In most of my own personal experiences, both having an abundance and variety of food and the act of eating have encouraged sociability: grocery shopping with my mother, romantic dinner dates, birthday celebrations with friends, and family holiday meals. Yet a specific instance comes to mind in which restriction of food encouraged sociability. When sociability relates to food, I tend to think of the act of eating together, enjoying food together, but this case is an exception.
On a flight from New York to Milan, I was seated next to an Orthodox Jewish couple, on their way to Italy to attend a wedding. The wife was seated to my immediate left, her husband in the seat to her left. At mealtime, the couple was served early because they had requested a kosher meal. The wife began to talk to me about keeping kosher. Talking about what she could not and would not eat was an expression of sociability. The topic of food and eating is rarely taboo, and can easily be broached. For example, “How was your meal?” is not an uncommon question to ask a stranger. In this case, my previous knowledge of the religious practices of the Orthodox Jewish population had always been secondhand. I had always assumed that talking to someone of another religion in such great detail about kosher law was not acceptable.
She did not see her diet as a hassle or as a restriction, but more as a way or preserving her culture and integrity. I had always interpreted self-imposed religious regulations as restrictions or as sacrifices, the root of some of the practices in Catholicism, the religion of my childhood. To a degree I relate to adjusting diet for the sake of religion, but only on occasion and not necessarily on a daily basis as these groups of people do. Yet for this couple and their family, religion is also a daily way of life, providing a social circle that purposely isolates the group, “keeping to ourselves” as she put it, as a way to protect the family from negative outside influences.
The airline meal was not properly kosher, the woman explained to me, yet wanted me to have it. She was persistent and insisted that it would be very good and that I should at least try it, so I obliged. It’s interesting how she differentiated between good, as in tasty, and good, as in something she could allow herself to consume. She also offered me some of the food she had packed herself, but I graciously declined only because they might have needed it later in case of delays or missed connections.
In this case the restrictions do not lead to loss of identity or sociability among the group because the regulations are self-imposed, and are not seen as detrimental. Food is very important to this family, and is much more than simply nourishment. It is often on their minds because of the advance planning required. For example, the couple’s daughter had baked homemade cookies that they would be able to eat in case the in-flight meals were not acceptable.
Had there been no meal service on this flight, I may not have talked with a woman that I initially imagined would have little interest in socializing with me. Food sociability is encouraged by countless scenarios, even the unexpected.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Is Peck Elitist?
Peck, a three-story food Mecca in Milan, Italy, is considered by many to be one of the top specialty food markets worldwide. Devotees make regular pilgrimages to the shop, located on a side street just beyond the shadow of the Duomo. Established in 1883 and subsequently written about in multiple food and travel magazines, Peck was an attractive choice to visit for numerous reasons. Since it’s been in business for over a century, it must have some sort of formula for success; it likely attracts tourists, therefore English speakers- a bonus for a beginner Italian speaker attempting to conduct interviews; I myself am one of those curious tourists who had not yet been to Peck. In anticipation of a number of people in the physical space, I planned to interview three types: an employee, a regular shopper (a local), and a tourist who is “just looking.”
The ground level boasts the most variety, and in early January, the windows were still decorated for Christmas. A combination dark, milk and white chocolate mountain landscape set the stage for Santa, his sleigh, reindeer and elves- each one edible, yet behind glass, untouchable and not for sale. I interpret this displaying of not-for-sale artwork as comparable to a museum. Its audience is intellectual and cultured. They come to view and to appreciate the art, but cannot obtain that object for themselves.
Another window displayed a bounty of festively wrapped panettone, a Christmas specialty of Milan, perhaps an attempt to elicit nostalgia among locals passing by.
Once inside the store, I noticed a shiny, polished antique slicer from 1930 on display, evidence of the store’s history. To my right were shelves lined with more panettone and other sweets wrapped up like gifts. The rest of my time spent at Peck would confirm my observation of a shop full of gift items packaged with the Peck brand-name and its iconic gold sun, all excellent choices for a wealthy Milanese, stopping by on the way to a friend’s home as not to arrive empty-handed. Regardless of the quality of what’s inside (and Peck does sell high-quality), a gift from Peck is immediately recognized as desirable. It signifies a desire of the gift-giver to impress, a way of showing off his wealth, and that his standards are high.
Continuing forward, to the left is the salumi and fresh meat department, with rows of cured hams (di Parma, San Danielle, etc.) hanging from the ceiling, each one decorated with a red or yellow bow-tied ribbon anklet. A display of ready-to-eat foods like lasagna, risotto, and roasted porcini mushrooms spans the entire back wall, while cheeses grace the far right wall and even a second case across the way. Fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread and pasta, pastries and gelato, adorn the remaining inner stations, and scattered throughout are Peck’s own private-label jarred and bottled salts, spices, sauces, oils and vinegars, each in a clean and simple white box with “Peck” and a gold sun. No need for elaborate images on the packages- the name and logo say it all. The labels all faced forward, lined up perfectly straight and orderly. When a market has achieved a high level of success and fame such as Peck, the name itself becomes a marketing tool, a brand that customers trust and prefer to buy, surpassing interest in other brands being sold.
The spaces between displays are so wide that I felt pampered and would categorize them as more than mere aisles, a nice change of pace from markets that make one feel like an animal being herded. I didn’t notice a single thumbprint on any of the glass cases or trash on the floors, nor did I ever see anyone cleaning them. Either the customers respect the space and refrain from littering and touching the glass, or the staff members clean quickly and inconspicuously. Both are plausible explanations. The uniformed employees work calmly, yet swiftly and with a sense of urgency. In the far right corner is the entrance to a bustling kitchen, which is not quite open in the way that many restaurant kitchens have become, but open enough that customers can see plenty of activity.
