In Praise of Slow Page 7
Producing food in a Slow manner is just the beginning. Even in these convenience-mad times, many of us are setting aside more time for cooking and eating. People are flocking to cookery holidays in Thailand, Tuscany and other exotic locations. Young Italians are signing up for courses to learn the kitchen tricks that mamma failed to teach them. North American companies arrange for their staff to cook a sumptuous meal together as a team-building exercise. Celebrity chefs such as Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver and Emeril Lagasse rule the airwaves and sell millions of recipe books. True, many of their fans are voyeurs, munching on Pot Noodle or Domino’s Pizza while watching the stars work their magic in the kitchen. But their message—slow down and enjoy making and eating your food—is sinking in, even in some of the most hurried places on earth.
In Japan, where fast food is endemic, Slow Food is on the rise. There is a trend among the young to cook for fun. After years of gulping down dinner in front of the television, some Japanese people are rediscovering the joys of communal dining. Retailers report growing sales of the chabudai, a small, round portable table that diners kneel at together.
The Slow Food gospel is also gaining ground in hurry-up New York. When I visit, the city is its usual seething self. People move through the streets with energy and purpose, despite the heavy summer heat. At midday, everyone seems to grab a stuffed bagel or a salad on the hop. The first magazine I pick up has an article claiming that the average business lunch has been downsized to thirty-six minutes. And yet some New Yorkers are making more time for food. Take Matthew Kovacevich and Catherine Creighton, a thirty-something married couple who work together in a Manhattan marketing firm. Like many denizens of the Big Apple, they used to have only a nodding acquaintance with their kitchen. Warming up prepared soups or stirring canned sauces into pasta was the nearest they got to cooking, and supper was often takeout eaten in front of the TV. Then a holiday in southern Europe changed everything.
When I visit their apartment in Brooklyn, we sit at the dining room table, sipping Californian chardonnay and eating organic goat’s cheese topped with homemade red pepper jelly. Matthew, a burly thirty-one-year-old, explains his conversion to gastronomic slowness with the fervour of the true believer: “In the States, we think we do things better because we do them faster. And it’s very easy to get sucked into that lifestyle. But when you see how the French or the Italians eat, how much time and respect they give to food, you realize how wrong the American way can be.”
Fresh off the plane from Europe, Matthew and Catherine set about living by the Slow Food manual. Instead of grazing in the kitchen, or snacking alone in front of the TV, they now try, whenever possible, to sit down together for a home-cooked supper. Even when the workday stretches to twelve hours, the couple still makes room for Slow Food touches. That might mean pairing a supermarket roast chicken with a homemade salad. Or even just setting the table to dine on takeout pizza.
Everything they eat tastes better now, and food is a feature of most weekends. They spend Saturday mornings browsing in the farmers’ market in Grand Army Plaza. Catherine bakes pies with whatever fruit is in season—strawberry and rhubarb, blueberry, peach, apple—and Matthew makes his own pesto. Producing his delicious barbecue sauce takes all of Sunday morning, a long, slow dance of chopping, grating, stirring, simmering, tasting, seasoning and just plain waiting. “A lot of the pleasure is in the fact that you don’t hurry it,” he says.
Cooking can be so much more than just a chore. It connects us with what we eat—where it came from, how the flavours work, what it will do for our health. Making food that gives pleasure to other people can be a real joy. When you have enough time for it, when hurry is not part of the recipe, cooking is also a wonderful way to unwind. It has an almost meditative quality. Slowing down with food makes the rest of Matthew’s life seem less frantic. “It’s easy in a city like New York to get so wound up that you end up rushing everything,” he says. “Cooking gives you a little oasis of slowness. It re-grounds you and that helps you avoid the superficiality of urban life.”
