Dear reader,
Last Friday was my one year anniversary of living in Bologna. I stepped off the plane with nine suitcases and a ginger cat, excited for a new adventure in the self proclaimed “food capital” of Italy. I am in a curious position, never was I a short term tourist, but I do have a strong sense of feeling very foreign, almost separate but with an understanding of the amorphous boundaries of how daily life functions. Integration is never easy, mostly because we are not happy with short term results, it is like being on a diet. The last year has been an unexpected ethnographic study of the Bolognese and Italians at large with some unexpected discoveries.
How one embraces or refuses cultural integration, is entirely based on how delusional they are to begin with. Can I learn the language fluently, hide myself from view, dress like its 1995? Yes. Can I ever become Italian? No, I don’t think I can or would.
At the beginning of the 20th century, Mussolini went on a rebranding binge. In an attempt to assert fascist values, the integration of Italian cultural identity would rely on it being cleansed of all those silly and barbaric English words. A simple barman was replaced with barista, a sandwich became a tramezzini, a film or movie became pellicola and Louis Armstrong became Luigi Braceforte, just to name a few. It was a concerted push back against the encroachment of Anglo Saxon culture. Hundreds of daily words borrowed from English or French were Italianised and most remain in use today.
After the Second World War, Italian children were taught verbatim, to reel off the foods of their town or region. The French idea of terroir, linking produce with specific areas was a way to imagine immaterial nationality as a physical form, one in that you could ‘taste a place’ was adopted by the Italian government. A binding of people to place, would result in a rag tag mush of provinces and former kingdoms merging into one tidy concept of a nation state through food. Marketable cuisines and crops like prized wild strawberries from Nemi, onions from Tropea or tortellini from Bologna went from provincial to national pride. But no one seems to acknowledge that tomatoes, chocolate, potatoes and chilli actually come from the New World, that have integrated over time.
The easy (and most common) way to define Italian food (and therefore nationhood) is through removing what it is not. A reductionist approach. If we cut away bits we do not like or approve of, what is left is surely a form we can all agree on. Pineapple on pizza, not Italian. Cappuccino after lunch, not Italian. The idea that if we keep chipping away what will reveal itself is a magnificent statue of David or a physical representation of La Dolce Vita. The result will more likely be a pile of mosaic rubble and dust.
If we examine the profound impact that the tomato has had on Italy since its introduction, we can only hypothesise the long term change the avocado will have eventually, on the diet and culture of Italians. Climate change is pushing new boundaries, as olive trees in the south die from disease and mismanagement to be replaced with profitable lush green avocado fruit. Who can say what dishes might be invented, adapted or pushed out of existence as the avocado becomes localised and integrated into the Italian culinary vocabulary. Only time will tell.
Below is a list of where to eat in Bologna, if you fancy something other than the local cuisine
Two young Chinese guys from Xi’an move to Bologna and open up a simple noodle and roujiamo cafe that is the most legitimate expression of north western Chinese flavours I’ve tried anywhere outside of the Middle Kingdom. The suan la noodle is one of my all time favourite dishes and I eat here every week.
A Japanese chef in the kitchen preparing sushi using Sicilian shellfish where possible with her husband front of house. The dining in space whilst tiny is made up by charming staff. The best sushi in Bologna that isn’t an overpriced, style over substance mess.
When I am in the need for some vegetables, I go to Baba. This reminds me so much of living in Hackney where we would go to Tad on Mare Street almost weekly (RIP Tad). They also make in house glorious glistening trays of baklava. A true Turkish delight.
A tiny Syrian cafe under the portici. At lunch time many students will pass by for falafel to go. The tiny kitchen is churning out the fresh kebbe and fatayer but my favourite dish of theirs is the sodet jaj, chicken livers with pomegranate.
The first Palestinian restaurant to open in Italy. Is now a version 2.0 by the son of its founder. Approachable and affordable, with a great natural wine list of local producers. It is the only place to eat hummus in Bologna.
Luigi Braceforte! Wow. Love this little list of gems and reflections on what is and isn't Italy.