I don’t know about you, but I like roast pig. Not the Sunday roast, the suckling pig, roasted whole, with the skin crisping. The Spanish do this very well. The Serbs too. And – the ones I know best – the Italians, with their porchetta, boneless and stuffed with herbs. When I am in a suitable region – Abruzzo, Umbria, Marche – I do not fail to look for the best address for porchetta in the Slow Food guide, which is, for Italy, my compass, my best friend, my Bible.
This is a special guide. He does not value culinary virtuosity, but authenticity. He will give you the address, not of the porchetta revisited in fusion mode but of the real porchetta, raised and roasted as we should never have stopped doing.
The founder of Slow Food was Carlo Petrini. He died this spring, in his hometown of Bra, in Piedmont. He was a man of the left and of conviction. He fought for biodiversity, he extended the Slow Food movement to Africa. He pleaded for a strong social fabric and therefore all the more open and welcoming to those who come from elsewhere.
I thought of Carlo Petrini when reading this indigestible news in the French press: the far right is taking over gastronomy to make it a political tool for asserting identity. Yes: in the land of Asterix, gastronationalism is on the rise. Roast pig lovers gather there for great feasts around giant tables. They are wearing berets made in France and sing in chorus of Michel Sardou. And then of course, I hadn’t thought about it in my great naivety, but it goes without saying: what is the best way for them to assert their heroic resistance to the assaults of multiculturalism? Eat pork!
Diabolical power of words, stories, representations. It’s too late to ask him, but I’m sure Petrini had thought about it. He rarely used the term “tradition”. He found other, magnificent words to describe what he wanted to promote: the cuisine of memory, the cuisine of the territory.
Result: in Italy, my love of roast pig puts me on the side of those who love simple joys and gourmet celebrations. In France, he places me in the ranks of meatheads, racists and “it was better before” people.
It seems urgent to me to correct the situation. But what is the French left doing? What is she waiting for to invest the narrative of popular, generous, memorial cuisine?
You will tell me, the French left has two or three other fish to fry at the moment. Argument refused: the battle for power involves the battle of imagination. And when we have a proletarian conscience – or at least a memory – we cannot let Marine and her gang confiscate the veal blanquette by simply focusing on quinoa tabbouleh, heirloom tomatoes and kombucha on polished concrete.
It’s decided. I’m opening a gourmet travel agency in Paris. My flagship product: the porchetta on the left.
This column is published in partnership with the show The Fine Talkersbroadcast every Sunday on RTS La Première.
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