Matthew and Catherine feel a Slow approach to food has strengthened their relationship, too, which is not surprising. There is something in the nature of cooking and eating together that forms a bond between people. It is no accident that the word “companion” is derived from Latin words meaning “with bread.” A relaxed, convivial meal has a calming, even civilizing, effect, smoothing away the smash-and-grab haste of modern life. The Kwakiutl people of British Columbia warn that fast eating can “bring about the destruction of the world more quickly by increasing the aggressiveness” in it. Oscar Wilde expressed a similar sentiment with a typically barbed aphorism: “After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”
Sharing a meal can do more than just help us get along better. Studies in several countries suggest that children from families that regularly eat together are more likely to succeed at school and less liable to suffer from stress or to smoke and drink at an early age. Taking the time to eat a proper meal can also pay dividends in the workplace, where desktop dining rules. Jessie Yoffe, who works for an accountancy firm in Washington, DC, used to lunch in front of her computer. She felt her workaholic boss would disapprove if she took time to eat outside the office, even on quiet days. Then, one afternoon, she was munching on a salad while perusing a contract when she realized she had just read the same paragraph six times without taking any of it in. She decided then and there to start leaving the office for a lunch break, no matter what her boss said. On most days, she now spends half an hour eating in a nearby park or café, often with a friend. She has lost 5 pounds, and uncovered new reserves of energy. “It’s funny, because you think that if you spend less time at your desk you’ll get less work done, but that isn’t what happens,” says Yoffe. “I find that taking time to eat relaxes me, and I get a lot more done in the afternoons than I did before.” Without mentioning the new lunching regime, her boss recently complimented Yoffe on the improvement in her work.
Eating at a gentle pace is also good for the waistline, because it gives the stomach time to tell the brain that it is full. Dr. Patrick Serog, a nutritionist at Bichat Hospital in Paris, says, “It takes fifteen minutes for the brain to register the signal that you have eaten too much, and if you eat too quickly, that signal comes too late. You can easily eat more than you need without knowing it and that’s why it is better to eat slowly.”
As any seasoned dieter will tell you, changing what we eat and the way we eat it is not easy. But it is possible to wean people off the Fast approach to food, especially if you catch them young. Some British schools now take children to farms to learn where their meals come from. Others encourage them to cook and design menus for the school cafeteria. When given the choice, many kids choose real food that takes time to prepare over processed snacks.
In Canada, Jeff Crump spends a lot of time re-educating young palates. Despite growing up in a family where home cooking meant hot dogs, Crump is now head chef at a restaurant based in a farmers’ market outside Toronto. At thirty-one, he is also the leader of Slow Food Ontario. “I’m living proof that with a little curiosity anyone can learn to love good food,” he says. On a warm September evening, I join Crump on the culinary campaign trail. The scene is a cooking school in downtown Toronto. Fifteen children, aged from nine to sixteen, sit on stools round a wooden table in the main classroom. Most are from middle-class families where busy parents serve up processed food with a side order of guilt. The children are here to compare Kraft Dinner with a Slow Food version of the same dish.
Dressed in pristine chef whites, Crump begins by assembling the ingredients for a real macaroni and cheese—milk, butter, eggs, cheese, pasta, salt and pepper. Alongside them, he empties out the contents of a box of Kraft Dinner—dried macaroni with a sachet of bright orange flavouring powder. As he talks about the chemicals in processed food, his assistant whips up a batch of Kraft Dinner on the stainless steel stove, boiling the pasta and then stirring
in the powder with some milk and butter. When it is ready, Crump removes his own homemade macaroni and cheese, prepared earlier, from the oven. The taste test begins. Silence descends as the children sample the rival pastas, then all hell breaks loose as the amateur critics noisily compare notes. Twelve of the fifteen prefer the Slow Food version. Sarah, a thirteen-year-old, says: “When you have Kraft Dinner by itself you don’t really think about what it tastes like, you just eat it. But when you have it side by side on the plate with real macaroni and cheese you realize how much it tastes like chemicals. It’s gross. Jeff’s is way better. It tastes like cheese is supposed to taste.” Afterwards, Crump hands out copies of his recipe. Several children hope it will replace Kraft Dinner at home. Sarah vows to cook it herself. “I’ll definitely make this,” she says, tucking the recipe into her knapsack.
Some critics dismiss Slow Food as a club for affluent epicureans—and when you watch members spending hundreds of dollars on truffle shavings at the Salone del Gusto, it is easy see why. But charges of elitism are actually wide of the mark. Fine dining is just one aspect of the movement. Slow Food has plenty to offer those on a tight budget, too.
