their home tradition in Italy. The high-end American cooking magazine

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Cook’s Illustrated revisited ragù alla bolognese as “Ultimate Ragu [sic] alla Bolognese” (2011) and “Weeknight Bolognese” (2003), testing various proportions of meat, tomato, and dairy. In the “Ultimate Ragu,” tomatoes are sidelined: “the true star is the meat.”70 This recipe attempts to re-Italianize the sauce, following the lead of Dante de Magistris, an Italian chef now living in Boston who claims to have learned this recipe in Bologna. He uses six meats in his sauce (ground beef, pork, veal, pancetta, mortadella, and chicken livers) but no dairy. The dish is heavy on meat, an American inflection, but it drifts closer to authentic Italian cuisine with its rejection of tomato (only tomato paste) and use of the correct pasta (pappardelle is suggested). On the other end of the spectrum, “Weeknight Bolognese” makes few gestures toward Italian authenticity with a four-meat sauce (beef, pork, veal, pancetta), canned tomatoes and paste, porcini mushrooms, and sweet white wine (incredibly, White Zinfandel is recommended). Even the pasta violates Italian “grammar”: the recipe notes that “just about any shape complements this meaty sauce” although spaghetti or linguine is recommended.71 The most popular jarred sauce in the U.S. is named for ragù but spelled “Ragú.” It is a thin imitation of the Bolognese rich meat sauce, but as a culinary signifier it hits all of the right notes. It is an invented word, has an Italian pedigree but also participates in the marketing of a fabricated tradition, and embraces American efficiency as an industrial product. Ragú “Old World Style” sauce is a sweet, smooth tomato sauce, created and trademarked in 1937 in Rochester, New York, by Giovanni and Assunta Cantisano, immigrants from Bisticci, Italy (Tuscany).72 Ragú sauce clearly belongs to the American culinary lexicon, from its backwards accent to its early designation as “spaghetti sauce” on labels from 1969 to 1992.73 From 1968 to 1974, Ragú labels directed consumers to “Pour over steaming spaghetti and serve.” The brand is still trademarked as “Packaged Sauce Products—namely Spaghetti Sauce with Mushrooms, Spaghetti Sauce, Spaghetti Sauce Flavored with Meat, Pizza Sauce, and Marinara Sauce.” The identification of Ragú sauce with spaghetti is important: to identify this sauce as a condiment for only one kind of pasta (in fact, the only kind of pasta in the American idiom until the 1980s) is to remove it from Italian culinary grammar. Further, unlike Bolognese ragù that emphasizes meat and uses tomato only as a flavoring (if at all), American Ragú is unapologetically all tomato, with only a note of meat or mushroom for flavor. Predictably, as it grew in popularity as American sauce, Ragú drifted further from its Italian identity in name and in content. In 1968, a Department of Commerce Examiner suggested that the trademarked name was no longer recognizably Italian: “If the word ‘ragu’ is a foreign word capable of being translated into English, a translation should be inserted in the application.”74 No translation was provided. In 1990, the company was cited by the fda for

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misleading labeling for its “Fresh Italian 100% Natural Pasta Sauce,” mainly for the label “fresh” on a heat-processed product made from tomato paste, but the Division of Regulatory Safety and Applied Nutrition also disputed the use of “Italian” since “the name ‘Italian’ implies a geographic origin of the food that it does not have.”75 Tellingly, the sauce label no longer proclaims, “That’s Italian!” as it did in the 1960s and 1970s. Ragú sauce is American for its name and its ingredients, but also because symbolically it has only a distant connection to Italian sauce. “Ragú” is not Italian; it is a new word for a new concept that evokes richness (like true bolognese) but is an empty sign, empty of meat and empty of time spent at table with family. Like other Italian-American immigrant food customs, it is part of an invented Italian pedigree, likely named after Bolognese ragù because Bologna has an image for “fatness” (in Riley’s terms, Bologna la grassa) but with no relation to the culinary signifier of that specific sauce. The only remnant of the earlier meaning is the trace of meat in the meat-flavored version of “Old World Style” sauce and the insignia on the label—a Venetian gondola, yet another misplaced reference. But this image successfully transmits “Italian” to an American public thanks to early immigrants who conflated all regions of Italy into one ethnic marker precisely for marketing purposes. Striking a balance between “authentic,” natural food appealing to immigrants and modern standards of food purity that appealed to Americans, companies used labels with Italian names or images of Italian peasants to evoke an “Italianness” that had nothing to do with the food within.76 Connecting these historic Italian names and symbols to modern American products “created a diasporic culture and code of consumption that in effect became authentic” to immigrants, and “the way that marketers of Italian food produced in America blended the modern language of science and industrialization with ‘Italian’ rural culture and tradition paralleled the strategies [immigrants] used in their own migration experience.”77 This strategy proved so effective that in the crucial period of development of the Italian-American identity, American products with a fabricated Italian provenance outsold imported Italian foods by a wide margin.78 Even the memories of big family dinners and a pot of nonna’s sauce on the stove “constitute an imagined tradition regarding life back in Italy and reflect a nostalgia for Italian food habits as they were Americanized after Italians left Italy.”79 The gondola on the label of the jar of Ragú or the Italian-sounding name on the can of spaghetti is enough to evoke Italian ethnicity, and the streamlined preparation accorded by these industrial products allows them to fit in to an American home, short on ritual and long on efficiency. An analysis of the semiotics of sauce in Italy and the U.S. requires a consideration of names of sauces and the pastas they accompany, the use of sauce in meals (alongside meat or pasta), and the symbolic weight of

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these sauces. The representation of these sauces is inextricably tied to the representation of the Italian immigrants themselves, who were forming and marketing a diasporic identity all their own in an American context. Italian sauces in Italy retain their regionality, at least in name, and resist easy classification because of the complexity of their role in culinary grammar. There can be no “Italian pasta sauce” because ultimately there is no “Italian food” in Italy. Although “Italian food” in the U.S. is an invention, it has proved to be a durable concept because of its homogeneous presentation of a limited set of foods, a clear but unthreatening ethnicity, and a culinary grammar that has been “translated” for American norms. Spaghetti with tomato sauce took hold so forcefully as “Italian food” in the U.S. because it is a naturalized foreign food that retains remnants of an authentic identity (albeit a partial, Southern Italian one) but that has incorporated American symbols for wealth and abundance, and is easy to prepare and consume. The durability of tomato sauce as a symbol for Italian food required the deliberate construction of Italian-American identity by immigrants to the U.S., and as this entire volume demonstrates, food proved to be a potent way to deliver a new kind of identity for and by Italian-Americans. In their self-definition of these foods, new words for a new life, Italian immigrants presented an identity not as Calabrians or Sicilians, but as Italians who eat spaghetti, a word now needing no translation. The word “gravy” provided a lexical space for the insertion of a new American-Italian meaning for sauce, a flamboyant demonstration of wealth with roots in past food traditions. Once industrial pasta and sauce bore the mark of ethnic Italian food (even a constructed ethnicity), it became desirable to the rest of America as a foreign but translatable foodstuff. The identity-creation mechanism for Italian-Americans with regard to food was so effective that it created a boomerang effect: Italian food customs in Italy are now shaped by the global concept of Italian cuisine that emerged from American-Italians.80 In a sort of reverse culinary identity creation, Italians encounter Italian-American dishes in their restaurants and Italian cuisine has begun to approach homogeneity as a result of the tourism industry. The marketing of Italian-American food by immigrants looking for a foothold in middle-class America was perhaps too successful, as it replaced the complex “true story” of ethnic Italianness with powerfully simple new traditions. The Slow Food Movement is part of an effort to reject the flat picture of Italian cuisine imposed by American influence and to relegitimize the variety of authentic, local dishes. The result of this effort for Italian sauces, a necessarily complex food demanding a certain level of fluency in Italian food grammar, faced with a monolith like spaghetti with tomato sauce, remains to be seen.

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Notes 1

The term “American-Italian” is used in some instances in this paper in place of “Italian-American” to emphasize the effect that life in America (access to products, adaptation of behaviors) had on Italian immigrant cuisine. In these cases, the emphasis is purposely placed on “American” and the term indicates a specific representation of Italian cuisine in America, the segment that includes and embraces spaghetti with tomato sauce.

2

Alberto Capatti and Massimo Montanari, Italian Cuisine: A Cultural History, trans. Aine O’Healy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), xii. For a contrasting view asserting the commonalities in Italian cuisine, see Carol Helstosky, Garlic and Oil: Politics and Food in Italy (New York: Berg, 2004).

3

Capatti and Montanari refer to the “new and successful combination of pasta with tomato sauce, which was first introduced around the end of the eighteenth century and fully established by the 1820s” (Italian Cuisine, 55), although they do not cite a specific source. Silvano Serventi and Françoise Sabban reveal an earlier mention of tomato sauce for pasta in French author Grimod de la Reynière’s 1807 L’almanach des gourmands. See their Pasta: The Story of A Universal Food, trans. Antony Shugaar (New York: Columbia University Press, 2002), 266.

4

Capatti and Montanari confirm that by the mid-nineteenth century, pasta with tomato sauce was part of high, middle, and low cuisine in Italy (Italian Cuisine, 116). David Gentilcore comes to the same conclusion: in nineteenth-century Naples, where pasta had previously been a luxury, “even the poor could afford to eat pasta.” Pomodoro! A History of the Tomato in Italy (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010), 75. He cites Carlo Tito Dalbono’s 1858 work La taverna in which the working-class mangiamaccheroni enjoy pasta with meat or tomato sauce. Serventi and Sabban assert that extruded pasta first became a working-class food in the mid-eighteenth century in Naples (Pomodoro, 90).

5

George Allen McCue, “The History of the Use of the Tomato: An Annotated Bibliography,” Annals of the Missouri Botanical Garden 39 (4) (1952): 289–348 (292); Rudolf Grewe, “The Arrival of the Tomato in Spain and Italy: Early Recipes,” The Journal of Gastronomy 3 (1987): 66–82 (68).

6

Grewe, “The Arrival of the Tomato,” 74.

7

Andrew Smith, The Tomato in America (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1994), 74–5. Smith also cites a reference to tomato sauce in Bernard M’Mahon’s American Gardener’s Calendar in Philadelphia in 1806, and an 1807 recipe for “Tomata Sauce for hot and cold meats” from Maria Eliza Rundell, copied from a British source, although these two references appear to be vinegar-based ketchup preparations (Tomato, 30, 73). References to American use of tomato sauce in McCue, “History of the Use of the Tomato,” include William Darlington, Flora Cestrica, 1826, “S. Lycopersicum is much admired by many as a sauce, with meats” (340); The American Agriculturist, 1842, “stewed for sauce, for catsup or gravy, for meat and for pies” (345). See Ken Albala’s contribution to this volume for further discussion of N. K. M. Lee’s The Cook’s Own Book.

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8

Capatti and Montanari, Italian Cuisine, 175; Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 263–4.

9

Gillian Riley (ed.), Oxford Companion to Italian Food (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 376.

10 Ibid., 433. 11 Ibid., 433. 12 “Supercharged” bolognese refers to a recipe by Heston Blumenthal, a London-based chef: see G. Tiley, Oxford Companion to Italian Food (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 434. “Red revolution” is Kenneth Kiple’s term in A Moveable Feast: Ten Millennia of Food Globalization (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 142, although hot peppers have been paired with tomatoes since Aztec recipes (Grewe, “The Arrival of the Tomato,” 75–7). 13 Fabio Parasecoli, Al Dente: A History of Food in Italy (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), 251. 14 See Massimo Montanari’s chapter “The Grammar of Food,” in Albert Sonnenfeld (trans.), Food is Culture [Cibo come cultura] (New York: Columbia University Press, 2006), 99–111. 15 Franco La Cecla, La pasta e la pizza [Pasta and Pizza] (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1998), 88. My translation. 16 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 153. 17 Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, xii. 18 The Silver Spoon [Il cucchiaio d’argento] (New York: Phaidon, 2005), 46. 19 “Pasta, especially dried pasta, is the staple foodstuff of the Italians, and it truly is the foundation of their culinary culture, which transcends the decidedly entrenched regionalisms of the peninsula” (Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 215). 20 David Alexander, “The Geography of Italian Pasta,” Professional Geographer 52 (3) (2000): 553–66 (563–4). The author uses the Genoan corzetti as an example of extreme regionalism; these are shells shaped like a coin from that city. 21 Capatti and Montanari, Italian Food, 27. 22 Margherita d’Ayala Valva, “Rome 1911: The ‘Living-Table’, A Picture of the Young Italian Nation,” in Nelleke Teughels and Peter Scholliers (eds), A Taste of Progress: Food at International and World Exhibitions in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), 111–32 (129). 23 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 103. 24 Parasecoli, Al Dente, 178. 25 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 145. 26 See Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 28–32. See also Hasia Diner, Hungering for America (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 45–6. 27 Parasecoli, Al Dente, 157. 28 Elizabeth Zanoni, “In Italy Everyone Enjoys It—Why Not in America?:

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Italian Americans and Consumption in Transnational Perspective During the Early Twentieth Century,” in Simone Cinotto, Anne E. O’Byrne and Carlie Anglemire (eds), Making Italian America: Consumer Culture and the Production of Ethnic Identities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014), 68. 29 N. K. M. Lee’s The Cook’s Own Book (1832) includes a French tomato sauce from Louis-Eustache Ude and an Italian sauce with the same ingredients plus bay leaf, allspice, and saffron (Smith, Tomato, 75). An 1846 translation of Louis Eustache Audot’s La Cuisinière de la campagne et de la ville as French Domestic Cookery includes tomato sauce with macaroni (Smith, Tomato, 80). 30 “An Italian Dinner,” American Kitchen Magazine 8:6 (March 1898): 4–6. Quoted in Diner, Hungering, 76. 31 Smith, Tomato, 78. 32 “Spaghetti, n.” Oxford English Dictionary, Online. 33 Among other indications in the popular press, an industry trade group founded in 1919 called The National Macaroni Manufacturers Association changed its name to The National Pasta Association in 1981, the same year its newsletter Macaroni Journal became Pasta Journal (Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 192). An electronic survey of books published in American English between 1800 and 2000 shows that references to “macaroni” peaked around 1915 and that “pasta” overtook “spaghetti” in popularity around 1981. By 2000, “pasta” appears more than twice as often as “spaghetti” (Google Books Ngram Viewer, http://books.google.com/ngrams/ (accessed October 12, 2016)). 34 Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 188. 35 Ibid., 209. 36 Riley, Oxford Companion to Italian Food, 375. 37 Simone Cinotto, The Italian American Table: Food, Family, and Community in New York City (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2013), 153. 38 Kiple, Moveable Feast, 204; Simone Cinotto, “Leonard Covello, the Covello Papers, and the History of Eating Habits among Italian Immigrants in New York,” The Journal of American History 91 (2) (September 2004): 497–521 (510). 39 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 152. 40 Harvey Levenstein, “The American Response to Italian Food, 1880–1930,” in Carole Counihan (ed.), Food in the USA (New York: Routledge, 2013), 75–90 (79). 41 Cinotto, The Italian American Table, 115. 42 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 29. 43 Zanoni, “In Italy Everyone Enjoys It,” 67. 44 Cinotto, “Introduction” to Simone Cinotto, Anne E. O’Byrne, and Carlie Anglemire (eds), Making Italian America: Consumer Culture and the Production of Ethnic Identities (New York: Fordham University Press, 2014), 6.

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45 Donna Gabaccia, We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1998), 61. 46 Cinotto, “Leonard Covello,” 505. See Edward C. and Laura Fasano Banfield, The Moral Basis of a Backward Society (New York: Free Press, 1958). 47 Cinotto, “Leonard Covello,” 510. 48 Cinotto, The Italian American Table, 52 (emphasis in original). 49 Cinotto, Making Italian America, 6. 50 Cinotto “Leonard Covello,” 507. 51 Leonard Covello, speech for Italian Chamber of Commerce of New York, 1935; quoted in Cinotto, “Leonard Covello,” 508. 52 Capatti and Montanari, Italian Food, xx. 53 Gabaccia discusses “enclave businessmen” and the expansion of Italian food outward from ethnic communities in Chapter 3, “Enclave Entrepreneurs.” 54 Diner, Hungering, 54, 66. 55 Cinotto, The Italian American Table, 194. 56 Levenstein, “American Response.” 88. 57 Ibid., 83. 58 Cinotto, The Italian American Table, 140. 59 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 31. 60 Cinotto, “Leonard Covello,” 511. 61 Gabaccia, We Are What We Eat, 125, 137. 62 Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 210. 63 Diner, Hungering, 57. 64 Not meant to be eaten, these pastries are dubbed “entertainment pies” by Janet Clarkson, Pie: A Global History (London: Reaktion Books, 2009), 86–7. 65 Emphasis in original. Montanari, Food is Culture, 101. 66 Capatti and Montanari, Italian Food, 57–9. “The timballo di macaroni would elevate the unassuming pasta of Naples to the peak of gastronomic hierarchy” (Serventi and Sabban, Pasta, 244–5). 67 Vincenzo Corrado, Il cuoco galante [1773] 4th edn (Napoli: Nicola Russo, 1793), 120. 68 The recipe for “Timpano alla Big Night” can be found in Joan Troppiano Tucci and Gianni Scappin’s cookbook Cucina & Famiglia (New York: William Morrow & Co., 1999). The authors suggest that the timpano (in Calabrian dialect) or timballo was brought to Italy from Morocco through Sicily, although there is no historical evidence for this claim. This recipe, from Stanley Tucci’s Calabrian grandmother, makes sixteen servings. The English translation of the dish, “Drum of Ziti and Great Stuff,” demonstrates that no literal translation is possible. Scappin, the Venetian chef-consultant, provides a companion recipe for timpano di vegetali with pasta primavera and béchamel. 69 Diner, Hungering, 61.

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70 Bryan Roof, “Ultimate Ragu (sic) alla Bolognese,” Cook’s Illustrated 113 (November/December 2011): 14–15. 71 Bridget Lancaster, “Weeknight Bolognese,” Cook’s Illustrated 62 (May/June 2003): 6–7. 72 Ralph Cantisano sold the mark to Chesebrough-Ponds in 1969. It has changed hands a number of times and is now owned by Unilever. 73 The label currently says “Pasta Sauce” in small type. 74 D. E. Freed, Letter from Examiner for U.S. Department of Commerce Patent Office, United States Patent and Trademark Office. http://tdr.uspto.gov/ search.action?sn=72293400 (accessed June 1, 2012). 75 Maria LaGanga, “FDA Cites Ragu for Labeling on Its Pasta Sauce,” Los Angeles Times, April 14, 1990. n.p. 76 See Cinotto, The Italian American Table, 165. 77 Ibid., 175. 78 Ibid., 173–9. Cinotto attributes the success of American Italian products to a number of factors, including the elevated price and scarcity of Italian imports, rejection of Italian products due to political tensions before and during World War II, and the new Italian-American identity formed from a diasporic culture particular to America. 79 Helstosky, Garlic and Oil, 31. 80 For an examination of the evolution of Italian food in Australia, see the chapter by Tania Cammarano and Rachel Ankeny in this volume.

