Why Italians Love to Talk About Food (33 page)

By Andrei Bourtsev

For some reason—maybe because of their funny, elongated shape, or because of the sound of the word, or for some other reason—the fact is that spaghetti and macaroni are the favorite targets of various adages, proverbs, and caustic witticisms. For example:
“Guaje e maccarune / Se magnano caude”
(Troubles and macaroni are swallowed hot), according to the words of Giambattista Basile, who in the seventeenth century assembled and rewrote the popular heritage of fables and legends in the collection
Lo cunto de li cunti
.
¹
Provoking, but on the other hand quite accurate, are the words formulated by Cardinal Giacomo Biffi in an address to students of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, when he stated that the Italians have but two universally accepted values: religion and spaghetti.

Spaghetti seems to be the ideal funny food for inspiring bold expressions and jokes. It is often encountered in humorous tales. A favorite story is one about the Neapolitan
Ferdinand I of Bourbon, a king with a prominent nose: during the years of his reign (1816–21), in order to capture popular sympathies, it is said that he would appear in the piazza in Naples in the act of gobbling down spaghetti, tangling and twisting himself up in the strands of pasta like a clown. Whether it's true or not, no one knows. In eighteenth-century England the term “macaroni” referred to a dandy, the vain fop who imitated Continental (Italian) fashions with affected mannerisms and a mincing gait purporting to be refined, with padded shoulders, a wasp waist, and a great many accessories. He makes a notable appearance in the popular American song “Yankee Doodle.”

Literary history is familiar with the phenomenon of “macaronic” verse. The word “macaronic,” used by literary historians and theorists since 1543, dates back to the poem
Macharonea
(1488) by Michele di Bartolomeo degli Odasi (Tifi Odasi or Typhis Odaxius, who died in 1492). The “macaronic” concept reflects the idea of a combination of right and wrong, just as different ingredients are mixed together in a dish of macaroni.

Above all it is a deformed Latin, an amalgam of languages
nostrana e forestiera
(our own and foreign). The founder of this artifice is considered to be Ausonius (fourth century A.D.), who introduced Greek words into Latin. Numerous macaronisms are found in Rabelais and Molière.

Amusingly enough, poems written in the macaronic style often discuss macaroni itself. In
Baldus
(1571), by the greatest macaronic poet, Teofilo or Theophilus Folengo (1491–1554), who wrote under the pseudonym “Merlin Cocai,” the gods of Olympus are portrayed in the act of cooking. Jove, preparing the macaroni, hurls thunder and lightning around him, making an infernal racket with forks and skillets. In the role of Ganymede, a Master Prosciutto lives on Olympus, and illustrates the technique of preparing pasta. Subsequent to Folengo, the image of Jove casting storms over the world (that is, preparing pasta) was presented in the poem
Lo scherno degli dei
(The mockery of the gods), 1618, by a poet of the court of Pope Urban VIII, Francesco Bracciolini (late sixteenth to early seventeenth century). Octet XX, line 60, describes the process of making macaroni according to a technique that has remained unchanged and is still used today by housewives: wrap the pasta dough around a rolling pin, cut thin little slices (
fettuccine
), then follow the recipe:

 

And then when that thin layer is wound
a hundred turns around a clean rolling pin,
with a sharp tool cut and loosen
the floury burden from it;
and the white strands, submerged,
at
last brought to a high boil,
steam proudly, like thunder and lightning,
and so the macaroni cook, boiling away.

 

The leader of the Italian baroque school, Giovanbattista Marino (1569–1625), included in his collection
La Galleria
(The gallery), 1619, verses presumed to be those of Merlin Cocai (that is, Teofilo Folengo), in which he skillfully linked the term “macaronic,” applied to burlesque poetry, to the idea of “macaroni” as a typical dish:

 

The great Macaroneid composed by me
is made exactly like macaroni.
For on top they have a crust of cheese,
and inside they are stuffed with capons.
Because so much erudition is concealed there
that it should not be swallowed in two gulps.
And if the covering is quite savory,
he who gets to the bottom licks his fingers.