After all, eating Slow does not always mean eating expensively. Fruit and vegetables often cost less at farmers’ markets. As demand grows, and efficiency improves, the price of organic food is coming down. In Britain, co-operatives are springing up in deprived areas, offering produce from local farms—as well as tips on how to cook it—at affordable prices. Cooking at home is also a surefire way to save money. Meals made from scratch tend to be cheaper—as well as tastier—than the ready-made alternative. Pre-scrambled eggs cost twenty times more than uncooked ones from a carton.
On the other hand, many Slow foods, by their very nature, are pricier than their mass-produced rivals. A burger made with organic beef from grass-fed cattle will never be as cheap as a Whopper, and a free-range chicken will always cost more than the factory-farmed equivalent. That is the price we pay for eating better. The trouble is that the world has grown accustomed to cheap food. Half a century ago, the average European family spent up to half its income on feeding itself. Today that figure is nearer 15%, and is even lower in Britain and North America. Italians spend 10% of their income on their cellphones, versus 12% on what they eat. Yet change is stirring. In the post-mad cow disease era, polls show a strong willingness to spend more money and time on food.
Inspired by the growing appetite for culinary deceleration, and eager to put the Petrini principles to the test, I set off in pursuit of the perfect Slow Food meal. My quest takes me to Borgio-Varezzi, a bustling resort town just along the coast from Genoa. It is high summer, and the streets leading to the beach are thronged with Italian holidaymakers, padding in and out of the bars and gelaterie in flip-flops. I pick my way through the crowds and walk up the hill to the narrow, cobbled streets of the old quarter. My destination is Da Casetta, a family-run restaurant singled out for special praise by the Slow Food guide.
I arrive at opening time, 8 P.M., to confirm my booking for later in the evening. Already, the first customers of the night, a young couple, are at the door. Cinzia Morelli, a member of the family, gently turns them away. “I’m sorry, but we’re still preparing the antipasti,” she says. “You could have a drink, or maybe go for a walk outside until we’re ready.” The couple take the delay in stride and stroll off into the old quarter with indulgent smiles that seem to say: we know the meal will be worth the wait.
An hour and a half later, I return for my own dinner, full of great expectations and an even greater appetite. The antipasti are ready now, arrayed like a flotilla of ships on a side table in the dining room. Cinzia steers me towards the wooden deck outside, where the tables look onto a scene straight from an Italian holiday brochure. Da Casetta nestles at the bottom of a sloping, tree-lined piazza. To one side, an eighteenth-century church rises above the red-tiled rooftops, its bells tolling lazily every half hour. Down in the cobbled square, nuns dressed in white huddle in small groups, whispering like schoolgirls. Couples canoodle in the shadows. Children’s laughter spills from the balconies overhead.
My dining companion drifts into Da Casetta twenty-five minutes late. Vittorio Magnoni is a twenty-seven-year-old textile merchant and a member of the Slow Food movement. It’s nearly 10 P.M., and he is in no hurry to order.
Instead, he settles into the chair opposite mine, lights a cigarette and launches into a report of his recent holiday in Sicily. He tells how the local fishermen catch tuna by stringing a single net between ships. Then he describes the various ways the fish is served up at the dinner table on shore—sliced into thin carpaccio, grilled with lemon, bobbing in hearty soups.
His descriptions are so mouth-watering that we are both relieved to see the waiter arrive. His name is Pierpaolo Morelli, and he looks like John McEnroe without the receding hairline. Pierpaolo explains how Da Casetta embodies the Slow Food ethos. Most flowers, vegetables and fruits on the menu come from the family garden. The dishes are all traditional Ligurian, assembled by hand, slowly and with passione. No one pops in for a quick bite on the fly. “This is the opposite of fast food,” declares Pierpaolo. Even as he speaks, I notice the couple who arrived too early for the antipasti sitting a few tables away. The man is popping what looks like a shrimp into the woman’s mouth. She eats it slowly, teasingly, and then places her hand on his cheek.