The top level of the store, the location of my first interview, is part tea room and bar, part retail space dedicated to coffee, tea, honey and chocolate. Crisp, white tablecloths cover round tables, each able to accommodate four guests. For larger groups, tables are pulled together. I was seated at a table under a large skylight on the side of the tea room closest to the retail space, allowing me to observe both areas. My server must have been the captain. He was dressed in a suit and tie, while the other employees wore uniforms of black pants, a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, and a black vest and bowtie. After an hour of sipping my five-Euro mint tea, I still had not heard any English being spoken at the neighboring tables or seen anyone who appeared to be a tourist. There went my plan to interview a tourist.
By the time I finished my tea, I had built up enough courage to ask my server “parla inglese?” He did and was able to answer my questions. An employee for eight years, he mentioned several times, particularly when I asked about why Peck is meaningful to the community, that it is a very famous store and is still family-owned. He also pointed out that they are especially busy during the Christmas and Easter holidays. Overall, the majority of their customers are Milanese, shopping mostly on Saturdays, while attention from the media has drawn tourists, mostly of Japanese visitors and businessmen. About half of the tourists spend money and the other half are there simply to browse. I asked about employee discounts (yes, they receive them) and whether he shops at Peck (he does). It was a busy Saturday morning and I could tell that he was needed elsewhere, so I thanked him for his time so he could excuse himself. My next question would have been about the identity of Peck, but his next actions answered it. With a big smile, he gave me a few square chocolates, saying “this is for you” and later returned with another gift of postcards showing early images of Peck’s facade. Peck’s identity is about hospitality, evident by the way the employees interact with customers: helping ladies with their coats, shaking hands and greeting them by name.
The lower level, its ceilings low and vaulted, houses the wine cellar and a small tasting bar. When customers step off the elevator or stairs onto the marble floors, they see the sparkling wine selection on the left. Straight ahead, the centerpiece of the room is an impenetrable glass case, guarding an artful display of an almost clichéd symbol of wealth, privilege and extravagant consumption: Dom Perignon Vintage Champagne.
A particular wine that I hoped to find was a northern Italian grape, written about in the most recent issue of the American food magazine Saveur. Inquiring about this wine would be an icebreaker, a reason to find an English speaking employee, gaining his trust, showing him that I am a paying customer. As he led me to the wine, we chatted and I eventually told him why I was so curious about Peck. While we talked and browsed the displays, he stood tall, arms behind his back, occasionally releasing them to turn a wine bottle, label facing forward, or to adjust the price tag. He was surprisingly young in appearance, but actually 28 years old; polite, patient, knowledgeable, not the least bit pretentious or condescending. It occurred to me that this is part of the experience (and expense) of shopping at Peck; the hospitality of the staff is a “value-added” service. When I returned a week later, this time with friends, he recognized me and welcomed me back.
At this point I still had not interacted with other customers, so I returned to the ground floor. I connected with a local Italian couple while all three of us admired a display of some sort of seafood and aspic concoction. The gentleman was amused by the display, so I turned to him with the usual introductory question of English language skills. Both the man and the woman, appearing to be in their early sixties, spoke English. We chatted for a little while, and I eventually asked about their shopping habits. The man was eating a cup of gelato (3 €) as they browsed but they were not planning to buy anything else. He told me he considers himself a gelato connoisseur, and that he had not tried Peck’s until today. “Good” he commented, but he prefers Grom (2 € in Parma and 2.50 € in Milan) and added that there is even better gelato in Milan at Cream Garden on via Quaranta. They tend to shop at Peck only on special occasions, not on a regular basis, deterred by the high prices. Well aware of the specific prices, the woman pointed out that bread at Peck costs over 10 Euro per kilo, and that elsewhere the same quality of bread averages five to six Euro per kilo.
Elitism has been defined as
the belief or attitude that those individuals who are considered members of the elite— a select group of people with outstanding personal abilities, intellect, wealth, specialized training or experience, or other distinctive attributes — are those whose views on a matter are to be taken the most seriously or carry the most weight.
When I worked at Balducci’s market, New York City’s version of Peck, a customer once asked me if we accepted food stamps, a government aid for low-income people. We did not, and when I told him so he was upset and demanded to speak to a manager. With so much negative sentiment, such as that expressed by this man, directed towards the “fancy” food community and the stereotypes that wine drinkers are snobs, I wondered, is Peck elitist? Not necessarily. I was not judged at the door and either admitted or denied as at some elite velvet-rope nightclubs. I was treated kindly and with respect, despite my spending little money and middle-class wardrobe. It was not like the scene in the film “Pretty Woman” where the Julia Roberts’ cheaply-dressed character is pre-judged by the imperious sales clerk in the clothing boutique who refuses to wait on her.
It’s possible that Peck customers, who knowingly and willingly pay a premium, do so to elevate themselves, to make them feel a part of an elite group. They can afford to pay, therefore they do. A friend of mine who runs a business providing waiters and bartenders for private parties once told me why she charges high prices. She found that the ultra-wealthy tended to question moderately priced services, yet must reason that an expensive service (or product) must be worth the money, that it must be the very best. I found the same mentality when I worked as a private chef in New York. My employers held house accounts with the more famous, more expensive gourmet markets where I was asked to shop and resisted letting me shop at farmers’ markets, even though I pointed out that the quality would be comparable if not higher.