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11 Italianità in America: The cultural politics of representing “authentic” Italian cuisine in the U.S. Ken Albala

T

his chapter does not recount the story of Italian immigrants and ItalianAmerican cuisine which has been well traversed by historians such as Hasia Diner, Donna Gabbaccia, Joel Denker, and others; rather, it examines the changing ways Americans in general have viewed Italian cuisine through history and in particular in the last century. I contend that the vicissitudes of taste, the constant reassessment of what constitutes authentic Italian cuisine as perceived by Americans has only partly to do with the gradual growth in knowledge of Italian cooking by the general populace, learned through travel and the publication of Italian cookbooks. It has also been a product of the conscious distancing from the supposedly bastardized versions of Italian cuisine mass manufactured and apparently lacking in authenticity. It was equally a reaction to the process of popularization of Italian-American cuisine itself, the realization that this cuisine had evolved and changed with transplantation, that substitutions and adaptations had been made, compromises to help deal with the lack of real Italian ingredients and cooking technologies. These substitutions were largely perpetrated by the mainstream community, and decried in cookbooks claiming to offer proper recipes. It was also, I argue, the realization that the native frugality inherent to Italian food culture had bowed to American abundance and the proliferation of meat in particular was decidedly unusual back in Italy for the majority of people. Many cookbooks claimed, in the interest of health, to imitate that spirit of thrift without

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suggesting that it may have stemmed from poverty. That is, a variety of the scientific and sometimes romanticized Mediterranean Diet had existed long before that term was publicized by Ancel Keys. The representation of Italian and Italian-American cuisine through history was ultimately shaped by this tension between the popular industrial versions and the authentic as offered by succeeding generations of gastronomic authorities. Woven through and influencing these changing attitudes are shifting perceptions of class—distinguishing a cucina povera from the richer cuisine of cosmopolitan cities, as well as a growing appreciation for regional differences and the periodic discovery of hitherto unknown local cuisines, not as well represented among immigrant groups in America. That is ItalianAmerican cuisine, associated with red gravy, spaghetti with meatballs, pizza, and lasagna,1 mostly hailing from the south was during some periods shunned in favor of Northern risotto, polenta, and fresh pasta. On the other hand, sometimes revalorization of Italian-American cuisine took precedence, acclaimed as genuine in its own way, without pretension and without the aspirational associations of Italian gourmandism. In other words, this was both a polemic battle between Italian-American and Italian cuisine, and the product of class and ethnic antagonisms dividing Americans themselves. For every food expert claiming to introduce “real” Italian cooking, another defended the authenticity of Italian food in New York, Boston, or San Francisco as worthy of respect in its own right. This antagonism is evident in the very first Italian cookbook published in the U.S., Simple Italian Cookery, published by Harper and Brothers in 1912 penned by one Antonia Isola. This was an appropriately Italian sounding pseudonym for a woman named Miss Mabel Earl McGinnis. She had actually lived for some time in Rome, implying she understood Italian cuisine, not the bastardized versions becoming familiar through immigrants. The cookbook offers no introduction or commentary, though as one reviewer in the New York Times put it: “The book shows that Italian cookery is far from being all garlic and macaroni.”2 Of course Italian-American cuisine was much more complex and varied than that, but the popular perception was perhaps otherwise. The word simple in the title adds another interesting dimension, because clearly the book was not meant to appeal to cognoscenti of complex authentic Italian cuisine, but rather to ordinary households using familiar and for the most part readily available ingredients. It does not, for example call for any specific variety of rice for risotto. For polenta, regular “Indian Meal” is required. For gnocchi di semolina, American farina is used. It assumes that macaroni can be purchased, but makes allowance for the possibility of tomato paste being difficult to find, substituting fresh or canned tomatoes cooked down with four tablespoons of “good olive oil.” Anchovies, olives, and capers



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are called for in one recipe. It even includes instructions for making fresh pasta ribbons or fettucine in parentheses. None of the ingredients, however, are expensive and none of the techniques particularly complex. The book is very short but given the range of recipes it is distinguished from what would become the stock in trade stereotypes of Italian American cuisine—there are no meatballs, lasagna or pizza, although it is doubtful that these were even well known yet in the U.S. in 1912. Regardless, it does offer a glimpse of what an author and publisher imagined would appeal to a mainstream audience just at the point when Italian ingredients and procedures were beginning to be available generally. Interestingly, it does not project to any particular snob appeal in the cost of ingredients or cultural capital of being “in the know.” The ad in the New York Times even describes it as “a little volume worthy the attention of housewives who wish to put new and good things on their dining tables,”3 which implies that many of these recipes are not yet well known but are in fact good, meaning healthy—and not as one might have supposed, something to be avoided in the interest of hygiene or health. The most fascinating thing about the cookbook is that nowhere does the word garlic even appear and it may very well be that the mainstream readership, although perhaps eager to try out new recipes, would not tolerate imagined digestive complaints associated with garlic or even worse garlic breath, something often associated with immigrants.4 In any case, this is definitely not a cookbook about Italian-American food, but a mainstream and largely adapted book for the slightly adventurous housewife hoping to cook something still new and interesting. Macaroni, as a generic name for pasta, was not of course anything new to U.S. audiences. Antoine Zerega (a Frenchman) had opened a pasta factory in Brooklyn in 1848, and there was apparently a factory in Philadelphia as early as 1798. Macaroni was a well-known product even in colonial times, as the song Yankee Doodle, who stuck a feather in his hat and called it macaroni, attests. Macaroni was a term used in mid-eighteenth century England for those who after a Grand Tour adopted outlandish fashions and a taste for macaroni— hence the simple feather being an ironic replication. Thomas Jefferson while in Paris ordered a macaroni machine that eventually made its way to Monticello. It was a box fitted with a screw that extruded the pasta through holes. Though Jefferson also ordered twenty pound boxes of macaroni from a manufacturer called Sartori’s in Trenton early in the nineteenth century.5 At this point macaroni was an elegant and exotic food. Most likely the same is true just a few years later when Mary Randolph‘s recipe for macaroni and cheese appeared in The Virgina Housewife in 1824.6 The book also includes recipes for polenta and vermicelli. At this stage, Italian food was still a fashionable item primarily because there was not yet a

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sizeable Italian community about which Anglos could draw negative associations and there were not yet industrially mass manufactured versions of Italian food to scorn in comparison with the real thing. In the latter half of the nineteenth century, increased immigration as well as improved milling techniques for semolina flour, plus improved drying technologies all prompted the spread of pasta factories in the U.S. This of course diminished its appeal as a mark of distinction among elites.7 By the time Antonia Isola’s cookbook was published, it was a widely available and frugal ingredient, especially as American manufacturers with an abundance of cheap wheat found a stable value-added product to add to their lines. The still extant Ronzoni pasta company dates to these exact years. Whether Americans knew how to prepare the product or even thought of it as particularly Italian remains a mystery though. For example, the New England Cookbook by Helen Saunders Wright (also published in 1912) offers the following advice about macaroni: “Procure that which looks white and clean. When it is to be used examine it carefully, as there are sometimes little insects inside. Wash it and put it in a stewpan of cold water enough almost to cover it. Add a little salt. Let it boil slowly ½ an hour; then add a gill of milk and a piece of butter, and boil it one quarter of an hour more. Then put it into the dish in which it is to go to the table, grate old cheese over it, and brown in the oven.”8 Forty-five minutes cooking time was fairly standard in recipes of this era and must have resulted in something similar to pap rather than distinct pieces of pasta. An article on “Multiplying the Pleasures of the Table” by Henry J. Fink in the Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine (again, 1912) offers a general acclaim of (real) Italian food. The author insists that next to olive oil “the best thing that Italy gives to the world is macaroni.”9 Americans at the time, according to the author, imported four million dollars annually, though our own product is nearly as good as the Italian. Nonetheless, “In the average American Household macaroni is far too seldom served. It might advantageously replace potatoes at one of the three meals … A distinguished Italo-American, criticizing our overboiling of macaroni, declared that it should ‘resist de toot’.”10 This is an indication that a different kind of appreciation for Italian food could be cultivated by discerning palates, though not as mainstream Americans understood it. Maria Gentile’s The Italian Cookbook printed after the war in 1919 reveals some interesting changes. The overall theme of the book is frugal homey cooking, and the preface even insists that: “It is not a pretentious book, and the recipes have been made as clear and simple as possible.”11 The targeted audience is definitely the average household, but it makes some fascinating corrections regarding common cooking practice, presumably among mainstream Americans. For example, Gentile acknowledges that “lovers of



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spaghetti are just as enthusiastic and numerous outside of Italy as within the boundaries of that blessed country,”12 but insists that tomato paste for sauce can be found “at all Italian grocers, now so numerous in all American cities.”13 Moreover, catsup or concentrated tomato soup are not suitable substitutes, and one must assume she had seen or heard of this being done. Likewise, she recognizes American’s penchant for overcooking macaroni, and instructs not to cook until they lose their form, not to put into the water until it’s boiling, and to cook for only twelve to fifteen minutes. She does allow though, that spaghetti may be broken up, though not done in Italy, being able to turn them on a fork “is not the privilege of everybody.”14 One gets the distinct impression that this is a cuisine still being introduced to American audiences: for example, Gentile explains that artichokes have only recently been imported to the U.S. and are just beginning to find their way into American kitchens. She also explains the word “zucchini” as a small type of squash available at Italian vegetable dealers—a word which presumably was introduced into American English right about this time.15 Most importantly this is an Italian Cookbook, not Italian-American. It includes recipes from throughout the peninsula—Genoa, Piedmont, Venice, Milan as well as some southern dishes. The full range of recipes that would have been unfamiliar to U.S. audiences is also represented—uccelli, baccalà, eel dishes, braciuola, stewed hare, etc. Ironically, many of these in the end are neither frugal nor very simple to prepare, but they do represent a kind of authenticity and fidelity to how these foods are prepared in Italy. Much the same can be said about other Italian cookbooks published in the U.S. in this era. Practical Italian Recipes for American Kitchens by Julia Lovejoy Cuniberti published in 1917 in Wisconsin; Economical Italian Cookbook by Jack Cusimano published also in 1917 in Los Angeles. How then did this cuisine go from being relatively unfamiliar, exotic, even dangerous, in the minds of some Americans—the ingredients for which had to be sought out in special Italian groceries—to common everyday fare? I would argue that this process happened not after the war, but immediately before it, and as the direct consequence of wartime trade embargoes. I can offer direct evidence in one particular example, though other stories I have seen largely corroborate this general picture. In this example, we see Italian food once represented as strange and exotic gradually become increasingly familiar and increasingly American. In the city of Stockton, California there lived a Jewish woman, transplanted from Brooklyn. She was Tillie Lewis, who had left New York in the mid-1930s to open a subsidiary partnership with an Italian canning firm (Del Gaizo) in California. The Italian company provided the copper cooking kettles and expert workmen, and California provided the land to grow what is now in the U.S. called a Roma tomato. This was not the exclusive focus of their product

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line though. They also canned round tomatoes that were apparently used in salads, tomato juice as well as canned fruit, and some vegetables. The company was called Flo-Til (a combination of the names Florindo del Gaizo and Tillie Lewis). The Roma tomatoes and tomato sauce, according to the company records, were at this point sold exclusively to Italian grocery stores in Italian neighborhoods in New York, Boston, Philadelphia etc. They were competing with imported Italian products and the formation of this company was no doubt a way to lower production and shipping costs.16 The story then took a number of twists, Florindo died (his father was a senator in Mussolini’s government) and as war loomed on the horizon, trade embargoes with Italy were imposed, assets in banks were frozen and all connections between Flo-Til and Del Gaizo were effectively cut off. Tillie made the decision to buy out the Italian shares herself and operate the company on her own, which turned out to be a brilliant idea. Suddenly there were no Italian imports to compete with and in the course of the war and thereafter Tillie began expanding marketing and sales to large grocery chains (not small Italian groceries). She custom-packed vegetables for supermarket chains and was largely responsible for introducing the canned plum tomato to U.S. mainstream customers. In other words, the predominance of “red sauce” Italian cooking among the general populace was largely due not to the Italian-American community, but to industrial manufacturers of Italian products. The story is similar for Italian vegetables like broccoli and zucchini, for wine giants like Gallo, Mondavi, and August Sebastiani, and even for a number of pasta companies (all of which were U.S.-based). It was this industrial version of Italian food that caught on first among U.S. customers, rather than the kind promoted by the early cookbook writers. The best case in point is one Ettore Boiardi, a restauranteur in New York and then Cleveland, who decided to open a factory in the late 1920s selling canned spaghetti with sauce. Chef Boy-Ar-Dee became a household name—and it was a direct line from here to products like Spaghettios (soft circles of pasta in a sweet red sauce with little meatballs or sliced hot dogs). Hector Boiardi also published his own cookbook aimed toward the general American reader in 1940 entitled Famous Italian Dishes, designed to promote his tomato sauce in guises other than a topping for spaghetti.17 “The recipes in this book will endeavor to show you how diversified are the uses for Chef Boy-ar-dee Italian Style Sauce and may suggest to you a great many other ways of using it. There is no course in a meal (with the exception of the sweet course) in which Boy-ar-dee sauce cannot be used.”18 These include a list of canapes such as crackers topped with the sauce, hard-boiled eggs whose yolks have been mashed with tomato sauce, lemon juice, and dry mustard. Baked bean sandwiches, topped with Italian style sauce and grilled, sounds



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particularly appetizing. There’s also a soup made just by diluting the can of sauce with four cups of water. With diced egg and lemon juice, this becomes mock turtle soup. Or with sliced onions, it becomes onion soup, topped with bread and Chef Boyardee grated cheese. With gelatin and Worcestershire sauce, it became a cold tomato aspic. Hamburgers are laced with the sauce. With cornmeal, one can make a macaroni-tamale loaf, or a rice and salmon loaf. There are baked potatoes, Italian style, mashed potato being mixed with the sauce and stuffed back into the shells. How about German pancakes which are made with bread soaked in milk and eggs, fried in butter, topped with canned sauce and folded over? One hesitates to call any of this either famous or Italian! It was this industrial Italo-American cuisine that food writers in the postwar era were responding to in their search for more authentic, regional, and sometimes frugal Italian cooking. In Britain, this was almost single-handedly the work of Elizabeth David who introduced a simple fresh and cooked-fromscratch form of Italian cuisine. In the U.S. there were several authors. And in the postwar years, it is evident that two clear camps divide the gastronomic community in America on the topic of Italian food. The homey frugal and decidedly Italian-American, which was largely represented by Italian restaurants with red checkered tablecloths and raffia covered bottles of chianti, not to mention pizzerie which proliferated in these years, versus the cosmopolitan authentic Italian drawing inspiration directly from experience in Europe. First to explain how these two cuisines diverged, a typical Italian-American restaurant menu would feature items such as spaghetti and meatballs, ravioli, lasagna, veal parmigiana or eggplant parmigiana, shrimp scampi, chicken marsala, caesar salad, sausage with pepper, and desserts like cannoli, biscotti and much later desserts like tiramisu. Plus, of course, the ubiquitous pizza, often heavily laden with numerous toppings. Whether these all derive ultimately from Southern Italian ancestors is beside the point; the dishes evolved independently in the U.S.—and there were also numerous regional variations, like fried ravioli in the Midwest, The Muffalatta in New Orleans, Cioppino in San Francisco. What food writers discovered in Italy after the war, however, was a decidedly more varied, regional series of cuisines. This was partly through Italian cookbooks translated and adapted for American readers. Characteristic of this period was the Talisman Italian Cookbook by Ada Boni published in the U.S. in 1950.19 The introduction to the American edition by Mario A. Pei is entirely about how different food throughout Italy is compared to the U.S. He exclaims that one will not find spumoni or zabaglione for dessert, but rather fresh fruit and cheese. “It will strike many Americans as strange to hear that there is, in Northern and central Italy a broad belt where macaroni in any shape or form is seldom eaten … Garlic is much favored in some regions,

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not at all in others … The tomato … beloved and reared in the south is used relatively little in the north.”20 The author then admits that modern travel and movement of peoples has fostered the exchange of recipes from region to region in Italy, but “Today the menu of an Italian dining car is almost as stereotyped as that of an Italo-American restaurant. But local specialties still thrive, on the highways and byways, in the lower-class sections of cities and in the smaller towns and villages.”21 This entire marketing angle for this cookbook is thus authenticity, hunted down by a real Italian cook who ventured into these highways and byways, or drew from traditional local cooking, now presented to readers whose expectations will be surprisingly expanded. Presumably, the reader who can cook and serve these real Italian dishes will equally astonish guests with sophistication. This would become a persistent model throughout the rest of the century. Presumably, cooks of Italian-American descent and the general populace who frequented spaghetti-red restaurants did not need cookbooks for this kind of cuisine; they needed the authentic Italian. Another example of this difference is evident as the same author describes Italian antipasti, mentioning “mortadella di Bologna, from which we get baloney, but it’s not the same thing.”22 Whether it is the same thing or not is beside the point; knowing the real article and understanding the difference gives the consumer cultural clout and distinction above the common rabble who don’t understand the difference. Likewise, in a discussion of first courses Pei insists: “At this point we must dispel two other favorite American illusions, fostered by the Italian restaurants in our midst. It is practically unheard of to serve minestrone (or any kind of heavy soup) and a macaroni dish in the same meal. Macaroni, on the other hand, is practically never served as a main course in substitution for meat or fish.”23 Perhaps as the quintessential “in-the-know” comment about real Italian food, he also insists that pasta be cooked “al-dente” “that is to say they must be removed from their boiling water while they are still semisolid, not after they have been stewed to a tender mush.”24 The author even explains pointedly the difference between watery brown coffee in America and the dark shot of espresso one finds in Italy. Succeeding cookbook authors intone much the same story, always finding a new ingredient, way of eating, recipe, or hidden culinary gem that is of course infinitely superior to what most American oafs call Italian food. A recurring leitmotif is also the simplicity of real Italian food, the freshness of ingredients, the unfussy presentation, and the relative lack of meat and frugal portions. The cookbook that did the most introduce or reintroduce Italian cooking to America was Marcella Hazan’s Classic Italian Cookbook followed by More Classic Italian Cooking and Marcella’s Italian Kitchen. The first of these appeared in 1973. More than any other author of the latter twentieth century,



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she made no concessions to American tastes; there were no adaptations or substitutions. These were books for those who wanted the real thing, made without a lot of electric gadgets, and using ingredients that were increasingly becoming familiar to American readers, usually as imported goods. In The Essentials of Italian Cooking (a revised version of her first two cookbooks, published in 1992)25 we finally find different varieties of rice for risotto: arborio, vialone nano, or carnaroli. There is real Parmigiano-Reggiano (compared to the generation earlier Chef Boyardee pre-grated Parmesan in a can). Other products appear, like pancetta, real extra virgin olive oil, bottarga. There are also authentic tools like the food mill, batticarne, mezzaluna, and the hand-cranked pasta machine—not to be confused with “those awful devices that masticate eggs and flour at one end and extrude a choice of pasta shapes through another end. What emerges is a mucilaginous and totally contemptible product, and moreover, the contraption is an infuriating nuisance to clean.”26 Readers largely accepted this imperious tone not only because she was a trusted authority, but because she was always right. It was through Hazan’s cookbooks that American audiences were introduced to carciofi alla Giudia, bagna caôda, and arrosticini Abruzzesi, just to name a few appetizers spanning the length of the peninsula. Moreover, the cooking is for the most part direct, simple, and uses fresh ingredients: “The flavor of most Italian dishes is usually within reach of those who understand and practice the simplicity and directness of Italian methods,”27 and insists on cutting no corners. In a pasatelli soup, she insists that “the flavor of good homemade meat broth is so vital to this soup that no commercial substitute should be used.”28 For pasta we are given even more detailed instructions about using an ample amount of water, to add salt only when the water has come to a boil, and then not add the pasta until it has returned to the boil. Olive oil is never added unless cooking homemade stuffed pasta. For dried pasta, now, they are of course never to be broken up. And of course, the rule about cooking it al dente must be repeated. There are also stringent instructions how to immediately cover every strand of pasta when tossing with sauce. “However marvelous a sauce may be, it cannot merely sit on top of or at the bottom of the bowl”29—an indirect criticism of the American practice of serving a glob of sauce on top of a plate of spaghetti. As for sauce, her comments are extremely revealing and encapsulate exactly the process of searching for authenticity and keeping one step ahead of the masses. It reveals what I consider a critical turning point. She says, “For a long time, Italian dishes abroad had been characterized by such a heavy-handed use of tomato that, for the many who had begun to discover refinement and infinite variety in the regional cuisines of Italy, the color red and any taste of tomato in a sauce came to represent a coarse and