 

A famous series of attacks arose between Giacomo Leopardi and the Neapolitans over macaroni. The gloomy poet of Recanati, who probably never ate macaroni in his life, derides the Neapolitans' love for this type of pasta in a few lines from
I nuovi credenti
(The new believers), composed in 1835:

 

. . . all to my detriment
Naples arms itself to vie in defense
of its macaroni; since putting death before macaroni
weighs too heavily on her.
And she cannot understand, since they are so good,
why villages, lands, provinces, and nations
are not happy by virtue of them.

 

But the Neapolitans responded in verse with the “maccheronata” in the form of a sonnet by Gennaro Quaranta:

 

And you were unhappy and sickly
Oh sublime poet of Recanati,
who,
cursing Nature and the Fates,
searched inside yourself with horror.

 

Oh never did those parched lips of yours smile,
nor those feverish, sunken eyes,
since . . . you did not adore the
maltagliati
,
the egg frittatas and macaroni pie!

 

But had you loved Macaroni
More than books, which cause black bile,
you would not have suffered harsh illnesses . . .

 

And living among corpulent fun-lovers,
you would have lived, ruddy and jolly,
to perhaps ninety or one hundred years.

 

In 1860 macaroni (as a symbol of Naples) was utilized as part of an “alimentary code,” in which culturally significant food communicates in place of words. During a party attended by Constantino Nigra, Piedmont's ambassador to Paris, the Empress Elisabeth's chamberlain, disguised as Cavour, sat down at the table and was brought various foods alluding to the historical situation of the moment: Stracchino and Gorgonzola cheeses (an allusion to the annexation of Lombardy), Parmesan (the duchy of Parma) and mortadella of Bologna (Emilia). After the
aleatico
(a sweet red wine) he was served Sicilian oranges, which he devoured with gusto. Last of all came a large plate of macaroni, the gastronomic emblem of Naples. The dish was rejected by the chamberlain (on the instructions of the empress) with the words “No, that's enough for today, save the rest for tomorrow.” The event, so the story goes, was immediately reported by Nigra to the real Cavour, to communicate the empress's allusion that she was willing to cede Sicily, but not Naples.

Elevating pasta to the status of a national symbol, comparable to the portrait of Dante, is a custom that goes back a long way. Heinrich Heine, in his book
The Memoirs of Herr von Schnabelewopski,
refers to macaroni as “Beatrice”:

 

Does not the yellow fat, passionately spiced and flavoured, humorously garnished and yet yearning ideal cookery of Italy, express to the life the whole character of Italian beauties? . . .
All swims in oil, delicate and tender, and trills the sweet melodies of Rossini, and weeps from onion perfume and desire. But macaroni must thou eat with thy fingers, and then it is called—Beatrice! I often think of Italy, and oftenest by night . . . From the macaroni flowed sweet streams of golden butter, and at last a fair white rain of powdered Parmesan. But from the macaroni of which one dreams no one grows fat—Beatrice!
²

 

In more recent times (1954) Giuseppe Prezzolini, the illustrious historian of Italian literature and writer who lived most of his life abroad, in the United States, had this to say:

 

What is the glory of Dante compared to spaghetti? Spaghetti has entered many American homes where the name of Dante is never pronounced. Moreover Dante's work is the product of a single man of genius, while spaghetti is the expression of the collective genius of the Italian people, who have made it a national dish, but who, by contrast, have not shown that they have adopted the political ideals and behavior of the great poet. That Australian whom Moretti told about could not have understood the harmony, not to mention the meaning, of a verse of Dante, but a plate of
tagliatelle
must have convinced him that he was confronting a “culture.”
³

 

Cesare Marchi reflects:

 

Ennio Flaiano said that our nation is an assemblage, more so than a people. But when the dinner hour strikes, seated before a plate of spaghetti, the inhabitants of the Peninsula know that they are Italians just as those beyond the Channel, at teatime, know they are British. Not even military service, not even universal suffrage (not to mention taxes) exert the same unifying influence. The unity of Italy, which the fathers of the Risorgimento dreamed of, is today called
pastasciutta
; no blood was shed for its sake, but rather a great deal of
pummarola
[tomato sauce].
⁴

 