Ultimately I found that it is the Peck customer who is somewhat elitist and not Peck the institution. The physical space does give the appearance of elitism, but what takes place within the space transforms this perception. Decisions such as which products to carry and how much to charge have been made deliberately to influence who shops there. On the surface, Peck appears exclusionary, with its art displays, marble floors and expensive goods, but it’s the interaction between the employees and customers that dispels the appearance of elitism.
The ground level boasts the most variety, and in early January, the windows were still decorated for Christmas. A combination dark, milk and white chocolate mountain landscape set the stage for Santa, his sleigh, reindeer and elves- each one edible, yet behind glass, untouchable and not for sale. I interpret this displaying of not-for-sale artwork as comparable to a museum. Its audience is intellectual and cultured. They come to view and to appreciate the art, but cannot obtain that object for themselves.
Another window displayed a bounty of festively wrapped panettone, a Christmas specialty of Milan, perhaps an attempt to elicit nostalgia among locals passing by.
Once inside the store, I noticed a shiny, polished antique slicer from 1930 on display, evidence of the store’s history. To my right were shelves lined with more panettone and other sweets wrapped up like gifts. The rest of my time spent at Peck would confirm my observation of a shop full of gift items packaged with the Peck brand-name and its iconic gold sun, all excellent choices for a wealthy Milanese, stopping by on the way to a friend’s home as not to arrive empty-handed. Regardless of the quality of what’s inside (and Peck does sell high-quality), a gift from Peck is immediately recognized as desirable. It signifies a desire of the gift-giver to impress, a way of showing off his wealth, and that his standards are high.
Continuing forward, to the left is the salumi and fresh meat department, with rows of cured hams (di Parma, San Danielle, etc.) hanging from the ceiling, each one decorated with a red or yellow bow-tied ribbon anklet. A display of ready-to-eat foods like lasagna, risotto, and roasted porcini mushrooms spans the entire back wall, while cheeses grace the far right wall and even a second case across the way. Fruit, vegetables, cheese, bread and pasta, pastries and gelato, adorn the remaining inner stations, and scattered throughout are Peck’s own private-label jarred and bottled salts, spices, sauces, oils and vinegars, each in a clean and simple white box with “Peck” and a gold sun. No need for elaborate images on the packages- the name and logo say it all. The labels all faced forward, lined up perfectly straight and orderly. When a market has achieved a high level of success and fame such as Peck, the name itself becomes a marketing tool, a brand that customers trust and prefer to buy, surpassing interest in other brands being sold.
The spaces between displays are so wide that I felt pampered and would categorize them as more than mere aisles, a nice change of pace from markets that make one feel like an animal being herded. I didn’t notice a single thumbprint on any of the glass cases or trash on the floors, nor did I ever see anyone cleaning them. Either the customers respect the space and refrain from littering and touching the glass, or the staff members clean quickly and inconspicuously. Both are plausible explanations. The uniformed employees work calmly, yet swiftly and with a sense of urgency. In the far right corner is the entrance to a bustling kitchen, which is not quite open in the way that many restaurant kitchens have become, but open enough that customers can see plenty of activity.
The top level of the store, the location of my first interview, is part tea room and bar, part retail space dedicated to coffee, tea, honey and chocolate. Crisp, white tablecloths cover round tables, each able to accommodate four guests. For larger groups, tables are pulled together. I was seated at a table under a large skylight on the side of the tea room closest to the retail space, allowing me to observe both areas. My server must have been the captain. He was dressed in a suit and tie, while the other employees wore uniforms of black pants, a long-sleeved white button-down shirt, and a black vest and bowtie. After an hour of sipping my five-Euro mint tea, I still had not heard any English being spoken at the neighboring tables or seen anyone who appeared to be a tourist. There went my plan to interview a tourist.
By the time I finished my tea, I had built up enough courage to ask my server “parla inglese?” He did and was able to answer my questions. An employee for eight years, he mentioned several times, particularly when I asked about why Peck is meaningful to the community, that it is a very famous store and is still family-owned. He also pointed out that they are especially busy during the Christmas and Easter holidays. Overall, the majority of their customers are Milanese, shopping mostly on Saturdays, while attention from the media has drawn tourists, mostly of Japanese visitors and businessmen. About half of the tourists spend money and the other half are there simply to browse. I asked about employee discounts (yes, they receive them) and whether he shops at Peck (he does). It was a busy Saturday morning and I could tell that he was needed elsewhere, so I thanked him for his time so he could excuse himself. My next question would have been about the identity of Peck, but his next actions answered it. With a big smile, he gave me a few square chocolates, saying “this is for you” and later returned with another gift of postcards showing early images of Peck’s facade. Peck’s identity is about hospitality, evident by the way the employees interact with customers: helping ladies with their coats, shaking hands and greeting them by name.
The lower level, its ceilings low and vaulted, houses the wine cellar and a small tasting bar. When customers step off the elevator or stairs onto the marble floors, they see the sparkling wine selection on the left. Straight ahead, the centerpiece of the room is an impenetrable glass case, guarding an artful display of an almost clichéd symbol of wealth, privilege and extravagant consumption: Dom Perignon Vintage Champagne.
A particular wine that I hoped to find was a northern Italian grape, written about in the most recent issue of the American food magazine Saveur. Inquiring about this wine would be an icebreaker, a reason to find an English speaking employee, gaining his trust, showing him that I am a paying customer. As he led me to the wine, we chatted and I eventually told him why I was so curious about Peck. While we talked and browsed the displays, he stood tall, arms behind his back, occasionally releasing them to turn a wine bottle, label facing forward, or to adjust the price tag. He was surprisingly young in appearance, but actually 28 years old; polite, patient, knowledgeable, not the least bit pretentious or condescending. It occurred to me that this is part of the experience (and expense) of shopping at Peck; the hospitality of the staff is a “value-added” service. When I returned a week later, this time with friends, he recognized me and welcomed me back.