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discredited style of cooking. The moment for a major reassessment may be at hand.”30 Of course this reassessment involved fresh tomatoes, used with the correct type of pasta, or if not available then canned imported plum tomatoes. In other words, this is another kind of sophistication, not throwing the baby away with the pasta water, if you will, as did those who thought tomato sauce was just an American obsession. Real Italians do use it, if judiciously. The most interesting question, however, is what if everybody in the course of this generation learned the proper way to make all these dishes? What if the Italian ingredients and equipment can now be found in any grocery store or even bought on line. This authentic kind of cooking no longer serves as a mark of distinction. Moreover, it no longer speaks directly to the ItalianAmerican community that by the latter twentieth century was increasingly losing touch with the cooking of its grandmothers, forgetting the techniques and recipes developed in the U.S.? In the rush to learn how Italians eat, much of what was uniquely Italian-American was in danger of being lost. It was only then that a revalorization of Italian-American food was possible, embracing the odd evolutionary twists this cooking underwent in over a century. To some extent, it was also an anti-snobbishness. For example, when Chianti no longer came in a raffia-covered fiasco, but was marketed as SuperTuscan costing over $100 a bottle, this aesthetic heartily embraced local American red plonk or guinea-red as it was affectionately called. If Marcella could only concede to a veal scallopine made with the thinnest slice buffalomilk mozzarella, they would champion the breaded fried, tomato sauced, and dripping with mozzarella American version of veal parmigiana. If real Pizza in Naples was a thin-crusted oven baked pie with meager ingredients, eaten with knife and fork, they would revel in the gargantuan American pizza heaped with all manner of meat, and vegetables. This was not merely an assertion of identity, intended to recognize the merits of Italian-American cuisine, but it was also in an odd sense a new kind of sophistication and means of distinction. If anyone can now make authentic Italian food at home and buy Italian ingredients, only the true connoisseur can scope out the surviving corner restaurant or true pizzeria: or, even better, recover the lost recipe from nonna’s hand-scrawled notebook. This is a different kind of authenticity being represented, neither real Italian cuisine touted by elites, nor the bastardized versions sold by American companies, but rather true Italian-American cuisine. In the past decade a flurry of such cookbooks appeared, some connected to movies or TV series about Italian-Americans. Thus we have The Wise Guy Cookbook and The Soprano’s Cookbook. Others were connected to restaurants, thus Patsy’s and Rao’s in New York both came out with books. Or they were connected to neighborhoods like The Arthur Avenue Cookbook, from the Bronx or the North End Italian Cookbook from Boston. Others



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were by people like Rocco Di Spirito (Rocco’s Italian American) and even Lidia Bastianich wrote Lidia’s Italian-American Kitchen in 2001 connected to a popular TV series. In the book, she felt obligated to defend what she was doing in the following words: “While I, along with many of my contemporary colleagues, preached and practiced la vera cucina Italiana and set out to bring True Italian Culinary Culture to America, Italian-American cooking was being dismissed as an impostor by journalists and professionals alike.”31 Nonetheless Italian-Americans, now third or fourth generation, she admits, still cook and love this cuisine and it is worthy of respect in its own right. In the end she couldn’t resist throwing in her own creations so it is not entirely classic Italian-American cooking, nonetheless it is characteristic of this new appreciation for this evolved cuisine. A book, which beautifully captures the spirit of this batch, is The Arthur Avenue Cookbook by Ann Volkwein published in 2004. The peculiarity of the Bronx neighborhood from which this book is drawn, is that it still has small butchers, salumeria, fruit vendors, fishmongers, dry goods stores, not to mention restaurants, all of which are still owned by the same immigrant families that owned them decades ago. It is unabashedly Italian-American rather than Italian. As one local Sal Biancardi quoted in the book puts it, “This is not Italian cooking here, it is influenced by Italian cooking but has become something else. Like everything it has evolved into something of its own.”32 Inside you find American versions of fettucine alfredo, osso buco, chicken cacciatore, baked ziti, manicotti, saltimbocca, lasagne, cannoli, and ricotta cheesecake. These recipes are presented as inherently authentic, unapologetically working class, characteristic of the tradition of a particular place and people and their cooking as it developed over the past century. In that respect, the food does become a powerful marker of identity. In conclusion, I think like any cuisine there is always a set of tensions between the makeshift and the authentic, between low-brow and elite, and especially between traditional and novel forms. Immigrant cuisines are especially prone to these kinds of arguments, especially when the new versions are compared to the old. But the story of Italian cuisine in the United States is unique in that many varied historical factors served as catalysts in these discussions, not only the simultaneous evolution of recipes while gastronomes were rediscovering original versions back in Italy, but also the industrialization and mass production of particular items, which continues to this day, especially if we think of frozen pizzas, jarred tomato sauce, and the survival of spaghettios. This certainly will insure a place in the market for Italian cookbooks of every stripe and color. Moreover, this story illustrates the ways various cooking styles are represented and marketed to the public under the label of authenticity, which is of course always a moving target. Ironically,

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the very products once criticized as culinary bastards are now finding a place in Italy, which perhaps unexpectedly has begun to re-appropriate its long-lost offspring.

Notes 1

The word is typically spelled as it sounds in American English with a singular a rather than an e at the end, in the plural.

2

New York Times, February 18, 1912, 56, and The Sun, February 24, 1912, 9 (emphasis mine). The fact that this appeared in two different newspapers suggests that it was more of an advertisement than objective review.

3

New York Times, March 12, 1912.

4

Rocco Marinaccio “‘Garlic Eaters’: Reform and Resistance a Tavola,” Italian American Review 2 (1) (Winter 2012): 3–22.

5

December 30, 1809 (Jefferson to Gordon, Trokes, & Co.). “I have mentioned the article of Maccaroni, not knowing if they are to be had in Richmond. I have formerly been supplied from Sartori’s works at Trenton, who makes them well, and would be glad to supply you should the Richmond demand make it worth your while to keep them. I paid him 16 cents the pound.” J. Jefferson Looney (ed.), The Papers of Thomas Jefferson: Retirement Series, vol. 2 of 3 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004), 109. See https://www.monticello.org/site/research-and-collections/macaroni#_ref-5 (accessed October 12, 2016).

6

Mary Randolph, The Virginia Housewife: or, Methodical Cook (Baltimore: Plaskitt & Fite, 1838).

7

For more on the use of food to make social distinctions clear, see Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste (New York: Routledge, 2013); Peter Naccarato and Kathleen LeBesco, Culinary Capital (London; New York: Berg, 2012).

8

Helen Sauders Wright, The New England Cookbook (New York: Duffield and Co., 1912), 50. Interestingly the passage is partially plagiarized from an older cookbook: Mrs. Cornelius, The Young Housekeepers Friend (Boston: Fred’k A. Brown, 1862), 176, which also advises to brown the top with a red-hot shovel. Wright omits this detail and suggests putting it in the oven.

9

Henry Fink, “Multiplying the Pleasures of the Table,” Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, vol. XXXIII (1912), 220–8.

10 Ibid. 11 Maria Gentile, The Italian Cookbook (New York: Italian Cook Book, 1919), 3. http://digital.lib.msu.edu/projects/cookbooks/html/books/book_71.cfm (accessed October 12, 2016). 12 Ibid., 13. 13 Ibid., 14. 14 Ibid., 17.



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15 “The squashes used by Italians for frying and other purposes are very small, and for this reason they are called ‘zucchine’ or small squashes. They can be bought at those shops kept by Italian vegetable dealers that are now to be found in large number in most American cities and, invariably, in Italian neighborhoods during the summer season. The ‘zucchine’ are an extremely tasty vegetable and they are especially good when fried.” Gentile, The Italian Cookbook, 28. 16 For the full story see Ken Albala, “The Tomato Queen of San Joaquin,” Gastronomica 10 (2) (Spring 2010): 55–63. 17 Hector Boiardi, Famous Italian Dishes (Milton, PA: Chef Boy-Ar-Dee Quality Foods, 1940). 18 Ibid., 2. 19 Ada Boni, Talisman Italian Cookbook (New York: Crown Publishers, 1950). 20 Ibid., xi. 21 Ibid., xii. 22 Ibid., xiii. 23 Ibid., xiii. 24 Ibid., xvii. 25 Marcella Hazan, The Essentials of Italian Cooking (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1992). 26 Ibid., 130. 27 Ibid., 120. 28 Ibid., 117. 29 Ibid., 127. 30 Ibid., 150. 31 Lidia Bastianich, Lidia’s Italian-American Kitchen (New York: Knopf, 2001), xvi. 32 Ann Volkwein, The Arthur Avenue Cookbook (New York: Regan Books, 2011), 14.

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12 Leggo’s not-so-autentico: Invention and representation in twentieth-century Italo-Australian foodways Rachel A. Ankeny and Tania Cammarano

Introduction: Leggo’s is Italian … isn’t it?

L

eggo’s is a popular Australian range of foodstuffs. The brand’s flagship product is tomato paste but it is also used to sell pasta sauces, tomato passata, and a variety of fresh and frozen pasta-related items.1 The distinctive deep red, white, and gold packaging and the use of slogans such as “the authentic Italian touch,” “for authentic Italian flavour,” and “Leggo’s authentico! [sic],” leads casual observers to conclude that Leggo’s is an Italian brand, or at the very least, one that has Italian origins, when in fact, it does not. The story of Leggo’s, and how it “turned” Italian, is a fascinating tale of a company recognizing that changes in Australian society and attitudes toward Italian food and migrants as the country became increasingly multicultural meant that developing an “authentic” Italian identity made good business sense. Evidence of this is the brand’s success: in the tomato paste category, Leggo’s holds a 73.2 percent share of the Australian market, which has an overall value of aus$58.5 million per year. In the shelf-stable pasta sauce category as a whole, which includes tomato paste, Leggo’s leads with 36.4 percent of a market estimated to be worth $281 million annually.2 In a list

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of Australia’s best-loved brands, “Leggo’s tomato products” are ranked at number 31 and Leggo’s is an integral part of the “national dinner”: “[a]s we noted, it’s spagbol [spaghetti bolognese], usually made with San Remo pasta and Leggo [sic] tomato paste.”3 The history of Leggo’s gives a case of how Italian food came to be represented and supported by an invented sense of “authenticity” in order to create a distinct Italo-Australian product. In this chapter, we trace the evolution of this brand of products, and demonstrate how Leggo’s became a truly hybridized and quintessentially Italo-Australian product, despite its Anglo origins, through a series of marketing and advertising campaigns. This change was evolutionary rather than revolutionary, as we show through a detailed examination of advertising, branded cookbooks, company records, and newspaper reports. We argue that Leggo’s transformed itself through four distinct phases of marketing, using the brand to promote the goodness of Bendigo tomatoes in the early half of the twentieth century, developing an Italian accent in the 1950s, aligning itself with the glamour of Italian icon Gina Lollobrigida in the 1970s, and becoming a fully-fledged Italo-Australian product by the end of the century with the help of cooking doyenne Margaret Fulton, ex-Australian prime minister Gough Whitlam, and ItaloAustralians themselves. Over time, the company recognized the importance of harnessing various changing meanings associated with Italian food in Australia, ranging from sophistication and glamour through to innovation and the association of Italian food with conviviality, thus allowing its products to remain popular despite major sociocultural changes. The voluminous literature on authenticity of food products and traditions has clearly established that many representations of authenticity are ill founded, if the term is taken to imply that the “same” ingredients and processes as found in the context of origin are in use within the new locale.4 So perhaps more precisely, authenticity is that which is believed or accepted to be genuine, real, or true to itself.5 Against the backdrop of ever evolving and increasingly globalized foodways, it is clear that representations of authenticity often are contrived to suit various purposes, such as to market a product or tourist locale,6 or to inspire a sense of nationalistic pride. Assertions about authenticity typically are accompanied by complex narratives that position the product or foodway, and implicitly make relational claims: something is authentic as compared to something else, which may be real or imagined. Hence “[a]uthenticity is not an objective criterion but is socially constructed and linked to expectations.”7 It is precisely these processes of expectations and social construction, and their representation which are critical to explore in the context of twentieth-century foodways, particularly in multicultural societies such as Australia, and which are illustrative of wider cultural trends that have important implications beyond the history of food.



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Background H. M. Leggo & Co. was founded by Henry Madren Leggo, who was born in 1869 to Cornish migrants in Eaglehawk, a district of Bendigo, about 150km from Melbourne. While company literature often gives the company’s foundation year as 1881 or 1882, the Bendigo Advertiser reported that Leggo started working for merchant Frederick Rickards in 1882, became a partner in 1891, and started trading as H. M. Leggo and Co. after buying out Rickards in 1894.8 Legend has it that Leggo sold his mother’s tomato relish to the gold miners in Bendigo when he was just thirteen.9 Another story claims that a Spaniard gave Leggo the recipe for tomato sauce,10 and in fact Spanish migrants to Bendigo were pioneers of the area’s tomato industry.11 By 1918, when the company went public, in addition to tomato products, Leggo’s produced, manufactured, and packaged a wide range including jams, bacon, canned fruit, coffee, flour, and biscuits.12 Despite its status as a public company, Leggo’s remained a family-run business until 1955 when John Foster bought a controlling interest.13 Company records from 1924 to 1957 show that none of the original or subsequent directors have names with identifiably Italian origins.14 In 1958, Leggo’s was bought by Associated Canneries, which in the following year was renamed Harvest Foods, and its products were produced along with others in the Harvest Foods portfolio. In 1966, the Australian division of Dutch multinational East Asiatic Company bought a large percentage of shares and installed Dutch directors; it changed the name to EAC Plumrose in 1972, and in turn was acquired in 1993 by Pacific Dunlop.15 In 1995, Simplot Australia, a wholly owned subsidiary of its U.S. parent company, took over the company and remains the present-day owner of the Leggo’s brand.16 All five owners of the Leggo’s brand during the twentieth century to varying degrees promoted Leggo’s as an “Italian” product, as will be shown. We outline four distinct phases of marketing, concentrating on Leggo’s canned tomato products, for several reasons: canned tomato products were produced by the company for its entire history and have been most widely marketed and represented as in some sense “Italian,” following their adoption as a focal point for the company’s Italian “shift.”17

Bendigo roots, 1910s to 1925 Three main themes can be detected in Leggo’s advertising of this early period: an emphasis on the provenance of Bendigo; claims about use of the “Progress Red” tomato; and a focus on the health-giving properties of the

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products and the Leggo’s process for making them. A 1913 advertisement for Leggo’s Tomato Sauce highlighting the centrality of the Victorian gold mining town is typical: “‘Leggo’s’ claims to be the Original Genuine ‘Bendigo’ Tomato Sauce—every bottle of which is made in Bendigo, the Home of good tomatoes and the home of leggo’s sauce tomatoes, grown in their own plantations under expert supervision.”18 The insistence on “Bendigo” prompts us to ask what was so special about tomatoes from this region? While the town was best known for the gold rush that occurred there in the 1850s, once gold began to dwindle, tomato growing began: a 1919 account of the industry states that while many believed the soil of Bendigo was good only for gold, Spaniards met with success: “Now the reputation of Bendigo tomatoes is such that the street barrow-ers of Melbourne invariably label their wares ‘Ripe Bendigo tomatoes,’ no matter in what district they were grown.”19 By 1939, with many large sauce making companies now operating tomato-pulping plants in Bendigo, it was claimed that “[t]he Bendigo tomato is unexcelled for sauce making, and the table variety is known throughout Australia.”20 In addition to highlighting the provenance of its tomatoes, Leggo’s stressed the type of tomato they used—the “Progress Red.” A 1914 advertisement for soup emphasizes the use of “‘Progress Reds’ Picked at Early Morn! and picked especially for ‘Leggo’s’ … with a flavor only possible in specially cultured Tomatoes such as grown by Leggo’s in their own plantations in there [sic] Famous Bendigo Valley, under expert supervision … ‘Progress Reds’ are the the [sic] only tomatoes used …”21 However, both the stress on Bendigo and Progress Reds begins to dwindle as the 1920s continued. A 1925 recipe booklet produced by the company has only one mention of Bendigo origins and none of “Progress Reds.” Instead, it concentrates on the health-giving properties of Leggo’s products, and the special “process” that makes them so healthy. This theme was not new: in 1913, the consumer is urged to remember that “it’s the process” that makes “Leggo’s Sauce the best,” while another advertisement in the same year mentions the “wholesome [and] nutritious” nature of Leggo’s soup.22 But the 1925 booklet is dominated by the message that Leggo’s products are good for you: “The reason is to be found in Leggo’s method of processing … [t]his is the reason that makes Leggo’s Tomtato [sic] Soup higher in its percentage of Protein, Fat, Carbohydrates and Ash ...”23 Why did Leggo’s de-emphasize both Bendigo and Progress Reds, in favor of health claims? First, shortages of Bendigo tomatoes in this period meant that Leggo’s probably sourced tomatoes from elsewhere: a 1929 article notes that a letter was received by various firms in far north Queensland from H. M. Leggo noting the shortages of tomatoes in Victoria, asking for “co-operation locally” and providing a variety of seeds for tomatoes, including but not limited to Progress Reds.24 Thus, it is probable that the tomatoes being used were no



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longer coming from Bendigo, nor were they exclusively Progress Reds. Also by 1926, Leggo’s was sending its tomato pulp from Bendigo to Melbourne to be manufactured.25 This move meant that the company could no longer claim, as they had in 1913, that “every bottle … is made in Bendigo.”26 Further, many other sauce-making factories were processing tomatoes in Bendigo by the late 1930s, so Bendigo and its special tomatoes were no longer a unique selling point.27 The distinctive Leggo’s “process” would continue to be used as a marketing device into the future, in a variety of ways. But what is clear from this early history is that the abandonment of initial marketing campaigns was not related to a turn toward representing the product in terms of its Italian “roots.”