After ordering the food, we mull over the wine list. Pierpaolo returns to help us out. Muttering the names of our chosen dishes under his breath, he strokes his chin and looks up at the night sky for inspiration. After what seems an eternity, he finally delivers his verdict. “I have the perfect wine for your meal—a local Ligurian white,” he says. “It is pigato, with a little vermentino mixed in. I know the man who makes it.”
The wine comes swiftly, and is exquisite, fresh and light. Then a plate of mixed antipasti arrives. It is a delightful medley: a tiny pizza; a sliver of asparagus torte; zucchini stuffed with egg, mortadella, parmesan, potato and parsley. Arranged in a small pile in the centre of the plate are the jewels in the crown: baby onions, or cipolline, roasted with vinegar. They are ambrosia, firm and yielding, sweet and tangy. “My father picked them in the garden this morning,” says Pierpaolo, en route to another table.
Despite our hunger, we eat slowly, savouring every mouthful. All around us, wine flows, aromas waft, laughter dances on the cool evening air. A dozen conversations blur into a low, sweet, symphonic hum.
Vittorio shares the Italian passion for food and loves to cook. His speciality is pappardelle with prawns. While we eat, he talks me through its preparation, step by step. Detail is everything. “For the tomatoes, you must use the small ones from Sicily,” he says. “And you cut them in half, no more.” His other signature dish is spaghetti with clams. “You should always, always, strain the juice that comes from cooking the clams, to remove all the little hard bits,” he says, wielding an imaginary sieve. As we wipe the antipasti plates clean with crusty homemade bread, we compare risotto recipes.
Now it’s time for the primo piatto. Mine is testaroli with porcini mushrooms. Testaroli is a flat pasta cooked once, chilled, sliced, and then cooked again. Somehow it manages to be al dente and pleasingly squishy at the same time. The mushrooms, gathered locally, are earthy but light. The combination is sublime. Vittorio has chosen a different Ligurian speciality: lumache alla verezzina—snails in a nutty sauce. Another triumph.
Our conversation drifts away from food. Vittorio explains how northern Italians are more modern-minded than their southern cousins. “When I go to Naples, they can tell just by looking at me that I am from the north,” he says. We talk about that other great Italian passion, calcio, or soccer. Vittorio reckons his favourite team, Juventus, still has what it takes to win European glory, despite having sold Zinedine Zidane, the midfield maestro that many regard as the world’s best player. Then things get personal. Vittorio reveals that, like many Italian men, he still lives with mamma. “Life is very comforta
ble in an Italian family—you get your meals cooked, your clothes washed,” he says, smiling. “But I have a fiancée now, so eventually I will move in with her.”
Delighted with his snails, Vittorio starts singing the praises of Slow Food. He especially enjoys getting together with fellow members for meals that go on for hours. Vittorio sums up the Slow Food take on the modern world: “McDonald’s is not genuine food; it fills you up without sustaining you. I think people are tired of eating things that have no taste, no history, no link with the land. They want something better.”
As if on cue, Pierpaolo appears at my elbow with the main course: cappon magro, a Slow Food delicacy if ever there was one. The dish consists of layers of mixed seafood, salsa verde, potato and smoked tuna. With all the boning and de-shelling, cleaning and chopping, it takes four people three hours to make a dozen servings of real cappon magro. It is worth every minute, though: the dish is an opera d’arte, a work of art, the perfect marriage of sea and land.
We’re halfway through this masterpiece when Vittorio drops a bombshell. “I have to tell you something,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I sometimes eat at McDonald’s.” A stunned silence descends. A man at a nearby table, until now in thrall to his roast rabbit, looks up as though Vittorio has just broken wind.
“You what?” I say. “But isn’t that heresy? Like a rabbi eating a ham sandwich?”
Loosened up by the wine, and emboldened by his own candour, Vittorio tries to explain his apostasy. “In Italy, there are very few options for those times when you want to eat fast: you either sit down in a restaurant for a meal or you eat a slice of pizza or you have a sandwich in a dirty bar,” he says. “You can say a lot of things against McDonald’s, but at least it is clean.”
He pauses for a sip of wine. The man with the roast rabbit is listening intently now, his eyebrows crinkled like those of a cartoon character.