At this point I still had not interacted with other customers, so I returned to the ground floor. I connected with a local Italian couple while all three of us admired a display of some sort of seafood and aspic concoction. The gentleman was amused by the display, so I turned to him with the usual introductory question of English language skills. Both the man and the woman, appearing to be in their early sixties, spoke English. We chatted for a little while, and I eventually asked about their shopping habits. The man was eating a cup of gelato (3 €) as they browsed but they were not planning to buy anything else. He told me he considers himself a gelato connoisseur, and that he had not tried Peck’s until today. “Good” he commented, but he prefers Grom (2 € in Parma and 2.50 € in Milan) and added that there is even better gelato in Milan at Cream Garden on via Quaranta. They tend to shop at Peck only on special occasions, not on a regular basis, deterred by the high prices. Well aware of the specific prices, the woman pointed out that bread at Peck costs over 10 Euro per kilo, and that elsewhere the same quality of bread averages five to six Euro per kilo.
Elitism has been defined as
the belief or attitude that those individuals who are considered members of the elite— a select group of people with outstanding personal abilities, intellect, wealth, specialized training or experience, or other distinctive attributes — are those whose views on a matter are to be taken the most seriously or carry the most weight.
When I worked at Balducci’s market, New York City’s version of Peck, a customer once asked me if we accepted food stamps, a government aid for low-income people. We did not, and when I told him so he was upset and demanded to speak to a manager. With so much negative sentiment, such as that expressed by this man, directed towards the “fancy” food community and the stereotypes that wine drinkers are snobs, I wondered, is Peck elitist? Not necessarily. I was not judged at the door and either admitted or denied as at some elite velvet-rope nightclubs. I was treated kindly and with respect, despite my spending little money and middle-class wardrobe. It was not like the scene in the film “Pretty Woman” where the Julia Roberts’ cheaply-dressed character is pre-judged by the imperious sales clerk in the clothing boutique who refuses to wait on her.
It’s possible that Peck customers, who knowingly and willingly pay a premium, do so to elevate themselves, to make them feel a part of an elite group. They can afford to pay, therefore they do. A friend of mine who runs a business providing waiters and bartenders for private parties once told me why she charges high prices. She found that the ultra-wealthy tended to question moderately priced services, yet must reason that an expensive service (or product) must be worth the money, that it must be the very best. I found the same mentality when I worked as a private chef in New York. My employers held house accounts with the more famous, more expensive gourmet markets where I was asked to shop and resisted letting me shop at farmers’ markets, even though I pointed out that the quality would be comparable if not higher.
Ultimately I found that it is the Peck customer who is somewhat elitist and not Peck the institution. The physical space does give the appearance of elitism, but what takes place within the space transforms this perception. Decisions such as which products to carry and how much to charge have been made deliberately to influence who shops there. On the surface, Peck appears exclusionary, with its art displays, marble floors and expensive goods, but it’s the interaction between the employees and customers that dispels the appearance of elitism.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
My First Memorable Italian Meal
The number one rule for any self-respecting gastronome traveling abroad: either go alone or with other like-minded eaters. Leave the picky or otherwise unadventurous at home.
My meals in Venice, the first of several Italian cities and I would visit with a group of friends, were mainly evenings at cicchetti bars that served snacks of fried seafood caught from the surrounding waters. It’s an ideal style of eating for socializing, standing around chatting between toothpick-skewered bites and sips of wine. Although I love these friends dearly, they simply did not care to seek out new food experiences. My travel companions were content with lunches of Salade Niçoise (in Venice?) and never questioned the grape varietals of the house wines.
After a week in Venice I longed for a proper sit-down dinner, complete with forks and knives, and a meal I envisioned as quintessential Italian: pasta. I convinced a friend to break away from the bunch and head south to Florence with me. During our first night in town, after settling into our hotel, we ventured out in search of a trattoria. On a quiet, narrow and winding cobblestone street, we spotted what appeared to be a restaurant with great potential. The menu was in Italian and Italian only. There was no large tour bus parked nearby, spitting out streams of loud, hungry tourists. Instead we found a cozy, warmly lit room, humming with convivial laughter and conversation, a mix of aromas wafting from the kitchen, and a welcoming proprietor willing to seat two American girls with no reservations.
“Vorrèi il migliore, vòstro favorito,” I shyly mumbled to the server. Somehow he managed to understand my broken Italian, a request for the best, his favorite dish on the menu. Fifteen minutes later, we were presented with beggars’ purses. Small square sheets of pasta were cinched into upright purses, secured neatly with bright green blanched chives. Inside, a filling of cubed poached pears, cooked al dente, firm enough to hold their shape, but tender enough to mirror the texture of the pasta, which acted as a canvas for the rich and pungent flavors of a gorgonzola sauce. Just a touch was used to moisten the pears on the inside of the purses, while a light coating of sauce was drizzled on the outside. Sweet, salty and savory-all in one bite. Years later, I still reminisce about that meal.
All it takes is one great meal to win the heart of a formerly indifferent eater. Allow me to amend rule number one: travel with those with potential to convert. Seeing my friend delight in this meal was almost as memorable as the meal itself.
My meals in Venice, the first of several Italian cities and I would visit with a group of friends, were mainly evenings at cicchetti bars that served snacks of fried seafood caught from the surrounding waters. It’s an ideal style of eating for socializing, standing around chatting between toothpick-skewered bites and sips of wine. Although I love these friends dearly, they simply did not care to seek out new food experiences. My travel companions were content with lunches of Salade Niçoise (in Venice?) and never questioned the grape varietals of the house wines.