An Italian accent, 1950s to 1975 What we have termed the “Italian Accent” period dates from the early 1950s to the mid-1970s.28 During this phase, the recipes, styling, and labeling on the cans suggest connections to Italy, but there are no explicit claims that Leggo’s is in any sense Italian. Tomato paste was the most prominent product to be rebranded with Italian connotations, as is clear from illustrations of the can, which include the use of the Italian language that dates to 1957.29 There is evidence to suggest that Leggo’s was making tomato paste as early as 1930, but the company was manufacturing a tomato paste-like product much earlier under the name of “Tomatis.”30 Classified advertisements between 1926 and 1935 suggest that “Tomatis” was a concentrated tomato product, easily eaten on bread or with meats, and portable enough to take on picnics, but not directly connected in any way to Italian foodways.31 Leggo’s had clear competitors in the tomato paste market. According to a 1935 Italian-language newspaper report on the tomato-preserving industry in Australia, factories producing preserved tomato products similar to those found in Italy had only been operating in Australia for a “very few years.”32 For instance, Rosella manufactured tomato paste and regularly advertised their tomato products in Il Giornale Italiano from 1932 onwards as “the perfect substitute for original Italian sauces, extracts and concentrates.”33 In addition to Leggo’s and Rosella, tomato paste was produced in the 1950s and 1960s by Brookes, Kia Ora, Tom Piper, Alfa, La Tosca, and La Gina; the latter two companies were Italian migrant-owned, and imported products also were available in major Australian cities. In an indication of the target audience for tomato paste products, a 1956 Australasian Grocer article states that Tom Piper Tomato Paste was “primarily introduced to meet the demands of New Australian housewives,” meaning recent migrants during the major waves of

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Italian immigration that occurred in the 1950 and 1960s, though it also notes it is “becoming increasingly popular with Australian women as a means of bringing the goodness of tomatoes into a greater number of dishes.”34 Use of Italian language on can labeling, as we have already noted, dates back to at least 1957, but there is circumstantial evidence that Leggo’s had already started using Italian on their cans in 1953 or 1954, for instance in the subtitle of the Leggo’s Golden Anniversary Cookbook (2003)—“50 years of teaching Italian”—implies that 1953 was the year Leggo’s began promoting “Italian” cooking through their products.35 More generally, the 1950s were a time of great change at Leggo’s, including a major restructuring in 1952 which left no one on the board with a Leggo surname.36 In an interesting link with Rosella, who as noted had been advertising in Italian-language newspapers since the 1930s, a Mr. J. Chippindalle, previously of Rosella and H. J. Heinz, was appointed works manager.37 In 1953, the company suffered a massive loss of £40,565 and shareholders at the general meeting suggested Leggo’s be wound up, but the move was rejected.38 In 1954–5, John Foster Investments Pty. Ltd bought the majority of the shares in the company and a 1955 article announcing the buyout, detailed the company’s new strategy: “[It] would expand the present products of H. M. Leggo and a move would be made to develop extensively concentrated food products from vegetables and fruits. Tomato concentrate would be given special attention …”39 By 1957, the Chairman could tell shareholders that “[y]our company has embarked on a completely new marketing programme designed to penetrate the national market on a much wider scale.”40 The outcomes of the new marketing plan can be seen in advertisements which appeared in The Australian Women’s Weekly and major metropolitan newspapers: the new focus was clearly on Leggo’s tomato paste (as well as pickles). For instance, a 1957 advertisement features a recipe and image for “Spaghetti Marinara,” describing it as “the tastiest Spaghetti this side of Napoli.” Although there are many “Italian” signifiers represented in this advertisement (e.g., pasta is pictured accompanied by glasses of red wine and a bottle of Chianti and the Italian-language can is visible), there is no claim that Leggo’s product is Italian, which is a key difference between this period and the next, as will be shown. Instead, the advertisement tells the reader that “whenever a recipe says ‘tomatoes’ then you need Leggo’s Tomato Paste—a five times concentrate of the pick of glowing, sun ripe tomatoes.” The advertisement suggests that Leggo’s tomato paste be used “to add richer, fuller flavour to soups, sauces, casseroles; and for some real cooking fun, try continental dishes using Leggo’s Tomato Paste, like the easy to prepare, easy-on-the-pocket Spaghetti Marinara here …”41 The tagline which became popular in this period—“Leggo’s makes meals magic!”—does not communicate Italian-ness or Italian roots in any specific way.42



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FIGURE 12.1  “Just Five Simple Ingredients and Leggo’s Tomato Paste”—a Leggo’s advertisement from The Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, October 23, 1957), 14, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article48207245. Magazine article found in Trove, reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Australia, with permission from Leggo’s, Simplot Australia.

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In 1959, the same Italian-language labeling is featured on a can pictured in the Annual Report, with the only change being the deletion of the name of the company because it is now a fully-owned subsidiary of Associated Canneries (soon to be Harvest Foods). “Tipo Italiano” replaces “Melbourne, Victoria, Australia” at least on the front of the can, further obscuring the origins of the product.43 The new owners believed Leggo’s had a bright future, despite already having its own range of canned vegetables and meats; the 1959 Chairman’s Address notes that “[i]t is not the Board’s intention to lose the well-known and respected brand name of Leggo’s in favour of Harvest, but gradually to blend the two names so that they will, in time, become synonymous.”44 The 1959 Annual Report lists tomato paste and pickles amongst the leaders in the company’s product range: these products “have established a wide consumer demand, and show most economic returns.”45 The 1960s was a quiet period for Leggo’s in terms of advertising, but products being produced according to a list in the 1963 Annual Report under the Leggo’s brand include a range of pickles and condiments as well as tomato paste, tomato puree and tomato sauce; in 1966, peeled tomatoes are added to the product range.46 By 1969, now under the direction of EAC Plumrose, the Annual Report states, “The advertising campaign conducted during the year for leggo tomato paste contributed towards lifting the sales of this product substantially and consolidating the leggo brand as the market leader in the tomato paste field.”47 Although material evidence of this advertising campaign is lacking, there are other indicators that Leggo’s had begun to promote its products specifically to an “ethnic” market. For example, “Continental Foodstore” Robilotta’s features Leggo’s Triplo Concentrato di Pomodoro in a 1967 advertisement in La Fiamma, and Leggo’s Tomato Paste is the focus of a 1969 advertisement spot on an Italian-language radio show in Sydney.48 However, the Leggo’s Tomato Paste Good Cooks’ Book, published in 1970, is aimed at a mainstream consumer audience. In this period, “the goodness of tomatoes” still trumped the presentation of products as “authentically Italian.” Nevertheless, the book is dominated by Italian-inspired recipes and contains an entire section titled “Tomato Paste and Pasta … Italian Style.” It notes that “[n]othing suits the flavour of pasta and pizza as well as tomato paste. Which really isn’t so surprising because Italy’s the place where tomato paste originated. So for a really authentic Italian dish always put Leggo’s Tomato Paste alongside the pasta.”49 The book also contains a “quick ideas” section with tips for using tomato paste in non-Italian dishes such as sausage rolls and recipes in the casseroles section includes Tropical Curry and Chilli Con Carne (“to capture the flavour of Mexico”). Overall, the emphasis in this cookbook is on using Leggo’s tomato paste to add interest and versatility to



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cooking, to save time, and most importantly, to add concentrated tomato flavor.50 By the end of this period, the company and its products have an increasingly stronger Italian accent, but claims about Italian origins remain limited.

Italian glamour, 1975 to 1978 The use of an iconic Italian star (Gina Lollobrigida) to promote a companyauthored cookbook changed Leggo’s from a brand that made products that could be used in Italian cooking (among other uses) to one which represented and even embodied, in their words, the “‘vera cucina Italiana’—the true cooking of Italy.”51 The Leggo’s Italian Cookbook of 1975 was one of the first exclusively “Italian” recipe books published in Australia and was extremely well received.52 The book introduces new products in the Leggo’s range—all with explicitly “Italian” marketing, such as Leggo’s Chunky Tomato Italienne and Leggo’s Spaghetti Sauce with Beef. In fact, the 1975 recipe book does not contain many original recipes but borrows heavily from the 1970 book. A comparison between the recipes as printed in 1970 and 1975 shows how Leggo’s attempted to enhance the “Italian-ness” of the recipes and hence the associated products.

Recipe/Section

1970

1975

Spaghetti Bolognese

“Now add 1 8½ oz. can Leggo’s Tomato Paste”

“Now add Leggo’s Tomate Paste, the authentic Italian touch”

Pizza

Italian Pizza “… like mother used to make”

Pizza “To make it the way every Italian mamma does …”

Lasagne

Lasagne

Lasagne “To cook it like they do in Bologna”

Tips with Tomate Paste

Titbit tips with Tomate Paste

Italian Titbits with Leggo’s Tomate Paste

Tomate Dip

Spicy Tomato

Italian Tomato Dip

Bloody Mary

Bloody Mary

Bloody Maria

FIGURE 12.2  A table comparing the language used in recipes from the Leggo’s Tomato Paste Good Cook’s Book (1970) to The Leggo’s Italian Cookbook (1975).

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FIGURE 12.3  “When in Australia, Gina Still Does as the Italians Do ...”—a Leggo’s advertisement from The Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, May 11, 1977), 163, http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article44560369. Magazine article found in Trove reproduced courtesy of the National Library of Australia, with permission from Leggo’s, Simplot Australia.



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The Gina Lollobrigida campaign which ran from 1975 to 1977 lent a certain Italian sophistication to Leggo’s products, and put the glamour in this phase. It featured the famous Italian actress in a sparkling gold gown holding a glass of champagne. In the flagship ad, which was a double-page spread, we see Gina on one side and opposite the range of Leggo’s tomato products. The headline “Gina, Leggo’s and You–A beautiful connection that promises to give your cooking that authentic Italian touch” aims to convince the Australian housewife that she too can access the glamour of Italy through Leggo’s products. Gina, however, looks like she has never cooked, let alone cooked in Australia. The copy begs to differ: “Beautiful Gina Lollobrigida. No matter where she is, she always likes to give her cooking that magic touch of Italy. So when in Australia, Gina uses Leggo’s Tomato Products.” Hence, there is a clear shift in this phase to representing these products as high class and desirable, rather than merely useful and (in some sense) authentic. This advertisement also is clearly linked to promotion of the cookbook, with a voucher for the cookbook included.53 In the series of ads, Gina’s clothes and pose do not change, and her connection to Leggo’s remains rather unbelievable, despite one providing a recipe that is “Gina’s Favourite” and a second where “Gina presents two new sauces from Leggo’s.”54 In another, it is claimed that despite being in Australia, Gina can do what Italians do because she has “discovered the true taste of home, in Leggo’s Italian Tomato Paste … the one made to an authentic Italian recipe”—and the implication is so can the reader.55 Despite the added Italian glamour, many of the messages represented in this campaign are the same as those in the 1975 cookbook: the tomato paste is “made to an authentic Italian recipe”; Chunky Tomato “Italienne” Sauce “gives you an authentic Italian sauce for meats”; Spaghetti sauce with Beef is “[a]nother “Instant Italian” masterpiece”; and Leggo’s Peeled Roma Tomatoes are made with “whole juicy Roma tomatoes (Italy’s own tomato).”56 An indication that Leggo’s has seriously embraced its “Italian” identity is that it stops promoting products that do not fit this picture: for instance, the last advertisement for Leggo’s pickles in The Australian Women’s Weekly is in 1973.57 After this time, Leggo’s appears to have concentrated almost exclusively on Italian-related products, at least in its advertising.58 Hence, the emphasis is very much on the most common tagline utilized in these ads: “The Authentic Italian Touch.” Through these efforts to represent its products, the company is able to re-brand itself as “Italian” (or at least Italo-Australian) and simultaneously to cash in on and help to shape the culinary prestige that Italy came to have in Australia in this period.

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Authentically Italo-Australian, 1978 to the present day In 1978, Leggo’s enters its fourth and final phase: it becomes “authentically” Italo-Australian, meaning it represents itself as a hybrid of the two cultures. It achieves this identity by first changing the packaging of its products, then hiring a series of high-profile, non-Italian Australians to promote its products in some cases in (bastardized) Italian with subtitles, and finally by associating its products for the first time with the cooking of Italo-Australian migrants themselves. The 1959 and 1975 cans, aside from font changes, display largely the same text. The change in packaging in 1978 reduces the amount of Italian language on the can, eliminating phrases such as “Vero Frutto di Pomodoro”; the terms “Tipo Italiano” and “Triplo Concentrato di Pomodoro” remain but they are made less obvious by rendering them in a cursive font. The phrase “made to an authentic Italian recipe” is added.59 The reduction in Italian language labeling and the inclusion of more English indicates that the company is attempting to reposition itself and its brand. This is a clear move away from the Italian-ness personified by Lollobrigida to a more accessible product for the average Australian. The labeling and marketing appear to indicate that the product is still an authentic Italian one, but also a product of the country that created it, Australia. Enter Margaret Fulton, one of the most widely recognized authorities on Australian cooking, as the new spokesperson for Leggo’s.60 Together with the increase in English-language descriptions on Leggo’s labels, Fulton gives the brand a much more domestic, down-to-earth, and, ultimately, Australian identity. The imagery used in advertising with Fulton reinforces this impression. There is much more physical connection between Fulton and Leggo’s products: for instance, she actually holds a can of Leggo’s tomato paste, something “La Gina” never did.61 A 1978 series of advertisements features different recipes—some from the 1975 cookbook, others new—and accompanying them is Fulton sharing her “hints” and “secrets.” Unlike the advertisements in the previous era, the recipes are not exclusively Italian. One for “Steak Dianne” [sic] (a dish commonly thought to have American-French origins) involves the addition of tomato paste that is atypical for the dish.62 Use of a recipe like Steak Diane, a classic of Australian 1970s cooking, together with Fulton herself, indicates a clear desire to popularize the Leggo’s brand among average Australian housewives.63 In 1980, Leggo’s introduces a range of dried pasta products, described by their marketing director Maurie Ryding as a “natural” extension to what, by



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1981, are “four product groups … integrated under the banner of ‘Italian style’ food”: tomato products, tomato paste, instant sauces, and pasta.64 The above is advertised by Fulton in thirty-second television spots as well as display ads notably in The Australian Women’s Weekly.65 Other campaigns in the early 1980s still communicated a certain level of “Italian-ness,” including one that focused on Leggo’s pasta, featuring actor Bob Ruggiero.66 Leggo’s cookbook in this period (published in 1982) is much more sophisticated than the 1975 version, using images relating to “high” Italian culture such as a violin and an Italian-language newspaper, and in its wording, which drops much of the whimsy of the earlier volume, even if, by and large, the recipes are basically the same. However, there is an increased emphasis on Italian regions in this book: in the 1975 cookbook, regions were acknowledged only in passing, while in 1982, a whole section is devoted to the regionality of Italian cooking: “Italy has one of the most wonderfully varied cuisines in the world. This is because, at heart, it’s intensely regional.”67 This new emphasis could imply those marketing Leggo’s products understand that its market is developing more sophisticated Italian tastes or it could be a way to introduce new products into the market, for instance, Leggo’s Spaghetti Sauce Napolitana is a new product featured in 1982 and not present in the 1975 book.68 Nevertheless, the chapters on the tomato and pasta acknowledge that these two products are Italian because, in the case of tomatoes: “… there’s one ingredient no Italian cook worth his “sal” would ever be without. And that’s the tomato. … [It] lends its special zest to every part of the Italian cuisine … A plate of juicy sliced tomatoes, their rich redness contrasting vividly with the bright green of spicy fresh basil leaves is a treat for the sight and senses that’s truly Italian.”69 Hence, despite increasing awareness of regionality, Leggo’s continues to use familiar imagery to sell “Italian” food as a relatively homogenous entity. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, Leggo’s started to use “Leggo’s Authentico!” [sic] as the brand slogan.70 Whether they have misspelt “autentico” on purpose is a key (but unanswerable) question. Was the misspelling an “Italo-Australianism” designed to show that the company was embodying two different cultures that were increasingly hybridized, or was it just a mistake made by a non-Italian speaking marketing team? Regardless of intent, the outcome has been that the catchphrase still in use today communicates the Australian-ness of what is perceived to be an “Italian” brand. Leggo’s “Talking Italian” campaign launched in 1999 featuring a series of well-known Australians and took this sort of hybridization one step further. Ads featured celebrities poking fun at themselves, with perhaps the most memorable of these being the ad starring former Australian prime minister Gough Whitlam, who promoted Leggo’s products in Italian with English

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subtitles. The Whitlam advertisement capitalized on two key well-known facts: his “It’s Time” 1972 campaign slogan, and his push for Australia to become a republic. When Whitlam says (in his poor quality Italian, over the strains of “Il Canto degli Italiani”) that a dish prepared with Leggo’s is “fit for a queen, or a president,” and points to himself, the advertisement touches on a hot topic of the day—the failure of the 1999 Australian republic referendum to pass.71 According to the Simplot Australia senior brand manager at the time, Gemma Trivisonno, the advertisement was trying to “celebrate two cultures.” It was highly successful because it was founded on what the advertising agency behind the ads calls a brand truth: “Leggo’s teaches Australians about Italian Food.”72 In so doing, it also “teaches” Australia about a particular vision of Italy through its representations of its food products, as well as representing an emerging hybrid identity present across the Italian diaspora. Leggo’s hybridized Italo-Australian identity was further affirmed in its 2003 Golden Anniversary Cookbook/ Libro di Cucina per L’Anniversario D’Oro.The book is bilingual, and acknowledges the company’s Bendigo beginnings and its founder Henry Madren Leggo. In an introduction by Margaret Fulton, the reader is told that “[o]ur early forays into Italian cooking were often helped by Leggo’s Tomato Paste,” clearly indicating that this remains a product aimed at Australians, and not Italo-Australians. But for the first time in a Leggo’s cookbook, recipes from Italo-Australians are included. By this time, ItaloAustralians had become a well-respected group in Australian society, and hence Leggo’s attempts to co-opt them into their brand identity. Leggo’s has become simultaneously Australian and Italian, and in a sense authentically Italo-Australian, as are the Italo-Australians who present their recipes and their stories in this section of the book. The naming of these recipes as “Secret Family Recipes” (“Ricette segrete di famiglia”) also reinforces Leggo’s self-described role as the “teacher” of Italian food and perhaps even of Italy to Australians for over fifty years: without Leggo’s, these secret recipes would remain hidden from the average Australian.73

How did Leggo’s become “authentically” Italo-Australian? What factors were in place that allowed Leggo’s to transform its identity in the manner described in the four stages above? Obviously, tomatoes were part of its core business from its very beginnings, which lay a clear foundation for making connections between its tomato-based products and the type of Italian cooking (red sauce based cuisine common in the Southern provinces) that has become most commonly associated with Italian food outside of



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Italy. The company also capitalized on the growing popularity of “continental” cookery, and later Italian food, in Australia from the 1950s onwards. The influx of Italian migrants to Australia in the 1950 and 1960s was critical to the growth in popularity in Italian cuisine, which Leggo’s also utilized to fuel its efforts to sell its products. They also recognized the importance of harnessing various meanings associated with Italian food and Italy itself in Australia at various points in the history recounted above, ranging from sophistication and glamour through to innovation and the association of Italian culture with conviviality and more enjoyable ways of eating and dining.74 But what, precisely, does it mean to be “authentically” Italo-Australian? As we have documented in this chapter, Leggo’s tomato products are genuine products of Australia in multiple senses. They fulfill Australian expectations of what “Italian” products should be, and have been carefully constructed and represented in order to convey particular meanings ranging from high Italian culture to convivial family meals. As is Australia itself, they are products of the hybridization of multiple cultures with diverse histories: the English origins of H. M. Leggo himself and his tomato products combined with a series of Italian foodways and signifiers to create a novel entity which fits well within contemporary Australian food culture which has been heavily shaped by Italian cuisine. In its hybridity, Leggo’s could be viewed as a quintessential Italo-Australian product (though ironically probably one that few Italo-Australians themselves would use!).

Acknowledgments The authors would like to thank Kate Murphy, Senior Brand Manager—Shelf Sauces at Simplot Australia, for permission to reproduce the images and assistance in tracking down various Leggo’s cookbooks and advertisements, as well as the archivists at the University of Melbourne for access to the J. B. Were and Son Collection. This chapter was originally presented as a paper at the 2012 Food Conference Perugia sponsored by the Umbra Institute, and the authors would like to acknowledge the valuable feedback received from attendees.

Notes 1 See http://leggos.com.au/our-range for the full range of Leggo’s products. 2

“Market Sizes and Shares,” Retail World 68 (13) (2015): 44–91.

3

AC Nielsen data quoted in David Dale, The Little Book of Australia (Crows

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2010), 166; David Dale, “Who We Are: From Impulse to Mouth,” Sun Herald, 2009, http://blogs.sunherald.com.au/ whoweare/archives/2009/06/who_we_are_eati.html (accessed October 12, 2016). Notably San Remo is another Australian-based company producing Italo-Australian foods.

4

See Terence Ranger and Eric Hobsbawm (eds), The Invention of Tradition (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984); Linda Keller Brown and Kay Mussell (eds), Ethnic and Regional Foodways in the United States: The Performance of Group Identity (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 1984); Regina Bendix, “Diverging Paths in the Scientific Search for Authenticity,” Journal of Folklore Research 29 (1992): 103–32; Ben Highmore, “The Taj Mahal in the High Street: The Indian Restaurant as Diasporic Popular Culture in Britain,” Food, Culture & Society 12 (2) (2009): 173–90.

5

Charles Taylor, The Ethics of Authenticity (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1992), 17.

6

Dean MacCannell, “Staged Authenticity: Arrangements of Social Space in Tourist Settings,” American Journal of Sociology 79 (1973): 589–603.