The first dry pasta was created as a provision for sailors. Sicilian seamen took long, thick macaroni on board with them, while in Liguria they chose the shape of little curly vermicelli (worms).
⁵
Genoese merchants transported vermicelli all over Europe: there is evidence of their appearance in Provence and in England as early as the fourteenth century.
⁶

Dry pasta was an invention of the coastal cities, an aid to medieval commerce and an
expression of the vigorous, flourishing character of the Italian Renaissance. Stores of vermicelli on the
Niña
, the
Pinta
, and the
Santa Maria
made it possible for the Genoese Columbus to endure until he discovered America. On the coasts of the Tyrrhenian Sea, in Sicily, in Puglia, and in all those regions where life was subject to instability, brisk action, and swift preparations, dry pasta was the primary source of sustenance (as can be clearly seen by leafing through the catalog of the exhibit
Il rancio di bordo: storia dell'alimentazione sul mare dall'antichità ai giorni nostri
[Ship's rations: a history of food at sea from antiquity to our times], 1992), while in the valley of the great, peaceful Po River, amid the serene fields of northern Italy (Emilia, Lombardy, the Veneto), there was no demand for such a product. There they preferred
pasta fresca
, egg pasta made fresh each morning by housewives (and to this day characteristic of these regions).

The secret of making pasta lies in the proper method of drying. The surface of the pasta must attain a specific porosity that can generally be obtained only by rolling out the dough by hand rather than by machine. By so doing, two basic goals are addressed: first, the pasta, when boiled in a pot, must absorb as much water as possible; second, once served, it must absorb as much sauce as possible.

The production of dry pastas, moreover, was a delicate process, which in particular required excellent ventilation; only in specific climatic conditions could a product with the proper qualities be obtained. In Rome, for instance, where there is less wind and less sun, pasta does not dry as well as in Naples or Genoa, so an enriched pasta came into use there, made with egg (dry egg pasta).

As we know, two basic types of wheat exist: hard and soft grain. The first (
Triticum durum
) is also called semolina. Soft grain (
Triticum vulgare
, that is, “common”) is used for egg pastas. The kernel of the hard grain is longer and transparent; that of the soft grain is rounder and opaque. The first grows only in dry, sunny climates, such as the south of Italy; the second tolerates humidity, so it is also grown in the north, in the Padana, the Po Valley. This is another of the many reasons why dry pasta is consumed in the south, and egg pasta in the north.

Besides, how could there be egg pasta in the south, where eggs have always been scarce? In the north, hens live in warmed cages and lay eggs the entire year. In the south, they stop laying eggs in November and only resume around Easter. Thus in the south eggs were a rare, precious product, used as commodities of exchange with purveyors in place of money, while in the well-to-do north they were eaten with a certain liberality. Some types of egg pasta require up to ten eggs for each kilogram of flour. Clearly such squandering was inconceivable in the economy of the south.

In the production of a proper dry pasta (the kind made without eggs), hard grain must be used exclusively, whereas soft-grain dry pasta is a fraud and an insult to the very essence of the macaroni standard: it sticks to the pot, it does not absorb the sauce, and it makes the consumer fat.
Triticum durum
began to be imported from the Chersonese back in the times of Vespasian, in ancient Rome; unlike
Triticum vulgare
it can be traced back to Afghanistan, where it had been brought at one time by Syria and Palestine. It was this wheat that was imported in Genoa and Naples during the period of the Renaissance to produce the famous dry pastas. The quality of dry pasta is regulated by law number 580 of 1976, “Rules and regulations for the processing and marketing of alimentary grains, flours, breads, and pastas.” The most authoritative tasters live and work in the port cities: the same cities from which dry pasta has always been exported, and therefore controlled and certified. The best Italian professionals work in the vicinity of Naples. Historically, the most famous production of alimentary pasta in Italy was developed right in the province of Naples. The natural processes, developed over the centuries, demanded Neapolitan sunshine and a cheerful sea breeze. The strong sun of Campania fostered the rapid drying of the product, assisted also by the sea breeze that blows constantly over the hills of Gragnano: a breeze saturated with the aroma of the surrounding chestnut groves.