After a week in Venice I longed for a proper sit-down dinner, complete with forks and knives, and a meal I envisioned as quintessential Italian: pasta. I convinced a friend to break away from the bunch and head south to Florence with me. During our first night in town, after settling into our hotel, we ventured out in search of a trattoria. On a quiet, narrow and winding cobblestone street, we spotted what appeared to be a restaurant with great potential. The menu was in Italian and Italian only. There was no large tour bus parked nearby, spitting out streams of loud, hungry tourists. Instead we found a cozy, warmly lit room, humming with convivial laughter and conversation, a mix of aromas wafting from the kitchen, and a welcoming proprietor willing to seat two American girls with no reservations.
“Vorrèi il migliore, vòstro favorito,” I shyly mumbled to the server. Somehow he managed to understand my broken Italian, a request for the best, his favorite dish on the menu. Fifteen minutes later, we were presented with beggars’ purses. Small square sheets of pasta were cinched into upright purses, secured neatly with bright green blanched chives. Inside, a filling of cubed poached pears, cooked al dente, firm enough to hold their shape, but tender enough to mirror the texture of the pasta, which acted as a canvas for the rich and pungent flavors of a gorgonzola sauce. Just a touch was used to moisten the pears on the inside of the purses, while a light coating of sauce was drizzled on the outside. Sweet, salty and savory-all in one bite. Years later, I still reminisce about that meal.
All it takes is one great meal to win the heart of a formerly indifferent eater. Allow me to amend rule number one: travel with those with potential to convert. Seeing my friend delight in this meal was almost as memorable as the meal itself.
Venetian Lagoon
''It's a war, finding fresh, local fish. Only 53,000 of us are left here, and I worry that we're losing our identity as Venetians. Much more than our fish -- our collective memories, our dialect, our culture, our flavors and our tastes,'' says Cesare Benelli, chef of the Venice restaurant Al Covo, as quoted in a New York Times article (Apple 2004). He is also one of the organizers of L'Associazione dei Ristoranti della Buona Accoglienza, an alliance of chefs and restaurateurs committed to the preservation of Venetian culinary tradition. Mr. Benelli’s comments touch upon the immense cultural and historical significance of seafood to the Veneto region of Italy. Restaurants situated on the Venetian lagoon, such as Al Covo and those we visited--Al Fontego dei Pescatori in Venice (see figure 1) and Osteria all’Arena in Chioggia--prominently feature a variety of seafood on their menus.
From the beginning of her existence, Venice has been fighting Mother Nature in order to survive. The port city is built on a foundation of wooden piles, larch and oak tree trunks driven into compacted clay beneath a layer of sand and mud, which were left behind when an ancient plain subsided. The wood has since petrified, turning into stone (Timeout Venice 2007). Spread out over 118 small islands, with roughly 200 canals and 400 bridges, Venice is situated on the northeast coast of Italy, in the northernmost part of the Adriatic Sea (Venice in Peril). The shallow waters of the Venetian lagoon meet the Adriatic Sea at 3 inlets: Lido, Malamocco and Chioggia (see figure 2). The controversial Mose Project (Modulo Sperimentale Elettromeccanico or in English, Experimental Electromechanical Module), which will attempt to control floodwaters, is under construction. Some argue that the lack of free flow of water between the lagoon and the Adriatic Sea will kill aquatic life:
"The Venice lagoon is an inlet of the Adriatic Sea, with access to sea waters largely restricted by a series of sand bars at the lagoon's entrance. Formerly, substantial freshwater inputs flowed through the lagoon as well, but over the past several centuries most of the freshwater has been diverted to the Adriatic. Today the lagoon's water possesses a salinity level nearly as high as that of the Adriatic. Waters from the Adriatic Sea circulate through the lagoon, currently providing the primary source of lagoon waters. Without continuous exchange with the Adriatic, the lagoon's waters would stagnate and become uninhabitable for many of the organisms now residing within the lagoon." (Scearce 2007)
Some of those species--native, introduced and farm-raised-- in the Venetian lagoon and the Adriatic Sea include the grass goby fish (Zosterisessor ophiocephalus), mussel (Mytilus galloprovincialis) (Livingstone et al. 1995), crab (Carcinus aestuarii) (Bayarri et al 2001), and cultured Manila clam (Tapes philippinarum) (Boscolo et al. 2007).
As we learned at the Conservificio Allevatori Molluschi (CAM), in Chioggia, due to the current state of the Venetian lagoon and the Northern Adriatic Sea, an insufficient supply of seafood to the region cannot keep up with demand. Over fishing and industrial pollution have caused decline in stocks, which are defined as “a group of individuals or populations in a species occupying a well-defined spatial range independent of other stocks of the same species. A stock will form the basis of a distinct fishery defined management unit in terms of season and area” (Marine Conservation Society Fish Online). But to meet the demands of both locals and tourists, companies such as CAM are sourcing in other parts of the world: oysters from Normandy, crabs from the English Channel and lobsters from South Africa. Our guide at CAM (he may have been the owner, if not the director) called this phenomenon the “irony of a global economy,” yet did not seem sympathetic towards the crisis, nor did he offer any solutions. Sadly, scientists warn that at current rates of consumption, over fishing and pollution, the entire world’s supply of seafood could run out by the year 2048 (Worm et al. 2006).
According to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations, specifically the 2003 Fishery and Aquaculture Country Profile for Italy, of the total seafood supply of 1,446,000 tons, only 472,162 tons were produced in Italy. Very little was exported (162,189 tons) so to keep up with demand, 1,136,065 tons of seafood were imported (see website link). These statistics support what was discussed during our visit to CAM regarding over fishing and supply versus demand.