7

Shun Lu and Gary Alan Fine, “The Presentation of Authenticity: Chinese Food as a Social Accomplishment,” The Sociological Quarterly 36 (1995): 535–53, 535.

8

Douglas Lockwood, ed., Annals of Bendigo. The Sixth Section. Years 1936 to 1950 (Bendigo: Sandhurst Building Society, 1981), 31.

9

Sandra Bruce, Beginning in Bendigo: From Humble Origins to a Captured Market (Bendigo: Bendigo Art Gallery, 2011), 8.

10 Ann Wright quoted in Al Grassby, The Spanish in Australia (Melbourne: AE Press, 1983), 55. 11 Michael Symons, One Continuous Picnic: A History of Eating in Australia (Adelaide: Duck Press, 1982), 224. 12 University of Melbourne Archives (hereafter UMA), J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 355, Leggo, H. M. and Co. Ltd, Prospectus of H. M. Leggo and Co. Ltd, 1918. 13 “H. M. Leggo Sells to John Foster: Expansion Plans,” The Sun (Melbourne, July 1, 1955), 20. 14 UMA, J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 355, Leggo, H. M. and Co. Ltd, Directors’ Reports and Balance Sheets, 1924–57. 15 Australian Stock Exchange, The 1998 ASX Delisted Companies Book 1929 to 1998 (Brisbane: Australian Stock Exchange Limited, 1998), 56, 89, 205; Neil Shoebridge, “How PacDun Bit Off More Than It Can Chew,” BRW (Sydney, April 3, 1995), 44; 16 Ian Jarrett, “Rejuvenating the Humble Pie,” Asian Business 32 (6) (1996): 23. 17 The time periods provided for the four stages are slightly fluid due to limits in the source materials available for some of the period in question, for instance the lack of display advertising from 1925–57; we have utilized other



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types of evidence, such as annual reports, classified advertising, and so on, to attempt to reconstruct the relevant marketing campaigns to support our arguments. 18 “Leggo’s Tomato Sauce,” The Argus (Melbourne, October 15, 1913), 13. 19 “Bendigo Industries. No.2. Rural Production. Tomatoes and Fruit,” The Argus (Melbourne, August 7, 1919), 7. 20 “Gateway to North. Bendigo on Wave of Prosperity,” The Age (Melbourne, July 22, 1939), 30. 21 “‘Progress Reds’ Picked at Early Morn!,” The Argus (Melbourne, February 4, 1914), 13. 22 “Leggo’s Tomato Sauce,” The Argus (Melbourne, March 5, 1913), 5; “The True Flavor of Vine-Ripened Tomatoes,” The Argus (Melbourne, December 31, 1913), 5. 23 H. M. Leggo and Co. Ltd, Flavory Fruits and Savory Soups and Their Recipes: Containing Also Valuable Hints and Information on Food Value of Fruits and Vegetables, 6th ed (Melbourne: H. M. Leggo and Co., 1925), 11. 24 “Bowen Notes,” Townsville Daily Bulletin (Townsville, QLD, July 4, 1929), 11. 25 “H. M. Leggo Pty. Ltd Removal From Bendigo “Unjust Railway Freights,” The Argus (Melbourne, January 26, 1926), 12. 26 “Leggo’s Tomato Sauce,” October 15, 1913. 27 “Gateway to North. Bendigo on Wave of Prosperity.” 28 Although there is a lack of materials available in the 1960s, there are strong continuities between the documentation of marketing campaigns in the 1950s and the cookbook produced in 1970. 29 See “Just Five Simple Ingredients and Leggo’s Tomato Paste,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, October 23, 1957), 14. 30 “Leggo Concentrated Tomato Paste” was advertised in the classified advertisement: “Savings for Cash at Foreman’s,” Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton, QLD, March 26, 1930), 4; UMA, J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 355, Leggo, H. M. and Co. Ltd, Prospectus of H. M. Leggo and Co. Ltd, 1918. 31 Classified advertisements featuring Tomatis include “Johnstone & Wilmot Pty. Ltd.,” Examiner (Launceston, TAS, August 25, 1926), 6; “R. Davis & Sons,” Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton, QLD, January 11, 1926), 3; “Thos. Kelly & Sons Ltd,” Morning Bulletin (Rockhampton, QLD, April 22, 1927), 3; “Boans,” Sunday Times (Perth, March 31, 1935), 12; It roughly corresponds with a product traditionally made in southern Italian households by pureeing then sun-drying tomatoes until they form a thick peel-like substance which can be more easily stored for use in seasons when fresh tomatoes are not available but there is no evidence of any connection to this foodway. 32 Authors’ translation of “da pochissimi anni” in “Industria Delle Conserve Di Pomodoro,” Il Giornale Italiano (Sydney, April 24, 1935), 6. Il Giornale Italiano was primarily an Italian-language newspaper published in Australia from 1932 to 1940. 33 Rosella advertised in Il Globo in 1962, noting that it had produced “La

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD migliore Conserva da oltre 60 anni” [the best tomato paste for over sixty years] which would imply it was producing these tomato products as early as 1902 in “Rosella Tomato Paste,” Il Globo (Melbourne, January 2, 1962), 6; Authors’ translation of “i piu perfetti sostituti delle salse estratti e concentrati di pomodori originali Italiani” in “Rosella,” Il Giornale Italiano (Sydney, March 26, 1932), 5.

34 “Tom Piper Tomato Paste Has Many Uses,” The Australasian Grocer (Melbourne, December 1956), 35. 35 Whereas 1954 is implied as the date of a can change in an analysis of The Australasian Grocer, the official magazine of the Grocers’ Association of Victoria, which carried a list of recommended retail prices for a wide range of grocery products. In June 1954, Leggo’s has four can sizes of tomato paste listed, but in July, there is no longer a listing for Leggo’s tomato paste. In September 1954, a Leggo’s product reappears in the listing and is now described as “Leggo’s Triplo Concentrate” which hints at a change of packaging in this period. A can dating to 1959 clearly reads “Triplo Concentrato di Pomodoro” [triple concentrate of tomato] and “vero frutto di pomodoro” [the true fruit of the tomato] amongst other Italian phases, although none of this is highlighted in the advertising associated with this can labelling. 36 UMA, J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 355, Leggo, H. M. and Co. Ltd, Chairman’s Address, 9 October 1952. 37 Ibid. 38 “Winding-up Move Defeated,” Examiner (Launceston, TAS, October 30, 1953), 14. 39 “H. M. Leggo Sells to John Foster: Expansion Plans.” 40 UMA, J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 355, Leggo, H. M. and Co. Ltd, The Stock Exchange Official Record – H. M. Leggo & Co. Ltd, December 1957. 41 Note this advertisement makes reference to “continental,” rather than Italian, cooking, and introduces the idea that continental cooking is “fun,” a theme exploited in later Leggo’s cookbooks. It may well be that continental is a euphemism for Italian in a period when there was considerable tension among the Anglo majority regarding the increasing number of Italian migrants. The term was used in this period to describe cooking from non-British European countries and, sometimes, all foreign food. In the 1950s, continental cooking was the activity of fashionable Australian housewives, and was seen as glamorous; it was closely related to the popular representations of 1950s European and especially Italian culture presented by the large city department stores, rather than having any real connections to the culture of the increasing numbers of Italian migrants arriving in Australia at this time. 42 “Just Five Simple Ingredients and Leggo’s Tomato Paste.” 43 UMA, J. B. Were and Son, 2000.0017, Box 283, Harvest Foods Ltd, Associated Canneries Ltd. Harvest Foods Annual Report 1959. 44 UMA, Associated Canneries Ltd. Harvest Foods Chairman’s Address to Annual General Meeting, October 30, 1959.



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45 UMA, Associated Canneries Ltd. Harvest Foods Annual Report 1959. 46 UMA, Harvest Foods Limited Annual Report 1963 and 1966. 47 UMA, Harvest Foods Limited Annual Report 1969. 48 “Robilotta’s Continental Foodstore,” La Fiamma, July 29, 1967, 30; “Radio 2CH Advertising 1969 To 1970,” The Legacy of Mamma Lena and Dino Gustin. http://www.mammalena.info/2CH/radio2ch.htm (accessed September 26, 2016). 49 Leggo’s Tomato Paste Good Cooks’ Book (Sydney: Woman’s Day, 1970), 11. 50 Ibid. 51 The Leggo’s Italian Cookbook, 1st edn (Moorabbin, VIC/Sydney: Lansdowne Press for Plumrose Australia, 1975), 3. Note this sort of use of Italian culinary capital long preceded its use in the United States and potentially elsewhere: see Zachary Nowak, “Café Au Lait to Latte: Charting the Acquisition of Culinary Capital by Italian Food in the United States,” Italian American Review 5 (2015): 94–120. 52 A 1975 Leggo’s advertisement states the first print run sold out within months, prompting a reprint in its first year as well as in 1977, 1979, and 1980 in “Give Someone a Touch of Italy This Christmas. The Leggo’s Italian Cookbook,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, November 26, 1975), 167; A 1981 article by Leggo’s marketing director Maurie Ryding noted that sales of the book had exceeded 100,000, tying the book specifically to Leggo’s new “marketing concept”: Maurie Ryding, “Marketing Concept Is Paying Off for Leggo’s,” Retail World 34 (8) (April 1981): 16. 53 “Gina, Leggo’s and You,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, July 30, 1975), 24. 54 “Gina’s Favourite Recipe – No. 1,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, July 16, 1975), 32; “Gina Presents Two New Sauces From Leggo’s,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, October 1, 1975), 60. 55 “When in Australia, Gina Still Does as the Italians Do ...,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, May 11, 1977), 163. 56 “Gina, Leggo’s and You.” 57 “New Spreadable Sandwich Pickles from Leggo’s,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, February 14, 1973), 79. 58 The company did advertise Leggo’s Manwich in “New Leggo’s Manwich,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, November 5, 1975), 64, which appears to have been a short-lived product likely picked up from its parent company. According to their website, Leggo’s still currently produces two pickle products, but these are not mass marketed in the way their Italian products are. 59 Interestingly, this 1978 advertisement claims the new label celebrates Leggo’s tomato paste’s thirtieth anniversary as the leading tomato paste, which dates the product to 1948, but we have found no other evidence to support this claim. See “Leggo’s Tomato Paste,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, May 24, 1978), 139.

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60 For the importance of Margaret Fulton’s role in Australian cooking, see Colin Bannerman, Acquired Tastes: Celebrating Australia’s Culinary History (Canberra: National Library of Australia, 1998), 79. 61 For a photo of Fulton holding a Leggo’s can see Marcus Tarrant, Leggo’s Libro Di Cucina Per L’Anniversario D’Oro/Leggo’s Golden Anniversary Cookbook (Cheltenham, VIC: Simplot Australia, 2003), 3. 62 “Leggo’s Steak Dianne,” Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney, August 2, 1978), 131. 63 A recipe for Steak Diane is included in Pamela Clark, Classics: The Australian Women’s Weekly (Sydney: ACP Books, 2009). 64 Ryding, “Marketing Concept Is Paying Off for Leggo’s.” 65 “Only Leggo’s,” Retail World 34 (8) (April 1981): 14–15. 66 “Ad for Leggo’s ‘Al Dente’ Pasta, 1984,” YouTube. http://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=IHvU80WIhQg (accessed September 26, 2016). 67 Leggo’s Italian Cookbook (Moorabbin, VIC/Sydney: Plumrose Australia: distributed by Lansdowne Press, 1982), 9. 68 Using “ethnicity” to sell a product is consistent with Australian food industry practises as described in Symons, One Continuous Picnic: A History of Eating in Australia. 69 Leggo’s Italian Cookbook, 17. 70 Leggo’s Authentico! Italian Cookbook (Melbourne: Leggo’s Pty. Ltd, 1992). 71 “Gough Whitlam Talks Leggo’s” (Australia: Simplot Australia, 2000). 72 Kate Cincotta, “The Benefits of Talking Italian,” B&T Weekly, April 30, 2004, 17. 73 Tarrant, Leggo’s Libro Di Cucina per L’Anniversario D’Oro/Leggo’s Golden Anniversary Cookbook. 74 In addition to the ‘Talking Italian’ TV advertisements described, this connection is present in the cartoons contained in various Leggo’s cookbooks, which due to space limitations we have not discussed in detail.

13 Italian food in Israel: Representing an imagined Mediterranean Nir Avieli

I

talian food is extremely popular in Israel, second only to the so-called Mizrahi (“oriental”) cuisine. Pasta and pizza are ubiquitous in Israeli homes, while pizzerias, gelatos, espresso bars, and Italian restaurants dot the urban scape. Italian dishes are also served in most Israeli cafes. In this chapter, I explore the meanings attributed by Israeli-Jews to Italian food and by extension to their perceptions of Italy. I first describe the arrival of Italian food in Israel’s culinary landscape, outlining the unique process by which Italian food arrived in Israel. I show how this process was very different than in, for example, the U.S. or Australia, where Italian emigrants brought their culinary traditions with them. In Israel by contrast, pizza and pasta were imported into the country mainly from the U.S., and mainly by non-Italians.1 Drawing on more than a decade of anthropological research, I then argue that Italian food in Israel features a few singular characteristics that make it so popular: the portions are very large, there are numerous dairy-based dishes, and the restaurants are family-friendly. Another central finding of my fieldwork is the prominence in Israel of dishes from Southern Italy—here too I offer a very different analysis than has been given for the same prominence of the southern contribution in emigrant Italian food.2 For my analysis, I draw on Tuchman and Levin’s insightful article about how Chinese food became so central in the social life of New York Jews.3 While American Jews perceived Italian food as threatening due to its Catholic connotations and explicit non-kosher features, and therefore opted for the unmarked Chinese food, Italian food is popular in Israel precisely for the opposite reason. I suggest that the identification with

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Southern Italy allows Israeli-Jews to imagine themselves as belonging to the Mediterranean region, local yet occidental, thus transcending the Middle East and the complex relations with their Arab/Palestinian neighbors. The representation of Italy that Italian food is imbued with—a westward-looking, peaceful pan-Mediterraneanism—makes it the perfect repast for Israelis eager to both fill their stomachs with kosher food and to forget their troubled relations with their neighbors. This chapter describes a very different use of representations of Italy than other countries that Italian cuisine has conquered, and opens new possibilities for research in emigrant cuisines without emigrants.

Eating Italian in Israel Italian is the most popular cuisine in Israel by far. Jerusalem’s City Mouse4 numbered in November 2015 some thirty-nine restaurants under the heading of “Italian,” and seventeen more under “Pizza,” totaling fifty-six food venues specializing in Italian food. In comparison, there were only thirteen restaurants under the heading “Asian,” and these included Chinese, Thai, Japanese and “Pan-Asian” restaurants. There was one restaurant under the category of “Latin” and a single “East European” venue. The only category of ethnic food that came close to Italian was Mizrahi (Oriental), with thirty-nine entries. These, however, included Jewish-Iraqi, Jewish-Moroccan and Jewish-Yemeni restaurants, as well as Lebanese and Palestinian food venues. Tel Aviv City Mouse reported 118 Italian restaurants and fifty pizza parlors, totaling 168 places, fifty-eight Asian food venues, and 112 places serving Mizrahi food, including falafel and hummus stands. Despite the major demographic, socioeconomic and cultural differences, Italian food venues dominate the culinary scene in both Jerusalem and Tel Aviv. The Yellow Pages5 featured larger numbers of food venues but similar culinary preferences: there were 1,735 Italian restaurants and pizza parlors nationwide in November 2015. Journalists Gil Gutkin and Shiri Maymon write: “If aliens would arrive for a visit in Israel, they would be positive that pizza is our national food. There is no neighborhood in Israel without at least a single pizzeria, and usually more …”6 In comparison, there were only 492 “Asian Restaurants” (including Chinese, Thai, Japanese, and “Pan Asian” venues). The only other category of ethnic cuisine featuring comparable number of food venues was, again, Mizrahi (Oriental), with 422 restaurants and 811 venues serving falafel, hummus and shish-kebab (fast food categories equivalent to pizzerias in Israel), numbering 1,233 food venues in total.7 These numbers clearly indicate that Italian food dominates the Israeli culinary scape. This dominance is further evidenced by the numerous



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ice-cream parlors serving Italian gelatos and the ubiquitous espresso bars serving Italian coffee. Moreover, menus at Israel’s most popular culinary establishments—batei kafe (“Coffee houses” or cafés), 1992 venues according to the Yellow Pages—routinely feature a substantial number of Italian dishes such as pastas, pizzas, and “Mozzarella Salad.” And though I couldn’t locate authoritative quantitative data regarding domestic preparation and consumption of Italian food in Israel, during over fifteen years of foodoriented ethnographic research I couldn’t help but notice how pasta, pizza, and more recently, espresso machines, are extremely popular in Israeli domestic kitchens. When I began inquiring about this overwhelming preference for Italian food, the most common explanation was that Italian food was tasty. “For me, Italian food is simply the tastiest” or “Israelis love Italian food because it is tastier than any other food” are just a couple of representative quotes. While these statements clearly express the interlocutors’ disposition toward Italian food, one of the main contributions of the anthropology of food is in the understanding that taste is culturally constructed.8 In Mary Douglas’ words: “Nutritionists know that the palate is trained, that taste and smell are subject to cultural control.”9 The fact that Israelis like Italian food because they find it tasty does not explain its popularity. The question should therefore be: “Why do Israelis find Italian food so tasty?” In order to decipher this “riddle of food and culture,”10 I first discuss the unique migration process of Italian food into the country and suggest that this course made it particularly susceptible to change and adaptation. I then turn to my data and argue that Kashrut preferences, portion size and the (assumed) family-and-children friendly nature of most Italian restaurants in Israel explain much of this cuisine’s popularity. The most intriguing findings, however, had to do with repeated claims by my interviewees for cultural affinity with Italy. I argue that these claims are attempts at redefining Israel geographically and culturally, removing it from the Middle East to the Mediterranean region, along with the cultural connotations this alternative spatial relocation implies. Most of the data presented in this article were collected during 2011–12 in anticipation for the conference on “Italian Food: Fact and Fiction,” that took place in Perugia in 2012. Seven in-depth interviews were conducted with owners, chefs, and managers of restaurants specializing in Italian food. Five additional in-depth interviews were conducted with the owners and managers of pizzerias. Some of these food venues were located in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem, others in smaller towns. The interviews always included questions regarding the culinary biography of the interviewees and their own relationship with Italian food, as well as their take on the popularity of Italian food in Israel. Interviews lasted one to two hours and were recorded in writing.

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I made a point about ordering food and having a meal in each of these food venues, right after the interview or on other occasions. These meals helped me expand the abstractions and thin descriptions I collected during interviews with lived culinary experiences, where the food could “speak for itself” and where comparisons could be made between what the chefs had in mind, the artifacts they produced, and the ways in which they were consumed and understood by their clients. Further data was collected in numerous conversations in different contexts regarding the popularity of Italian food in Israel.

Italian food in Israel Like most of the so-called “ethnic cuisines,”11 Italian food emigrated out of Italy along with Italian emigrants looking for a better future. Italian restaurants were first established in Italian migration centers in the New World such as New York, Chicago, Buenos Aires, and Sydney.12 Like other ethnic restaurants established by first generation immigrants, these venues catered mostly to fellow immigrants “from the old country,” who wanted to eat the food they had at home, in prices they could afford (that is, cheap), hang out with their compatriots, speak their language and soothe their homesickness, if only for a while. Though restaurateurs and clients wanted to replicate the dishes, tastes, and aromas they were used to back home, the food was gradually modified for various reasons. First, there was the problem of ingredients, which were often unavailable and had to be replaced by similar, but not identical, local products. Cooking techniques also changed, due to necessity or comfort (e.g., replacing the traditional pizza oven with an electric one), sanitary regulations, and market demands. Further changes were made to accommodate the palates and eating manners of non-Italians clients, both earlier settlers in the New World and members of other ethnic groups who wanted to consume Italian food, but on their own terms. In what Light and Bonacich describe as characteristic of immigrant entrepreneurship, members of other ethnic groups started cooking and serving Italian food too.13 Lovell-Troy (1990), for example, shows how Greek immigrants in Chicago relied on their Mediterranean ethnicity as an asset that enhanced their success in the pizza business.14 Similarly, one of my interviewees, an Israeli who owned pizza parlor in Chicago, told me that “Pizzas in Chicago were an Israeli business,” a phenomenon defined by Light and Bonacich as “enclave economy,”15 in which members of certain ethnicities specialize in specific market niches that are not necessarily related to their ethnicity – but where specific contexts, accumulating experience, and expanding social networks facilitate economic success.