Founded in 1969, CAM is in the business of purifying seafood by removing contamination through the use of technology. The company has exclusive rights to many fishing companies all over the world. All seafood processed at CAM is bought by the company, purified, and then distributed to their customers: wholesalers, restaurants, and grocery store chains. “With specific regard to live bivalve molluscs, Italy has made additional sanitation requirements of imported stocks. Currently, the Italian government requires that all imports be sent to depuration centres before being dispersed into the common markets” (Agri-Food Trade Service of Canada 2005). This law conveniently provides business for CAM, a private enterprise. I question which came first, the law, or CAM. When I asked whether CAM has contributed to cleaning up and restoring the lagoon, our guide responded that conservation efforts are the government’s responsibility and not up to private industry. Could it be that it is in CAM’s best interest not to buy local seafood? Are locally fished products subject to the same purification laws as imported seafood? During the visit to CAM, I felt terribly sad and concerned as our guide proudly showed off his South African lobsters destined for a nearby restaurant.
Initially, CAM’s purification tanks were filled with sea water pumped in from areas of the sea far offshore. Thirty years ago, pumping water in to shore was considered innovative. When mollusks were brought into the CAM facilities, they were classified by zone: for Zone A, there was no fear of contamination, and zone B, was a bit more questionable. Zone B mollusks had the possibility of being contaminated by bacteria such as salmonella, as a result of agricultural waste of cows and pigs that is dumped into the lagoon. According to our guide, there is a low risk of contamination in the waters near Chiogga because of the distance from Venice, yet water must be analyzed on a monthly basis. Technological advances have had a huge impact on the seafood industry. CAM developed a process which controls the temperature of the water, filters out silt, sand and ammonia, and uses ultra violet rays to purify. In the past CAM added iodine or chlorine to the water (2 parts per million), but discovered that the product suffered. Now no chemicals are used, but instead rely on a system that continuously filters the water (personal stage notes 2008).
Other than from animal waste, how else did the area’s waters become polluted in the first place? Agricultural run-off is blamed for high levels of nitrogen (Franco, Perelli and Scattolin 1996), while the presence of dioxins (toxic chemicals), PCBs (polychlorinated biphenyls) and HCBs (hexachlorobenzene) (Bayarri et al.) are due to industrial activities: petrochemical and vinyl chloride plants in Porto Marghera (see figure 3) west of Venice (Greenpeace 1995). Multiple studies point to the Idrija mercury (Hg) mine in western Slovenia as the cause of contamination (La Marca et al.). The Isonzo River, which flows through western Slovenia, into northeastern Italy and then emptying into the Gulf of Trieste “has been the largest contributor of Hg into the northern Adriatic Sea since the 16th century” (Piani, Covelli and Biester 2005). I attempted to find research indicating whether pollution is actually killing the organisms in the Adriatic Sea in addition to contaminating their flesh, but was unable to find research that suggests which of the two is more prevalent.
Despite the serious consequences of ignoring the fact that most of the world’s seafood could become extinct, even recent cookbook authors continue to perpetuate the romantic, outdated idea that equates Venice and the lagoon with an abundant supply of fresh (and implied local) fish:
"The other basic food of Venice and the lagoon is fish, and this also can be appreciated at Rialto. The selection is always bewildering; fish and seafood of every kind, colour and size…Ask the fishmonger how best to cook any of his exhibits and he, and the Venetian woman next to you, will tell you just to fry them, boil them or eat them as they are, so fresh are they from the sea." (del Conte 2002)
As ignorant consumers blissfully dine on seafood in Venice (I was once one of them), unaware that the food on their plates may be in danger of extinction or was flown in from another part of the world, the problem only gets worse. Unfortunately, this crisis is not limited to the Venetian lagoon and Adriatic Sea.
Journalist Charles Clover criticizes high-profile Japanese sushi chef and restaurateur Nobu Matsuhisa, whose cookbooks include recipes calling for species of fish- abalone, Caspian caviar, Chilean sea bass, grouper, red snapper, sole and tuna- all considered vulnerable by multiple environmental watch groups. These species also appear on his restaurant menus (Clover 2005). In 2002, the National Environmental Trust, an American NGO (non-governmental organization) created an ad campaign “Take a Pass on Chilean Sea Bass,” asking chefs and wholesalers in the U.S. to temporarily halt sales of the over fished (often illegally) species until stocks return to healthy levels (Common Dreams website). Over 1000 chefs took the pledge to remove it from their menus. It was them, after all, who were able to take the species formerly known as Patagonian Tooth fish, and transform it into an overnight sensation, a highly popular and desired fish. They can and often do influence food choices of the public.
I do not recall seeing any sort of campaign promoting local seafood in the windows of Venice restaurants, although my Italian-speaking classmates tell me our indulgent lunch of mixed, fried seafood in Chioggia was entirely local according to the chef. Local, but unclear if these species are abundant, healthy and sustainably fished. The efforts of concerned chefs, scientists and activists, combined with initiatives like Slow Food’s biennial conference Slow Fish, which aims to educate, promote and protect, all raise awareness of the crisis at hand.
As a native of Louisiana, a predominantly Catholic state on the Gulf of Mexico, I see many parallels between the Cajun and Venetian cultures, and even the low-lying, swampy landscape, and efforts to control Mother Nature through the use of floodgates (Cajun Country website). The people--including my father’s side of the family--who refer to themselves as Cajuns (derived from the word Acadian) are descendants of French settlers who when living in Acadia, present day Nova Scotia, Canada, were exiled in the 18th century by the English. Many ended up in Louisiana (family oral history and Acadian Cajun website). To both cultures, the local cuisine and a fair amount of the economy revolve around the seafood industry. Shrimp Creole, crawfish etouffee, oyster poboys, seafood gumbo and crabmeat au gratin are all dishes I grew up eating and still crave. On Fridays during Lent, one can drive around Lafayette, Louisiana, the center of Cajun culture, spotting phrases such as “Lenten Special: Crawfish Pizza” on restaurant signs and menus. Not exactly a typical meal of my ancestors, but tasty nevertheless. For the Venetians, their culture of seafood dates back much further and is deeply embedded in their identity:
"More than 2,000 years ago, ancient populations used to breed sea fish, in particular seabass and seabream, which were considered very valuable and were quite popular in recipe books such as the "De Re Coquinaria" by Apicio of the first century B.C. The end of the Roman Empire led to the disappearance of this type of aquaculture and it was not until the twelfth century that a resurgence of freshwater aquaculture was seen, starting in central Europe, mainly in Italy. It was only in the fifteenth century that extensive, large-scale aquaculture was seen in the lagoons of the Adriatic: vallicultura (aquaculture developed in coastal lagoons). These activities were promoted by the religious practice of prohibiting the consumption of meat on Fridays. Thereafter, in the nineteenth century, the culture of shellfish became common practice, particularly in the Western Mediterranean and the Adriatic." (FAO Fisheries and Aquaculture Italy)
In an odd way, I felt especially at home in Venice during Carnevale. Louisiana has its own version known as Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday. The excitement, energetic atmosphere, costumes, public drunkenness and tourist-packed streets remind me of New Orleans during the same pre-Lent period.
But the abundance of seafood in both Venice and Louisiana is taken for granted. If awareness of the current state of seafood and its possibility of extinction can be heightened, there is hope that we will not lose our cuisines and our traditions we hold so dear. NGOs can lobby governments for stricter fishing regulations and to push them to reduce allowable levels of pollution. It is ultimately the responsibility of the consumer to educate himself, to become a co-producer. He can boycott companies which do not employ sustainable practices. These same companies can, in turn listen to their customers and make positive changes. The media can expose those who don’t do the right thing. Yet food industry professionals such as chefs, food writers and retail buyers are in a position to influence consumers, giving them the opportunity to make choices that will ultimately destroy or save our natural resources. I’d like to be optimistic and hope that it’s the latter.
Photo: First course of seafood at Al Fontego dei Pescatori, Venice, Italy. Photo taken by Valerie Broussard on February 5, 2008.
Figure 2: Graphic is courtesy of Italy's Ministry of Public Works, Venice Water Authority, Consorzio Venezia Nuova. The red circles indicate the three inlets where the Adriatic Sea and the Venetian Lagoon meet, sites of a system of underwater floodgates (The Mose Project) currently being built to help control flooding in Venice. (http://web.mit.edu/newsoffice/2002/venice-1106.html)
Figure 3: Porto Marghera, Italy http://www.apat.gov.it/site/it-IT/IdeAmbiente/Sezioni/Articoli/Documenti/0809_2005_art_08.html?PageID=6422
Bibliography available upon request
Ombre Rosse
“Body Odor, Band-Aids and Bar-B-Que”
Enoteca Ombre Rosse
Vicolo Giandemaria, 4
43100 Parma (PR)
Italy
Tel: 0521 289234
Body odor, Band-Aids and bar-b-que. It’s not the scene of a boy’s high school locker room following a football game, smells of tailgating parties mixed with injured, sweaty athletes, but a wine bar in Parma.
We would start the meal by ordering wines by the glass paired with antipasti. I ordered a glass of the Zweighlt 2004 Tschida, an Austrian red. Initially I smelled and tasted a distinct earthy quality. As I swirled and sniffed, the characteristics of the nose evolved: from earthy to briny seawater, and then to another familiar salty scent- sweat. Although the term “body odor” may not be a very appetizing descriptor, I was told by one of my dining companions Liz, a winemaker, that “sweaty” is a perfectly acceptable term.
Another guest detected a subtle antiseptic, adhesive scent in her Sicilian wine. Band-Aids? That’s a new one. But Liz assured us there is an identified aromatic compound with those qualities: brettanomyces, or "brett." It’s always nice to dine with a living, breathing wine encyclopedia.
Few other wine bars in Parma can match the variety and consistent quality of wines offered at Enoteca Ombre Rosse. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about the food.
Initially, the service was attentive, almost overeager to get us started. We were asked about our preference of water, and within a minute, bottles of San Pellegrino and Aqua Panna appeared on the table. Twice our server approached the table to take our orders and twice we asked for more time. During our antipasti course- I had the perfectly arranged salumi misti typical of the region- I noticed that two of the four diners at our table were finished eating. To signal that I was still enjoying the cured meats, I placed my utensils in the universally known position indicating “I’m still eating.” A piece of bread in hand, jaws moving, clearly still chewing, and despite my effort at silverware etiquette, the plates were whisked away. Later in the evening the opposite was true of the service. A sexy striptease on the tabletop would have failed to get the attention of the server. Empty bottles and glasses crowded the table, so I would have to come up with another plan anyway.
My primo, a perfectly cooked al dente risotto, with tender calamari and thinly sliced onions, was the highlight of the meal. Avoid the pasta e ceci at all costs. The chestnut flour pasta was aggressively salted, likely an attempt to improve the cardboard-like flavor. Was it just a coincidence that it looked like cardboard too?