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Through these various processes, Italian food became an essential and extremely common and popular component of the American cuisine,16 and to a lesser extent, of Argentinian and Australian cuisines. In this sense, pizza is nowadays an icon of New York no less (and possibly more) than it stands for Rome or Naples. The arrival of Italian food in Israel was different. The number of (Jewish) Italians who have migrated to Israel over the years is relatively small, and the Jewish Italian community in the country has remained tiny, with an estimated 3,000 members and 10,000 descendants.17 These migrants, most of whom arrived after the Holocaust and in the early years of Israel’s independence, did not establish Italian restaurants, perhaps because they were not involved in the catering industry in Italy to begin with, but probably because they had enough economic, cultural, and symbolic capital to find more lucrative jobs. In any case, Italian food did not arrive in Israel with Italian immigrants as it did in other parts of the world and as most ethnic cuisines arrived in Israel until recently. Food journalist Ronit Vered writes that the first pizzeria in Israel was established in Tel Aviv in 1957 by food entrepreneur Alex Schor, who was “the first to open a modern, designer’s fast food venue with a flashy neon sign. The highlight was Italian-New-York-Pizza, and crowds flocked and waited patiently for the blazing triangles.”18 Netanela Calo, in her MA thesis on Italian food in Israel, also writes: Italian culinary patterns penetrated the Israeli food field through the modification of the American-Italian culinary repertoire. American culinary patterns were first legitimized and adopted in Israel through contact agents [who] mediated between the Israeli taste preferences and demands and American culinary patterns. Imported American patterns and products were adopted and modified to suit the Israeli taste and market demands. Only later did other contact agents approach Italian sources directly and import culinary products, patterns and images straight from Italy.19 Anashim (“People”) Israel website, in its extensive webpage on Italian food in Israel, concurs that Italian restaurants became popular in Israel during the late 1960s, mainly as a consequence of the increasing influence of American popular culture after the 1967 war.20 The site quotes food journalist Ruth Heffer, who wrote in 1972 on the newly opened Broadway Pizza: “it is hard to say that the pizzas here are similar to those eaten in Italy: they have the same taste and aroma of the pizzas made by Italians for Americans in the U.S.A.” Nathan Dunevich, in his review of Tel Aviv culinary history, describes how during the early 1970s, a few pizzerias with the name “Pizza Domino” sprung up.21 The first was opened by Ethan Zehavi, who “borrowed” the name from

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the American franchise some twenty years prior to its official arrival in Israel, while the other places, jealous of Zhavi’s success, simply used the same name. Some of my interviewees, especially pizzeria owners, recounted their own involvement with Italian food as a consequence of their experience in America: they left Israel for the U.S. for different reasons (mainly economic), and somehow became involved in the pizza business, often as employees in pizzerias owned by other Israelis, in line with Light and Bonacich “enclave economy” theory mentioned earlier. Upon returning to Israel, they set up pizzerias similar in structure and, as much as they could, in content, to those they were familiar with in America. The Yellow Pages website comes in handy again, as it shows that a remarkable numbers of Israeli pizzerias have “American names” such as “New York Pizza,” “Chicago Pizza,” “Pizza Time,” “Big Pizza” or simply “U.S.A. Pizza” and “American Pizza.” In fact, such American names are second only to Italian names like Rimini or Sirocco), though the latter are typical of Italian food venues in America – and may be replicating the American model too. It is important to note that the largest pizza franchises in Israel, Domino’s and Pizza Hut are American. A second wave of Italian food, now including more traditional sit-down restaurants and products, arrived in Israel during the late 1980s. Oren, the chef-owner of Trattoria, a small Italian restaurant located in a rural area in Southern Israel recounted how Italian food lost much of its popularity in Israel during the 1980s “but made a comeback, now in much better quality.” The content of this comeback was quite different from that of its predecessors. The main protagonists were now Israelis who had lived in Italy (mainly as students), experienced Italian food, and, according to their own testimony, fell in love with it. When they returned to Israel, they set up Italian restaurants and other food-oriented businesses. While the late food writer and gourmand Dr. Eli Landau (who studied medicine in Italy) was probably the most influential spokesman of this trend, the classic culinary example is Tel-Aviv’s Pronto: Ristorante Italiano. Film maker Rafi Adar, who studied cinematography in Rome, opened Pronto in 1988 so as to fulfill his dream of “set[ting] up a little corner of Italy,” where he would serve Italian/Roman food.22 This restaurant is reputed among Israeli connoisseurs and foodies, Italians tourists and food critics, for serving the best Italian food in the country. Food journalist Hila Alpert wrote on the jacket of the recipe book Pronto: Ochel, Tarbut, Ahava (Pronto: Food, Culture, Love): “For 20 years Pronto features life according to Rome: wine, food and music are all cooked into a Roman scene as it broils in Rafi Adar’s head.”23 However, David Frankel, Pronto’s acclaimed chef,24 told me in an interview in 2012 that he was changing the menu because his mission as a chef was



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to “re-educate the Israeli palate and to expose the clients to real Italian food and not to touristy-Italian food that comes from America,” insinuating that even Pronto was hardly serving authentic Italian fare. According to Frankel, it was importing American-Italian food and American-Italian culinary trends and innovations. The fact that Italian food originally arrived from the U.S.A. is important for two reasons. First, American things are popular in Israel (as they are in so many other places), and denote modernity, sophistication and luxury. This in itself explains some of the popularity of Italian food in Israel. As important, however, is the fact that Italian food was not introduced to Israel by Italian cultural agents, but was imported from the U.S. mainly by Israelis, that is, not by Italians. This means that Italian food had no local history, was not canonized or otherwise defined and framed, and as such was highly prone to modification and adaptation. Grosglik and Ram make a similar argument regarding Chinese food in Israel: imported during the 1970s via America by Israelis, and being a completely unfamiliar and foreign cuisine, Chinese food was modified at will according to local demands and constraints, making for a unique Israeli version.25 Indeed, it was made clear by the chefs I interviewed that Italian food was heavily modified in Israel. Frankel explained: “We adopted the ingredients and dishes suitable for the Israeli taste,” while Davide, the only Jewish Italian restaurateur I was able to interview, who emigrated to Israel in the early 2000s from Italy and set up an Italian restaurant in a Jerusalem suburb, was blunter: “the food here has nothing to do with the food in Italy, except for the terms ‘pasta’ and ‘pizza.’ My daughters ask me: what is the relation between Italian food and what you serve here?”

Modifying Italian food My interviewees depicted various venues for the modification and adaptation of (American) Italian food for their Israeli clientele. For one, Italian ingredients were replaced, at least up until the 1990s, by products made in Israel with different, apparently inferior, tastes: fresh and canned Italian tomatoes and tomato paste were substituted with local paste made of Israeli tomatoes, which according to my interviewees were not as sweet as Italian tomatoes; mozzarella and other Italian cheeses were unavailable and replaced by a much narrower repertoire of local cheeses and cheesesubstitutes; fresh pasta was replaced by industrially produced products that were not made of durum wheat; margarine and vegetable oil were used instead of olive oil.

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It should be noted that such modifications, the outcome of necessity rather than want (as better ingredients were unavailable or prohibitively expensive), are no longer used in upper-scale venues. It is much easier to find high quality imported ingredients from Italy in Israel nowadays, and the substantial rise in the standard of living and the emergence of an uppermiddle-class have led to many Israelis earning enough income to pay for these expensive products. When it comes to restaurants and pizzerias in the periphery, however, the use of cheaper/inferior local products is still very common. It should also be noted that Israeli foodstuffs such as olive-oil, artisanal cheeses, high quality vegetables and wines have become good enough to say the least, with some being considered “world class.” Classic wood-fired brick ovens are increasingly common at the higher end Italian restaurants, further facilitating the preparation of high quality Italian food. And when it comes to cooking criteria, though I was told often that Israelis still prefer overcooked pasta, al-dente is gradually becoming the standard, in both high-end venues and many home kitchens. While many adaptations came out of necessity and are gradually being replaced by more authentic products and procedures, other modifications were responses to local cultural demands. The rest of the chapter treats these cultural modifications and their meanings.

Kashrut and dairy-based dishes The most noticeable adaptation of Italian food to the Israeli culinary sphere has to do with its reworking to meet Kashrut dietary laws. In their report on the “Jewishness of Israelis,” Liebman and Katz26 pointed out that about two thirds of Israeli-Jews reported eating kosher. As kosher food is so ubiquitous in Israel, the authors suggested that a better indicator for observance would be the separation of meat and dairy utensils because it can only result from informed decision and active praxis. Such separation was reported by 50 percent of Israeli-Jews. Furthermore, 40 percent of the respondents reported strict observance of halachic kashrut rules, indicating that they were strictly kosher and clearly aware of it.27 Twelve years later, Ben-Porat and Feniger reported that 70 percent of Israeli Jews ate Kosher at home, while 50 percent stated eating only kosher under all circumstances.28 In order to understand the implications of such overwhelming preference for kosher food, the readers are invited to think of a society where some 50 percent of the diners are vegetarian or pescatarian, and how these preferences would shape the local culinary sphere. Ben Porat and Feniger’s findings suggest that though substantial



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secularization processes are clearly evident in Israel, so is religious intensification, with kashrut remaining an extremely important aspect of Israeli food sphere.29 In a survey initiated in 2006 by an Israeli tour operator in an attempt to map the culinary preferences of Israelis when traveling abroad, over 50 percent of the respondents said that they would prefer kosher food. Interestingly, even 40 percent of those identifying as “secular” said they would prefer kosher food while traveling. In line with Ben Porat and Feniger’s findings about the intensification of religious observance in Israel, most observant were youngsters aged fifteen to twenty-four, 55 percent of whom stated that they would strictly observe kashrut when traveling abroad.30 Self-report bias notwithstanding, these numbers are powerful indicators of kashrut’s importance in Israel. Over the years, food entrepreneurs and chefs repeatedly told me that Kashrut is extremely important factor in the professional Israeli culinary sphere. A prominent chef went as far as saying: “the first decision to be made when opening a new restaurant is whether it will be kosher or not. It is more important than deciding whether you want to serve Chinese or French Food, or if you would like to do it in Tel Aviv or Jerusalem. Location, customers, working hours, prices and dishes are only an outcome of the decision on kashrut.” It is important to keep in mind that the scope and actual practices of Kashrut in Israel (and elsewhere) are hardly defined or agreed upon. Food journalist Hagit Evron pointed out in an article dedicated to the culinary preferences in the Israeli periphery (defined in the article as “everywhere beyond Tel Aviv and Herzliya”—that is, most of the country), that Kashrut is an extremely important factor.31 However, she quotes Chef Leon Alkalai saying that Kashrut does not necessarily entail rigid orthodox halachic rules: “pork is the main taboo, followed by the mixing of meat and milk, while seafood only comes at the end. In Eilat, for example, people [mainly Israeli tourists] eat seafood but avoid pork, while in Haifa pork is eaten because the Yekes [Jews of German origins, many of them living in this city] will not give up their schinken.” Entrepreneur Guy Peretz recounted in the same article how a successful Beersheba restaurant he was working with operated on Saturdays (which prevented it from getting an official kashrut certificate), but served only Kosher meat and offered non-dairy (parve—neither meat nor milk) desserts. Kashrut in Israel is therefore more flexible than what might be deducted from the statistical data presented by Liebman and Katz or Ben Porat and Feniger, which was formulated by applying rigid categories and binaries that do not allow the communication of nuanced and delicate kashrut patterns. Just like the various definitions and flexible Kashrut patterns common among U.S. Jews, kashrut in Israel means different things to different people,

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with a substantial measure of flexibility even among subgroups that define themselves as strictly orthodox or strictly halachic.32 Considering the importance of kashrut in Israel, it is of little wonder that Italian food was modified along Kashrut lines. As suggested by Alkalai above, pork is the main taboo and is not served in most Italian restaurants in Israel, even though it is a staple of authentic Italian cuisine. The separation of meat and milk is the second most important consideration, but the mixing of these two food groups is a prominent feature of Italian food. Pasta Bolognese with parmesan or pepperoni pizza, extremely popular Italian/American-Italian dishes, can never be served in a kosher restaurant or kosher home-kitchen, and thus are rare in most Italian restaurants in Israel. Usually, removing meat and opting for a halavi (dairy) version of the dish is the mode of addressing this issue in Italian food venues in Israel. Meat, however, is almost universally the most prestigious and sought after food.33 The separation of meat and milk in much of the Israeli private and commercial culinary sphere means that ritual, celebratory and high-end meals are usually meat-based and therefore do not include dairy products. Dairy dishes, on the contrary, are generally considered ordinary and mundane. This observation holds true also for the daily food cycle: lunch, which is the main meal in Israel, is meat-based, while breakfast and dinner (considered the minor meals) are dairy-based or vegetarian. Sabbath dinner, the most important ritual and social meal for most Israeli-Jews, is the exception: though eaten on Friday evening, it is meat-based, stressing its importance. In practice, most Italian restaurants in Israel offer a dairy-only menu, in line with the cultural norms and market demands, even if they are not kosher or opt for the Israeli version of “Kosher style,” that is using kosher ingredients and cooking method, but without official rabbinical certification. When I inquired about the decision made by many restaurateurs to avoid meat in their Italian restaurants in Israel, it was suggested that dairy-based Italian food “works” and is “good enough.” Oren, chef-owner of Trattoria (whose website reads: “Kosher – no certificate”), explained: “If you serve French food, you have to mix meat and milk. As a consequence, French restaurants in Israel often fail: they are either non-kosher and can’t survive economically, or use dairy substitutes which make for unpalatable dishes. But with Italian food—dairy dishes are very tasty, and Israelis love cheese.” Israeli-Italian restaurants serve mainly diary dishes but are exceptional in the Israeli culinary arena in that the dairy-based food they prepare is considered celebratory, suitable for special occasions and worthy of high prices. When opting for a non-meat meal, due to health, ethics, or the time of day, Italian restaurants are often the only option. So why are Italian restaurants considered fancy despite their dairy inclination? The following remark sheds some light on this tendency. I was talking to



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a chef-owner of an Italian restaurant about the popularity of Italian food in Israel and asked him why Israelis prefer Italian food over Mizrahi food (a point that I will develop later in this chapter). He responded with a rhetorical question: “would you propose [marriage] in a Mizrahi restaurant?” In this, he was pointing to the wider cultural context in which Italian food is embedded. Italy is the ultimate romantic destination in Western civilization.34 It is also a place attributed with a glorious past and a celebrated present, the birthplace of modern Western arts and sciences, the location of sophisticated and refined beauty and, of course, wonderful food.35 These attributes make for a very positive perception of Italy and its food, even when a meatless version is offered.

Children-and-family-friendly Another attribute of Italian restaurants that makes them popular in Israel is their image as children-and-family-friendly. This is related, at least in part, to their halavi (dairy) orientation, as Israeli children are fond of pasta and pizza and seem to prefer them over meat.36 Yet my data suggests that the tendency to accommodate families and children is shaped by the importance and centrality of families and children in Israel. In this sense, we are dealing with another sociological attribute that has less to do with food preferences and more with the social setting. The idea that Italian restaurants in Israel are deemed children-andfamily-friendly was first conveyed to me in negative terms. A non-Jewish Italian restaurant owner told me during our conversation that Israelis have a distorted view of Italian restaurants, thinking that they are great places for families and kids: I have no idea why they think that they can bring their children to my restaurant … maybe they have seen images of the “Italian Mama” and the children running around the table in some American movie or TV show, and think that this is how Italian restaurants are. Israeli kids behave in ways that would be unacceptable in a restaurant in Italy. Over there, if a child would be taken by his parents to a restaurant, he will behave accordingly and will feel that he has been offered a wonderful treat. But Israeli kids run around, scream, throw food on the floor and do not behave nicely. To be honest, when someone calls and asks to book a table for a family event that involves kids, I tell him that the place is full and refuse the booking. A father of four, I was taken aback by this blunt statement, partly because I had to admit to myself that I often take our kids to eat out, that my kids would sometimes behave just like he described, and that I am all too often lenient

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when this happens. I was also surprised because I assumed that children are liked and welcome everywhere. This, however, was my own cultural bias, shaped by the Israeli tendency on which I elaborate within a couple of paragraphs (and my long-term engagement with Vietnamese culture, where children are always welcome). It also made me realize that when it comes to eating out, the most common choices for my family and for many of our relatives and friends would be falafel or pizza. It is tempting to explain this preference in economic terms: a family with three kids will spend 50–70 shekels (USD$13–7) for a family pizza or five falafel wraps, served in both cases with soft drinks, making it the cheapest family meal available in any culinary establishment in Israel. I return to the value-for-money preference of Israelis in the next section, but the comment mentioned above made me realize that Italian restaurants in Israel are considered family-and-children friendly, and this contributes to their appeal. This is especially true for the pizzerias where I conducted fieldwork, which do much of their business with families, either those eating in or ordering take-out. Pizzas are ideal family meals because they have built-in commensality—they are meant to be shared. Also, the informal setting and etiquette allow and even enforce eating with the hands, which makes pizza appropriate and enjoyable for children to eat. Moreover, pizza and other Italian dishes in Israel are baked and/or cooked, which defines them as healthy or, at least, healthier than most other fast foods where frying is a common technique of food preparation. Falafel wraps, in contrast, are not easy to share. The falafel chickpea balls are always deep-fried and somewhat greasy, and falafel stands are often criticized for their use of cheap ingredients and poor standards of cleanliness. Finally, Falafel stands, even when featuring tables and chairs, are not places for lingering and sharing food. Rather, they are no-frills places where people order, get their food quickly and either consume it within a few minutes at the premises or take it out. Pizzerias, on the contrary, often allow and even enhance family meals with their large, sturdy tables. The twenty minutes or so of waiting while the pizza is baking further leads to lingering, hanging out and playing, practices which many pizzerias in Israel accommodate. Journalist Maya Avidan, in her piece on “The best Pizzas in the Country,” comments on Iceberg-Volcano Pizza, located in the Fountain Square at the Port of Tel Aviv: “unrelated to the really excellent pizza served here, this place is ‘three for the price of one’—a meal for the whole family, good ice cream, and children-friendly space, especially during the summer—when they can jump into the fountain.”37 From a different perspective, Italian restaurants in Israel and elsewhere often celebrate the notions of home cooking and homely atmosphere. The red-and-white checkered table mats, the rattan chairs, the semi-melted candles in worn-out Chianti bottles, the dim lights and the references to the



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“Italian mama” in different textual and symbolic contexts (such as the restaurant’s name, the menu, the pictures on the walls etc.) convey not only the rustic setting of “the Italian village,” but also that of the Italian home, with the alluded warmth, aroma of garlic and freshly baked bread, and the tightly knit extended family, conveyed so often in films and TV series. Demographers Lavee and Katz argue that Israel is a family-oriented society: marriage in Israel is almost universal, and the 2.6 child/woman fertility rate is higher than most developed countries, inclusive of the U.S. (2.07), Ireland (1.9) and Italy (1.2). “The family in Israel,” they point out, “continues to be strong, central, and more stable than in most industrialized countries.”38 When it comes to children and their place in Israeli society, they elaborate: Israel is a “child-oriented” society. Married couples are expected to have children, and a childless couple is not considered a family. Nearly 60% of Israelis believe that childless people have an “empty life,” and more than 80% believe that “the greatest joy in life is to follow children’s growing up.” On average, Israelis desire more children (3.5) and have more children (2.7) than people in other industrialized countries. Children are highly valued not only by their parents, who usually give the needs of their young top priority, but also by society as a whole. The welfare of children is considered a collective responsibility … Children in Israel remain a central focus of concern for their parents for a longer period of time than in most industrialized countries … Three years after completing military service, two-thirds of these young adults are still living at home and are economically dependent on their parents.39 On an update published by Israel’s Central Bureau of Statistics (CBS) titled “Selected Data for the International Child Day 2015,” the centrality of the family and of children was reaffirmed: 33 percent of Israelis are children (under the age of seventeen), Israeli families average 2.4 children under the age of seventeen (making the actual number of children per family higher) and 92 percent of the children lived with two parents.40 Though trends predicted by Lavee and Katz, such as rising marriage age, rising divorce rates and decreasing numbers of children per family among groups that had relatively many children (ultraorthodox Jews, Muslim Arabs), are confirmed by this recent data, Israel remains the most family- and children-oriented member of the OECD.41 The CBS 2015 report also shows that families with children spend twice as much on “education, culture and entertainment,” which includes eating out, than families with no children, suggesting that families and children are important clients of Israeli restaurants. The statistical data tends to emphasize nuclear families with children under the age of seventeen. But as Lavee and Katz argue, Israeli children remain kids

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many years after they complete high school. While on their military service, most Israeli youths continue living with their parents, and my students at Ben Gurion University would “go home” (to their parents’ house) almost weekly, even though they are in their mid-twenties and rent their own places. These weekends at home involve parental laundry and catering services, clearly observable on Thursdays, when my students would come to class with huge backpacks full of dirty clothes and empty food containers on their way home. The fact that Israelis remain “kids” throughout their twenties and thirtys was crystalized by song writer Ehud Banai in his popular “Hurry Up” (Maharinah), better known as “Heyeld Ben Shloshim” (The Kid is Thirty). The song depicts a thirty-year-old man who is feverish and comes to his parents’ house to be taken care of, a familiar and intimate scene for many Israelis. The song continues: “Yes, he is thirty, but still does not know, what he will do when he finishes the army (service)”42 The pun lays in the fact that Israeli men are recruited to the army when they are eighteen for some three years. The fact that the protagonist is still uncertain about his first steps as an adult (in Israel this would be “after the military service”) when he is thirty, highlights the prolonged (if not endless) Israeli childhood and the ongoing importance and centrality of Israeli children in their parents’ lives. Intensive extended family ties, regular communication, and frequent meetings on religious and civil holidays and on lifecycle events (always involving shared meals) are very much the norm among Israeli-Jews. Peres and Katz numbered several reasons for what they call “the stability and centrality” of the family in modern Israel, such as Judaism, social cohesion and state-policies, and despite the many years that passed since the publication of their article, these remain relevant and are supported by recent statistical data such as the CBS report cited above.43 All in all, the family as a social institution and children as a social category are extremely important in Israel. It is of little wonder then that a familyand-children friendly image would contribute to the popularity of Italian restaurants in Israel. The image of Italian restaurants as family-and-childrenfriendly strikes the right chord in family-oriented Israel, further contributing to their appeal and popularity.

Size matters One of the main modifications made to Italian food in Israel was a sharp increase in portion size, mainly of the pasta and antipasti dishes. A more implicit notion was that of “value for money”: Israeli Jews expressed a clear preference for moderately priced large portions, while quality seemed to play a lesser role in their evaluation of the restaurant and the food.



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The founder of a successful Italian food franchise thus explained the success of his enterprise: “In Italy, pasta is either a starter or an intermediary course, between the antipasti [before the pasta] and the main courses. They serve roughly 80–100 grams of cooked pasta in small plates. So we decided to offer portions based on 150–200 grams of pasta. Do you know how much a 10 kg bag of dried pasta costs? Maybe 25 shekels … and the sauce is also quite cheap, even if you use high quality ingredients. So we could offer very large portions, which cost only a few shekels, and sell them for less than 30 shekels. The portions were so big that we had to order special plates that would be large enough … customers loved it!” While this interview addressed events that took place some fifteen years earlier, the argument was repeatedly reaffirmed in the interviews I conducted in 2012. Oren, chef-owner of Trattoria, responded as follows to the question on portion size: “I had to go up to 150 grams of pasta. My wife said that I had to consider my clients.” He also explained that his appetizers and antipasti were actually full portions served in large plates, a practice I observed in other Israeli-Italian restaurants. At Pronto, reputedly the most authentic Italian restaurant in the country, it was suggested that the process of augmentation was ongoing. Chef David Frankel indicated that: “in the new menu I went down from 250–300 grams of pasta to 120, but people complained and I had to re-enlarge some portions.” The restaurant manager told me later that the customers’ reactions to the decreased portions were so bad that they realized that it was possible to change some of the contents of the menu and introduce some new dishes such as risotto, but when it comes to size, portions had to be maintained and actually increased. Davide also disclosed: “In Italy the standard is 80–100 grams of pasta … 100 is a lot. Here I serve 300 grams.” He later added that his best-selling dish is a portion called mixed grill, featuring “800 grams of meat, served with potatoes, rice and salad.” He concluded that for his Israeli customers “the more there is—the better it is.” The demand, however, is not merely for large portions, but also for moderate prices. The waitress in a packed Italian restaurant in Jaffa’s gentrifying flea market commented: “Don’t you know why Italian food is popular? Israelis like cheap food, and Italian food is cheap even though the portions are large.” In a similar vein, one of the chefs pointed out: “The clients are cheap (kamtzanim). They don’t order a three-course meal, they want to order only one dish, and get a lot for a little price. Italian food is perfect for that—you simply add pasta. I tried to serve grouper [an expensive wild-caught fish] kebabs for 90 shekels [the equivalent of USD$22], but no one ordered the dish. I added pasta, and the dish became a hit. The clients felt that [once a substantial amount of pasta is served] they have cracked the system [hit the jackpot].”

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Similarly, Davide explained: “in Italy, the meal consists of several courses: antipasti, pasta, secondi—which is the main course: meat or fish, served with side dishes—salad, cheese, desserts and coffee. In Israel the meal is composed of an appetizer and a pasta dish. Sometimes they ask for pasta with mushrooms and cream, and the meal is over.” The elaborate and expensive main course is rarely ordered, and customers are served large portions of cheap(er) pasta. This Israeli tendency to enlarge (and simplify) dishes stems from Jewish histories of insecurity, persecution, and hunger. And the preference for large portions of relatively inferior quality is shaped by the Israeli reluctance to be freiers (suckers), which translates into the customers’ demands for big portions for moderate prices, and the restaurateurs’ response of serving large portions of mediocre foods made of commonplace ingredients. As my interviewees suggested, Italian food readily lends itself to such modifications, and Israeli customers do not merely embrace it in this form but are obviously very fond of it.

Mediterranean food, Mediterranean character While kashrut, family-orientation and value-for-money were suggested somewhat indirectly in the interviews and conversations, a more straightforward explanation for the Israeli penchant for Italian food had to do with geography and spatial orientation. Chefs and diners repeatedly argued that Israelis like Italian food because the similar weather and ecological conditions make for similar ingredients, cooking styles, and taste preferences. They also argued that the similar ecology makes for social, cultural, and psychological affinities between Italians and Israelis, often described by my interviewees as Yam-Tichoniut or Mediterranean-ness. Paulo, a non-Jewish Italian and the chef-owner of an Italian restaurant explained: “It is easy to make good Italian food here. You can find fresh ingredients of high quality year round.” Pronto’s Chef Frankel also argued: “Italian food in Israel is very specific. We adopted the ingredients and dishes suitable for the Israeli taste, mainly the Mediterranean and Sicilian food. The ingredients are similar, but also the temperament. It is a geographic thing” (my emphasis). Oren, whose parents came to Israel from Morocco during the 1950s, expanded the culinary-geographical scope: “I approach Italian food from the North African direction. Sicilian food was influenced by Moroccan cooking. They know what couscous is!” As Frankel’s quote indicates, the interviewees didn’t limit the comparison of Israel and Italy to the ecology, weather, and products, which conjure into terroir, but also argued that the national character and/or habitus of (Southern)



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Italy and Israel were similar. The manager of a trendy restaurant in Jerusalem explained: “First and foremost, it is the proximity, the similarity between Israel and some parts of central and southern Italy, the Mediterranean influence, the ingredients, the olive oil. It is also about simplicity. We, the Mediterranean people, prefer simple and immediate food. French food is too complex, we are hyperactive and we don’t want to spend 10 hours cooking” (my emphasis). Ronen Arditi, owner of the Tel-Aviv restaurant Belini explained to food critic Rina Goldstein in an article titled “Why we like Italian food the best” that there is a perfect matching between the Italian cuisine and the conditions in Israel: “Italian food is suitaerble for the Israeli market because high quality ingredients can be obtained in Israel, for instance tomatoes, olive oil and herbs such as arugula, thyme, oregano and basil, which are successfully cultivated here.” He further added: “Italian food suits the Israeli beat: fast. The fact that one doesn’t need to spend hours eating, as is common with French cooking, makes it appropriate for the Israeli mentality”44 (my emphasis). In the same article Yoram Yerzin, owner of Café Italia, argued that simplicity constitutes the cultural common grounds of Italians and Israelis, while Yona Sasson of Jerusalem’s Topolino told Goldstein that shared “mentality” explains the popularity of Italian food in Israel. Similar insinuations regarding the affinity of the Italian and Israeli characters and temperaments were made in several interviews and conversations I held. While Italy and Israel are “Mediterranean” in the technical sense of being located by the Mediterranean Sea, Italy is located in Southern Europe while Israel is an Asian country located some 2,500 km away, within the Arab-Muslim Middle East. Furthermore, some 50 percent of the Israeli Jews are of Middle Eastern and North African origins (Mizrahi Jews). Under such circumstances, wouldn’t it be more reasonable to expect that Israelis would prefer a more local cuisine, one that evolved within a common terroir and similar cultural framework? To be more explicit: wouldn’t it make more sense for Israelis to prefer Middle Eastern, and for that matter, Palestinian cuisine? The answer is complex of course. First, many Israeli-Jews consider iconic Palestinian dishes such as hummus, tahini, tabbouleh, or baba ghanoush (eggplant dip) to be Israeli-Jewish.45 In fact, falafel is considered by many Israel’s national dish par-excellence, as can be discerned in a ubiquitous tourist postcard featuring a falafel portion decorated with a tiny Israeli flag.46 Many Israeli-Jews like Palestinian dishes very much, but do not recognize them as Palestinian.47 Though many Israeli Jews are reluctant to acknowledge Palestinian food as such, the fact is that these dishes are mainly served at either Mizrahi (Oriental) or the so-called “Arab” (that is, Palestinian) food venues. Hirsch,48 in her analysis of the meanings attributed to hummus in Israel quotes Israeli

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Jews who argue that hummus is best when “made by Arabs” and are willing to drive deep into the Israeli-Palestinian periphery in search of good hummus. Also significant, Mizrahi and Palestinian food and food venues are relatively cheap and are usually associated with low prestige and social status. Israeli Jews like the food served in these venues and often consume it, yet consider these restaurants coarse. One of the interviewees pointed out, for example, that no one he knows would consider “celebrating a birthday party at a hummussia (hummus place) or take his girlfriend for a romantic meal at a shipudia (skewered meat place), like they do in my restaurant.” Thus, though Israeli-Jews like Mizrahi/Arab/Palestinian food very much, they consider it ordinary and mundane. At this point, the meaning of Yam Tichoniut (Mediterranean-ness) is revealed. Italian food allows for an alternative spatial, and as a consequence, cultural imagination of Israel: that of the Southern-European Mediterranean region rather than the Arab Middle East. When Israelis say that they like Italian food because it is Mediterranean, just like them, and when they argue that Israelis and Italians share not only ecology and terroir but also mentality and temperament, they imagine themselves somewhere along the coasts of southern Italy. Italian food allows for the “Great Escape” of Israeli-Jews from the Middle East in which they live, and where many feel trapped, to where they imagine they would fit much better: a small Italian village where the landscape and weather are just like in Israel, but where the neighbors are “just like us,” that is, Europeans and not Arabs. Italy’s appeal lies also in the fact that for most Israeli Jews it does not represent a diaspora. It is not Eastern or Central European, from where most Ashkenazi Jews originate, and thus not associated with the Holocaust. Despite Italy’s colonial past, as far as Israeli-Jews are concerned, it is not associated with North Africa or the Middle East, an Arab-Muslim (that is, enemy) zone, where most Mizrahi Jews come from, and with which they have a complex love-hate relationship.49 At the same time, as a Mediterranean nation, Italy does not stand for the iconic “West,” that of Northwest Europe or North America, where the largest Jewish Diasporas and largest Israeli-Jewish immigrant communities are located nowadays. These parts of the world are perceived in contemporary Israel as sir habasar (the meat caldron)—a derogatory term used to describe biblical Egypt during slavery, a rich and comfortable place where Jews lack national identity as well as personal human dignity and freedom. The cold weather in Northwest Europe and North America is another recurrent theme in Israeli discourse, an important ecological factor that alienates Israeli-Jews even after decades of living there. Italy seems to have the best of everything as far as Israeli-Jews are concerned: the weather, ecology and terroir are similar to those prevailing in



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Israel, there is hardly a diasporic context and most importantly, despite the similar ecology which Israeli-Jews are clearly fond of, Italy is not in the Middle East, an area which many if not most Israeli-Jews loath. Former prime minister Ehud Barak described Israel on several occasions as “a villa in the jungle,”50 making a distinction between modern, rational, and prosperous Israel and its savage, chaotic, and dangerous Arab neighbors, whose irrational tendencies and behavior threaten Israel’s existence and culture and are the reasons for the turmoil in the region. While the explicit implication was that Israel must be powerful to defend itself from the violent chaos surrounding it, the implicit notion is of the uneasiness sensed by many Israeli Jews regarding the Middle East. Indeed, despite the outcries this statement spurred, I have heard Israeli-Jews using it time and again, usually with a sense of despair or recognition of a harsh but unavoidable reality. But Barak’s metaphor is more complex. He actually depicted the classic image of the colonial bungalow in India or Congo, with the jungle as the frightening yet seductive surrounding nature and culture. His description also captured the tension built in the colonial situation between the desire for the colony and the longing for (an imagined) “home,” back in civilization, where there are no jungles and everyone presumably lives in villas. This notion of the “villa in the jungle” underlies much of the popularity of Italian food in Israel. Italian restaurants are villa-style spaces that allow Israelis to leave, even if just for a couple of hours (and only in their imagination), the jungle and pretend that they are in Europe, surrounded by other villas. At the same time, they maintain the Mediterranean ecology that they do like: the weather, vegetation, and produce are similar to those in Israel, the land of milk and honey. The neighbors however are different. They are Italian “just like us” and not Arab.51

Discussion: The meaning of Italian food in Israel In their insightful article “New York Jews and Chinese Food: the Social Construction of an Ethnic Pattern,” Tuchman and Levine tackle the following culinary puzzle: Why is Chinese food so central in the culinary praxis and local identity of New York Jews.52 First, they argue, New York Jews “construed Chinese restaurants as cosmopolitan, urbane and sophisticated.”53 From the 1930s on, eating Chinese food was therefore a means that allowed these recent immigrants from Eastern Europe to distinguish themselves as modern and savvy, rather than “greenhorn or hick.” Second, Chinese food was not kosher, yet Chinese cooking techniques (mincing, shredding, wrapping etc.) transformed the ingredients to such an extent that the treif (unkosher in

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Yiddish) ingredients virtually disappeared, making the food “safe treif.”54 Finally, the fact that the Chinese were located socially below the Jews, and that Chinese restaurants were cheap, “made Jews feel safe and comfortable in Chinese restaurants.”55 Italian restaurants play an important part in this story. The authors point out that within the socioeconomic context of the 1930s, the only other ethnic cuisine approachable spatially and economically was Italian.56 While Italian restaurants too were affordable and could stand for modern urban sophistication, Jews were uncomfortable in these food venues for several reasons: the restaurants displayed Christian images and served visibly non-kosher food (chunks of pork, dishes that had both meat and dairy products, red wine); Jews and Italians had a long history of strained relations deeply enmeshed in anti-Semitism; and the Italians were Europeans and therefore held similar or higher social status than the Jews. New York Jews opted for Chinese rather than Italian food precisely because it was so distant culturally and socially, making it “a flexible, open-ended symbol, a kind of blank screen on which they have projected a series of themes relating to their identity as modern Jews and as New Yorkers.”57 The case of Italian food in Israel is similar in many ways, though Italian restaurants in Israel fulfill a similar role to that played by Chinese restaurants in New York. My interviewees suggested that Israeli-Jews like Italian food because it comfortably handles Kashrut issues with its emphasis on non-meat diary dishes. They also perceive Italian cuisine as facilitating of consuming large quantities of moderately priced food, hence dealing effectively with the Israeli obsession with hunger and with the deeply ingrained fear of being a freier (sucker). Italian restaurants in Israel are deemed family-and-childrenfriendly, an essential factor in a nation where the family is such a strong and important institution. Lastly, Italian food, redefined as “Mediterranean,” allows Israeli Jews to imagine themselves as belonging to the Mediterranean region, that is, to Southern Europe, rather than the Middle East, where many of them feel trapped. The preference for, and identification with, Italian food (“We share the environment and the culture”), liberates Israeli-Jews from the Middle East and from their uncomfortable and strained relations with their Arab neighbors, and relocates them to occidental, cultivated Southern Europe. At the same time, pizzas in the Israeli periphery, garnished with sesame, harissa and cumin, celebrate an emerging Middle Eastern identity among Mizrahi Jews. These processes of interpretation, just like the various meanings attributed to Chinese food by New York Jews, is possible precisely because Italian food has very little to do with Jewish and for that matter, Palestinian food. Thus, just like Chinese food in New York, Italian food, which was imported to Israel through America and by Israelis, detached from its cultural roots and



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meanings, becomes a white canvas on which Israeli Jews draw imaginary portraits of themselves.

Notes 1

See Hasia R. Diner, Hungering for America: Italian, Irish, and Jewish Foodways in the Age of Migration (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001).

2

Anthony F. Buccini, “Italy: (Southern Europe) Italian American Food,” in Lucy M. Long (ed.), Ethnic American Food Today: A Cultural Encyclopedia (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2015), 314–23.

3

Gaye Tuchman and Harry Gene Levine, “New York Jews and Chinese Food: The Social Construction of an Ethnic Pattern,” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 22 (3) (October 1, 1993): 382–407.

4

http://www.mouse.co.il (accessed November 16, 2015).

5

http://www.d.co.il (accessed November 16, 2015).

6

Gil Gutkin and Shiri Maymon, “North to South: Best Pizza in the Land,” Haaretz, http://www.haaretz.co.il/food/.premium-1.2708490 (accessed October 16, 2015)

7

These numbers are probably inaccurate due to overlapping categories and to other considerations Yellow pages and City Mouse might have. Diverting from the convention that “anthropologists don’t count” (double meaning withstanding), I present these numbers because they demonstrate a tendency: both Golden Pages and City Mouse, in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem and nationwide, feature similar proportions and support my claim that Italian food is the most popular cuisine in Israel even if the exact numbers are inaccurate.

8

Pier Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1984); Stephen Mennell, “Food and the Quantum Theory of Taboo,” Etnofoor 4 (1) (1991): 63–77; and Deborah Lupton, Food, the Body and the Self (London: Sage, 1996).

9

Mary Douglas, “Culture,” in Annual Report 1977–1978 (New York: Russell-Sage Foundation, 1978): 55–81 (59).