Although Parma is inland and not necessarily a town one would expect to find excellently prepared seafood, I lucked out with the filetto di Gallinella del Mediterraneo al cartoccio.
A mild whitefish fillet, chopped fresh tomatoes and herbs, and a flavorful, aromatic broth are all tucked into a parchment paper husk. The overcooked clams and likely previously frozen bite-sized shrimp were unnecessary additions that hinder the dish.
Ombre Rosse’s desserts are barely worth mentioning. They’re acceptable if you just want something sweet. Or you could order a digestive. Try the nocino, the one that Liz thinks tastes like Bar-b-que’d chips.
ATMOSPHERE The appropriately lit square central room in which we were seated houses four tables, each able to accommodate four guests. Its walls are lined with tall shelves storing a vast inventory of wine bottles, stored upright, labels facing forward. The arched ceiling, painted an earthy tan color, provides an intimate, yet airy atmosphere. The other two rooms consist of a bar area with table seating and a private room separated by a door. By midnight the bar area is especially crowded with mostly twenty and thirty-somethings and the energy is that of a bar rather than a restaurant.
SOUND LEVEL Eclectic music plays at an unobtrusive and enjoyable level. As the restaurant filled up, the noise level naturally increases.
RECOMMENDED DISHES
Antipasti: Salumi misti, chingalle misti, bruschetta misti, and crostone con mozzarella, prosciutto crudo di Parma e fondata valdostana
Primi Piatti: Risotto ai calamari con cipolla di Tropea, Bis di tortelli
Secondi Piatti: Filetto di Gallinella del Mediterraneo al cartoccio, Scottata di Tonno
Dolci: none
WINE LIST Extensive list, including Italian wines arranged by region, and international wines from Western Europe, the United States, South America, Australia and New Zealand. Wines by the glass are € 3-7.20, bottles are offered for all budgets.
PRICE RANGE
Antipasti: € 5-12
Primi Piatti: € 8-10
Secondi Piatti: € 9-15
Dolci: € 4-10
HOURS
Monday through Thursday, 6 p.m. to 1 a.m.
Friday and Saturday, 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.
Sunday, from 12 to 3 p.m. and from 6 p.m. to 2 a.m.
RESERVATIONS Recommended
CREDIT CARDS All major cards accepted
The Omnivore's Solution
I’ve always liked meat: fried chicken, smothered pork chops with onion gravy over rice and on special occasions, grilled steak. Throughout my childhood, every few weeks when the weather was warm – quite often in the south – my grandfather ignited the outdoor grill, patiently letting the charcoal turn ash-white. Rib-eyes were the cut of choice. Smells of seared meat, edges charred, and of fat rendering, causing the occasional sizzle of a flare-up, are forever ingrained as a favorite childhood food memory.
But more recently, I haven’t found the act of eating meat as innocent and unadulterated as it was 25 years ago. The more I read about inhumane conditions, disease and other unappetizing information, the more I prefer members of the plant kingdom. That is, until I tasted Chianina beef and visited a cattle farm in Tuscany.
This particular breed, little known in mainstream U.S., is a tall, majestic, yet skittish animal. Their pristine white coats dot the rolling green hills, with the occasional black and white Friesian dairy cow tucked in to act as a wet-nurse. I found it a charming solution for an animal bred for its meat, not always able to produce enough milk for her calves. This was the first indicator of the care and thought that goes into raising them. My guess is that the alternative is some sort of bottle-fed artificial formula.
Other than my group’s guide, there were no people on this farm. It occurred to me that in the case of this product, the quality depends on lack of human intervention. The cows are left alone to do what cows do best. They are free to nibble on grass when the mood strikes, or if they prefer a little shelter, can wander indoors.
The bistecca fiorentina, a massive t-bone steak also known as the porterhouse, serves several people, weighing in at around 1 ¾ pounds. Cooked over extremely high heat, the outside of the meat was crisp, browned with cross hatch marks from the searing-hot grill. The inside stayed rare, almost raw in the very center, yet warmed through. Sliced into manageable strips and arranged nestled next to the t-bone on a platter, the meat was served with sides of sautéed spinach and roasted potatoes. Seasoned simply with coarse sea salt, the gentle crunch quickly dissolved in my mouth, enhancing the flavor of the meat. The rosy lean cross section had no visible marbling yet I didn’t miss it. Each satisfying bite was firm, succulent and tender, with pink juices pooling onto my plate. Some beef requires laborious chewing- this Chianina didn’t. Its flavor was, well meaty, but that of a clean, fresh and healthy taste. It just felt right. Unlike the character-rich meat of the Tuscan Chianina, the majority of beef on the U.S. market is slightly sweet from a lifelong diet of corn, with a forgettable, overall blandness.
I’d always imagined that there were meat-eaters and vegetarians of varying degrees: those who eat fish and chicken, those no flesh at all, and then there are the vegans. What was most surprising about this farm visit was that I didn’t feel turned off or guilty about wanting to continue to eat meat. It forced me to focus less on whether or not to continue eating meat, but instead to think about what kind of meat to eat. The industrial Parma pig farms that cram piglets into tight, indoor spaces, trim their tails, and treat them like commodities are a turnoff. Yes, their little pink newborn bottoms are tattooed with a number indicating the farm in which they are raised, but in this instance traceability doesn’t indicate how they are raised.
To paraphrase Carlo Petrini, the founder of Slow Food, food that is produced in an unclean and unfair manner doesn’t taste good. It can’t. So whether it’s due to the moral dilemma or my preference for lean, flavorful grass-fed beef, I now know which choice I’ll make next time I crave a steak. I have the Chianina to thank.
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