10 Marvin Harris, The Sacred Cow and the Abominable Pig: Riddles of Food and Culture (New York: Touchstone Books, 1987). 11 P. L. Van den Berghe, “Ethnic Cuisine: Culture in Nature,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 7 (3) (1984): 387–97. 12 Donna Gabbacia and Jeffry Pilcher, “‘Chili Queens’ and Checkered Tablecloths: Public Dining Cultures of Italians in New York City and Mexicans in San Antonio, Texas, 1870s–1940s,” Radical History Review 110 (2011): 109–26; Tracy Poe, “The Labour and Leisure of Food Production as a Mode of Ethnic Identity Building Among Italians in Chicago, 1890–1940,” Rethinking History 5 (1) (2001): 131–48; Regina Schlüter, “The Immigrants’ Heritage in South America: Food and Culture as a New Sustainable Tourism

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REPRESENTING ITALY THROUGH FOOD Product,” ReVista: Harvard Review of Latin America (2001): 46–8; R. James “The Reliable Beauty of Aroma: Staples of Food and Cultural Production among Italian-Australians,” The Australian Journal of Anthropology 15 (1) (2004): 23–39.

13 Ivan Light and Edna Bonacich, Immigrant Entrepreneurs: Koreans in Los Angeles, 1965–1982 (Los Angeles and Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991). 14 Lawrence Lovell-Troy, The Social Basis of Ethnic Enterprise: Greeks in the Pizza Business (New York: Garland Publishing, 1990). 15 Light and Bonacich, Immigrant Entrepreneurs. 16 Sidney Mintz, Tasting Food, Tasting Freedom: Excursions into Eating, Culture, and the Past (Boston: Beacon Press, 1996). 17 The community has no website, and my attempt at contacting community officials failed. The numbers above are quoted from Wikipedia, accessed on October 9, 2012, http://he.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D7%99%D7%94%D 7%93%D7%95%D7%AA_%D7%90%D7%99%D7%98%D7%9C%D7 %99%D7%94). The number of non-Jewish Italians in Israel is very small. 18 Ronit Vered, “Avi Avot Hamazon” (“The father of all fathers of food”), Haaretz Supplement (August 31, 2012): http://www.haaretz.co.il/magazine/ dining/1.1810177 (accessed October 12, 2016). 19 Netanela Calo, “Taste Changes in Israeli Food: The Case of Italian food 1980 – 2000” (M.A thesis, Tel Aviv University, 2005). 20 http://www.peopleil.org/details.aspx?itemID=30073 (last accessed November 19, 2015). This website is edited by Oz Almog, a professor of Israel Studies at Haifa University, and features pseudo-academic coverage of core Israeli issues and terms. 21 Nathan Dunevich, A City Dines: One Hundred Years of Dining in Tel Aviv (Tel Aviv: Ahuzat Bait, 2012): 354ff. 22 http://www.pronto.co.il/ (accessed October 12, 2016). 23 Rafi Adar, Pronto: Food, Cooking, Love (Tel Aviv: Kinneret, 2010). 24 Trained, among other places, in Copenhagen’s Numa, reputedly the best restaurant in the world, Frankel is a winner of several prestigious prizes in Israel. 25 Rafi Grosglik and Uri Ram, “Authentic, Speedy and Hybrid: Representations of Chinese Food and Cultural Globalization in Israel,” Food, Culture and Society 16 (2) (2013): 223–43. 26 Charles S. Liebman and Elihu Katz, The Jewishness of Israelis: Responses to the Guttman Report (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1997), 11. 27 Halacha is the collective body of Jewish religious laws derived from the Written and Oral Torah. 28 Guy Ben-Porat and Yariv Feniger, “Live and Let Buy, Consumerism, Secularization, and Liberalism,” Comparative Politics 41 (3) (2009). 29 Ibid.



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30 “Going for Kosher,” nrg (May 29, 2006): http://www.nrg.co.il/online/1/ ART1/428/415.html (accessed October 12, 2016). 31 http://www.globes.co.il/news/article.aspx?did=1000350943 (accessed November 20, 2015). 32 See also Jonathan Deutsch and Rachel D. Saks, Jewish American Food Culture (Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2009): 49–50. One of my relatives, an ordained Rabbi and an acupuncturist by profession, treating mainly ultraorthodox patients (and note the potential tensions and apparent paradoxes), told me that as far as he was concerned, the official Kashrut permit issued by the office of the Chief Rabbinate, suffices and he will not question it, even though he knows this institute is plagued with corruption and malpractice. 33 Nick Fiddes, Meat: A Natural Symbol (London: Routledge, 1991); Alan Beardsworth and Teresa Keil, Sociology on the Menu: An Invitation to the Study of Food and Society (London and New York: Routledge, 1996); and Carol J. Adams, The Sexual Politics of Meat: A Feminist-Vegetarian Critical Theory (London: Continuum, 2010). 34 Alecia C. Douglas, Juline E. Mills, and Raphael Kavanaugh, “Exploring the Use of Emotional Features at Romantic Destination Websites,” Information and Communication Technologies in Tourism 2007 (2007): 331–40. 35 See also Seyhmus Baloglu and Mehmet Mangaloglu, “Tourism Destination Images of Turkey, Egypt, Greece, and Italy as Perceived by US-based Tour Operators and Travel Agents,” Tourism Management 22 (1) (2001): 1–9. 36 For a similar preference among American children, see Jean D. Skinner, Betty Ruth Carruth, Wendy Bounds, and Paula J. Ziegler, “Children’s Food Preferences: A Longitudinal Analysis,” Journal of the American Dietetic Association 102 (11) (2002): 1638–47. 37 Maya Avidan, “Golden Pizza,” Ochel Tov (December 31, 2013): http://www. mako.co.il/food-food-week/Article-31714a19281e241006.htm (accessed October 12, 2016). 38 Yoav Lavee and Ruth Katz, “The Family in Israel: Between Tradition and Modernity,” Marriage & Family Review 35 (1–2) (2003): 193–217. Ibid., 194. 39 Ibid., 203–5. 40 http://www1.cbs.gov.il/reader/newhodaot/hodaa_template.html?hodaa= 201511312 (accessed November 20, 2015). 41 http://www.cbs.gov.il/publications09/rep_02/pdf/1_box3_h.pdf (accessed November 20, 2015). 42 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z_0NN60I7Oc with Hebrew subtitles (accessed November 20, 2015). 43 Yochanan Peres and Ruth Katz, “Stability and Centrality: The Nuclear Family in Modern Israel,” Social Forces 59 (3) (1981): 687–704. 44 Rina Goldstein, “Why We Like Italian Food the Best,” nrg (26 January 2012): http://www.nrg.co.il/online/55/ART2/330/599.html (accessed October 12, 2016). 45 Ronald Ranta and Yonatan Mendel, “Consuming Palestine: Palestine and Palestinians in Israeli Food Culture,” Ethnicities 14 (3) (2014): 412–35.

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46 Yael Raviv, “Falafel: A National Icon,” Gastronomica 3 (2003): 20–5. 47 Yonatan Mendel and Ronald Ranta, From the Arab Other to the Israeli Self (London: Ashgate, 2016). 48 Dafna Hirsch, “‘Hummus is Best When it is Fresh and Made by Arabs’: The Gourmetization of Hummus in Israel and the Return of the Repressed Arab,” American Ethnologist 38 (2011): 617–30. 49 Andre Levy, Return to Casablanca: Jews, Muslims, and an Israeli Anthropologist (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015). 50 Eitan Bar-Yosef, A Villa in the Jungle: Africa in Israeli Culture (Jerusalem: van Leer Institute, 2013). 51 Two other Mediterranean cuisines would qualify: the Greek (and more broadly, the Balkan) and the Turkish. My interviewees did not mention these cuisines, and what follows is therefore a “learned speculation.” While Italy is clearly perceived in Israel as a Western, European nation, Greece is not. Michael Herzfeld described Greece as located at the geographical and social margins of Europe, and Israelis perceive of Greece as “Mediterranean” but not as “European.” The Balkans are understood in Israel to be backward and violent. Turkey, a Muslim country who was not accepted as a member by the European Union despite its efforts, and which falls politically between Western Europe and the Muslim world, is even less of an option when it comes to the European imagination sought after by my interviewees. Thus, though Greece and Turkey are popular destinations for Israeli tourists and though these tourists love the food when visiting them, Greek or Turkish restaurants in Israel do not allow for this imagination of “being in Europe” that is achieved in Italian restaurants. See Michael Herzfeld, Anthropology through the Looking-glass: Critical Ethnography in the Margins of Europe (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 52 Gaye Tuchman and Harry Levine, “New York Jews and Chinese Food: The Social Construction of an Ethnic Pattern,” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 22 (3) (1993): 382–407. 53 Ibid., 385. 54 Ibid., 388–92. 55 Ibid., 386. 56 Many Jewish immigrants moved to the Lower East Side of Manhattan, a neighborhood bordering on Little Italy and Chinatown. 57 Tuchman and Levine, “New York Jews and Chinese Food,” 383.

14 Afterword: Italy represented Peter Naccarato, Zachary Nowak, and Elgin Eckert

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t is perhaps hardly surprising that three of the fourteen chapters in this volume discuss Italian pasta sauces. Sauce’s fluidity highlights the malleability of the meanings of Italian food, but this representational malleability is not just limited to sauces. Each chapter in this volume explores how Italy and its foodways are represented across various media to understand the role that these representations play in prescribing how we think about Italy, its culture and its people. What connects these separate investigations is the recognition that these representations are not passive reflections of a pre-existing reality; instead, they create what is subsequently accepted as real. But what also becomes clear as we read through these chapters is that this “reality” is a contested one. To what extent do the representations analyzed throughout this book present a vision of Italy that is steeped in tradition and grounded in the past (real or imagined)? How do the narratives told by such representations obscure the dynamism of Italian cuisine and the creativity and ingenuity of its culinary and cultural identity? Is the emphasis on “tradition” linked to a need to assert some type of “authenticity” in relation to Italian food and, by extension, Italian culture? And if this is the case, does this desire for “authenticity” necessarily clash with a vision of Italian food/culture that is fluid and malleable as it finds its place within a global marketplace? In other words, how does globalization—and the related industrialization of food production and distribution—position Italy in relation to (and perhaps in opposition with) the rest of the world? Does Italian food “translate” beyond national borders or does such movement inevitably taint its presumed authenticity? And do these questions about Italian food and foodways reflect a broader crisis in contemporary Italy over its identity in the face of globalization, modernization,

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and industrialization insofar as they indicate that representations of Italian food are often tied to the country’s obsession with preserving its past perhaps at the expense of its future? In addressing these questions, this book has unearthed several tensions across the contemporary Italian culinary and cultural landscape that suggest avenues for future research. For example, how does Italy negotiate what Massimo Montanari reveals to be a long-standing conflict between urban and rural Italy? If, as he argues, Italy’s cosmopolitanism has historically relied upon the exploitation of the contadini who put food on those urban tables, what is at stake as contemporary Italy markets its slow food culture—along with the small towns and agroturismo that embody it—to potential tourists across the world? Are the rural poor once again exploited by the Italian tourist industry or is this their opportunity to reinvigorate small towns and villages that have long suffered in the face of urbanization, industrialization, and globalization? Can they stake a claim to a culinary and cultural “authenticity” that has now become a commodity or has this term, itself, been coopted away from them? Consider the backlash against that which is deemed “foreign” as discussed by Eliza Wong and the fundamental contradiction between the values and priorities of the Slow Food Movement and its reliance on Facebook and other social media to promote its cautionary messages concerning the modern obsession with new technology and speed. How do we go about rectifying these fundamental contradictions? In the same vein, how do tradition and change conflict as Italy continues to confront shifting gender roles and their relation to Italian identity? As Ernesto Livorni makes clear, in the case of Clara Sereni, this gendered identity is intimately linked to broad historical, political, and familial circumstances. And as Diana Garvin and Antonella Valoroso demonstrate, such concerns over the role of women in Italian society are not limited to Sereni’s example but instead spread across the Italian media landscape, including in its food advertising. And while Peter Naccarato extends this investigation to the problematics of gender in mobster films, Zachary Nowak and Elgin Eckert link gender with sexuality in their exploration of the preparation and consumption of food in the films of Ferzan Ozpetek. Taken together, these chapters reveal another tension within Italian culture that has deep historical roots and that will continue to impact it well into the future. What role will a changing foodscape play in negotiating these tensions? And as the Italian culinary landscape continues to evolve, Ken Albala, Rachel Ankeny, Tania Cammarano, and Nir Avieli underscore the need to situate these changes within a global framework. Whether it is in the United States (Albala), Australia (Ankeny and Cammarano), or Israel (Avieli), any examination of the “meaning” of Italian food in relation to Italian culture must take into account its shifting signification across the globe. And once



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again, we confront a fundamental tension between the global appeal of Italian food and the impact of such appropriation on the very traditions that sustain it. Surfacing this tension provides additional insight into the socio-political importance of “authenticity” and the questions of whether or not Italian food and foodways can be “translated” into distant places and what may get lost in such acts of translation. Is the much heralded terroir, for example, a form of banal nationalism that obscures the arbitrary lines that supposedly bound taste and traditional foodways? Is it yet another ploy aimed at increasing the value of “authentic” Italian products across the global marketplace? Or is it a weapon that can be wielded by today’s contadini in their ongoing battle against those who would exploit them, their skills, and their products? The chapters in this volume make important contributions to these ongoing debates. At the same time, they make clear that as Italy—its food, its people, and its culture—continues to be celebrated across the globe, there are significant tensions that have shaped its history and that will undoubtedly continue to shape its future.

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Index Adrià, Ferran 37–9 advertising 142–3, 165–79, 188, 191, 220 American influence on Italian 156 Australian 219–33 Artusi, Pellegrino 24–6, 187 authenticity 18, 36, 38, 40, 47 n.20, 59, 95, 96, 194, 196, 219, 220, 226, 229, 230–3, 245–6, 263 Barilla 152, 165–79 Biasin, Gian-Paolo 95, 96, 107 nn.1, 2, 3, 108 n.5 Big Night 193 body 146–7, 152, 158–9 female 144, 146–7, 154, 156 male 144 size 146 breastfeeding 88 Camilleri, Andrea 95–110 and Sicilian food 95–110 and Sicilian identity 95 capital, economic, cultural, and symbolic 243 Carboni, Erberto 168, 171 Casalinghitudine [Keeping House] 45 n.1, 77–93 commensality 250 consumers and consumerism 156, 168, 171 cucina povera 26, 35 culinary signs in literature 95 divorce 87 39–40 Economic Boom 141–52, 156–62, 162 n.5, 168, 171 emigration 4 eataly

ethnic cuisine 34, 242–3, 258 see also Camilleri, Andrea; Sicilian food ethnicity 190–2, 195, 226, 242 Facebook 55–73, 264 family 141, 151, 159–61, 176, 190, 191, 251–2 food and aesthetic illusion 96, 98, 108 n.6 baby food 78 in cinema and television 108 n.9, 111–24, 125–37 cognitive function of 96 and death 88, 102–7 and family life 77–83, 85, 88 food for children 34, 44–5, 78, 81, 133 in Israel 239–62 Italo-Australian 219–33 and jealousy 86 in literature 19, 77–93, 95–110 Mediterranean 254–7, 258 and memory 81, 88 and metaphors 98 and mimesis 95, 96, 99 and nostalgia 100, 106, 107 Palestinian 255, 256, 258 and politics 84, 87, 107 and portion size 252–4 and recycling 87 and rhetorical figures 95 and self-expression 97 and semiotics 125 Sicilian 95–110 and social media 55–73 and social status 20–1, 26–8, 193 stereotypes 99 and symbolism 96, 112, 125, tropological function of 96

268 Index

in the works of Andrea Camilleri 95–110 in the works of Clara Sereni 45 n.1, 77-93 Fulton, Margaret 230–2 gender 100–2, 111–24, 125–37, 141–6, 149, 152, 158–61, 162 n.7, 165, 179, 178 see also queer Godfather 111–24 Goodfellas 111–24 gravy 192–3 H. M. Leggo & Co. Ltd 219–33 Harvest Foods see H. M. Leggo & Co. Ltd Holocaust 243, 256 housewife 143, 147 hybridization 44, 231–3 identity 196 and authenticity 196 Italian 45–6 n.7, 184, 219 Italian-American 195–6 national 40–1, 256 Sicilian 95–110 immigrants 4, 34, 190–1, 193, 195–6 industrialization 184, 189, 195 and food production 196, 245 Inspector Montalbano 95–110 Israel 239–62 perceptions of Italy 239 Italian Communist Party 50 n.43, 77, 79, 80, 81, 83–4, 86 “Italian-sounding” products 5 kashrut 241, 246–9, 258, 261 n.32 kebab 42 Keeping House see Casalinghitudine kitchen 31–2 n.25 kosher see kashrut L’Unità (newspaper) 84 La Cucina Italiana 141–4, 149, 151, 152–4, 159–61, 162 n.2, 163 n.10 Le fati ignoranti [His Secret Life] 125–37 Lollobrigida, Gina 220, 227–30

Lucca 40–1 Mafia in film 111–24 and food 111–24 and gender roles 111–24 marketing 195, 220 of Italian food 184 Marshall Plan 156, 168 masculinity 111–24, 143, 149 McDonald’s 51 n.48, 58, 62 meat 42, 192–3 Medici Archive 5 middle class 192, 196 Middle East 240 Mina [Italian pop singer] 176–7, 182 n.28 Mine vaganti [Loose Cannons] 125–37 Mizrahi [Oriental] food 240, 249, 255 modernity 171, 176, 245, 257, 258 National Rice Board 155–6 nostalgia 58, 195 nutrition 151, 159–61 Oxford Companion to Italian Food 98, 108 n.10 Özpetek, Ferzan 125–37 Passami il sale [Pass Me the Salt] 77, 79, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87 pasta 131–2, 171, 173, 176, 186–7, 192–3, 198 n.19, 219, 246 matched with sauce 186 shapes 186–7 PCI see Italian Communist Party PDO see Protected Denomination of Origin Perugia 79, 81 Petrini, Carlo 50 n.43, 58, 68 pizza 36–9, 46 n.12, 243–4, 250 private sphere 144 polenta 42 Pope Paul III 79 power 151 Pronto [Israeli restaurant] 244, 253, 254 Protected Denomination of Origin (PDO) 18, 46 n.12

Index queer 124–37 see also gender Ragú 194–5 RAI television 96, 108 n.9 recipes, in literature 77–93, 98 regionalism [in Italy] 183, 184, 185, 187, 188, 196, 231 restaurants family-friendly 249–50, 258 Italian 191 Sabbath dinner 248 Salt War of 1540 79 sauce 116–17, 184, 185, 194, 219, 263 see also tomato, Ragú matched with pasta 186–7 Scappi, Bartolomeo 28 self 156–8 Sereni, Clara Casalinghitudine 77–93, 45 n.1 and family 77–83, 84, 85, 88–9 Passami il sale 77, 79, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 87 and politics 77, 79, 80, 81, 83–4, 85, 86, 87, 88 Sereni, Emilio 79, 81, 84, 88–9

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Slow Food Movement 55–73, 196, 264 spaghetti 183, 188, 189 Sunday meal 171, 184, 192–3 supermarkets 171 terroir 254, 255, 265 timballo 193, 200 n.68 timpano see timballo tomato 185 Bendigo 220, 221–3 canned 221 paste 223, 224, 229, 236 n.35 sauce 183, 189, 196, 197 n.7 tourism 3, 168, 186, 196, 220, 244, 264 Trattoria [Israeli restaurant] 248, 253 vegetarian 66–7, 246 weight loss 154, 159 women 141–3 modern 173, 177 pregnant 148 women’s rights 178 women’s work 141 World War I 191 World War II 152, 189