"A Cure For the Common Cut"

Discovering respect for cattle in the Tuscan countryside.


Gone are the halcyon days of hunting and small-scale farming carried out solely for survival, with man and beast locked in a fateful, deadly dance. Missing are the rituals of thanks and scarce are the recipes of necessity that make use of every piece of the animal. Now, modern man simply frequents the deli counter, purchasing uniform, plastic logs of dubious content, or the meat freezer to pick up perfect beef filets, pumped up and pink, stuffed in styrofoam and handiwrapped for his convenience. A lot of the meat that is eaten today never even sees a human hand during its processing from living being to porterhouse and rib eye. In fact, if the Humane Society’s February 2008 meatpacking exposé of “non-ambulatory” cows being beaten, electrocuted and dragged around by forklift before being illegally slaughtered is anything to go by, man’s relationship with his meat is in serious need of counseling. Where is the love? The respect? Ironically in the same week that the Humane Society was suing the USDA over the aforementioned incident, I found it in Tuscany where I bore witness to a slow revolution offering an alternative model for the treatment and butchering of cattle.

The methods of the butchers of Macelleria Ricci in Trequanda, a small town in the province of Siena in Italy, though simple, today seem revolutionary, bringing dignity to the animals who have given their lives to carry on such engrained local food traditions as bisteca fiorentina, a buttery, grilled porterhouse famous in the area around Florence. What makes Ricci different is simple: speed and size. This operation is small. The storefront, with gleaming cases of elegantly presented cuts, hides nothing more than the sterile, white butchering room in the back. When a carcass comes in from the slaughterhouse, one highly skilled butcher can make his way through the meat in a matter of hours. With only two cows butchered per week, operations stay as slow and as calm as the cows who are raised nearby in the open, free to roam a wide, rolling pasture and graze on fresh grass at their leisure. Only one local breed of cattle enjoys this life and is sequentially butchered at Ricci: the Chianina. The cows themselves, characterized by a porcelain-colored coat and stumpy horns, are among the largest in the world with the record holder weighing in at 1,750 kilograms. It was a wonder therefore, getting to watch a lone butcher take on the massive carcass of one of these noble beasts.

The animal is so massive, in fact, that the only way to manage it whole is to hook it to the ceiling and roll it to its destination on the carving table by way of castors. Once the butcher, a short, slim man, dwarfed further by the enormous beast with which he was wrestling, had removed a section of the hindquarters with a wide, machete-type knife, I realized I was witnessing a rare event in modern meat processing: intimate physical contact between human and animal. His hands moved over the bright flesh, with caresses worthy of any lover, instinctually searching for the path of least resistance for his blade. Then, with swift strokes, he freed the gleaming lean from excess fat and bone, saving both for other applications. Gripping great handfuls of tender tissue, the butcher seemed transformed into some male archetype from our collective human past as he wrenched free the dinosauric femur. He performed his craft in silence, occasionally looking up and smiling with pride as familiar cuts began to emerge from the great, solid, ivory and ruby mass. Echoes of that fateful dance between man and beast reverberated throughout the room as this tiny man performed the last rite of the hunter with the kind of care which implies the deep respect so missing in the meat processing industry of much of the world. The resulting beef that the shop presents to its small clan of faithful customers reflects this healthy man-beast relationship both in theory and in flavor, a fact to which I can attest having sampled the Chianina in its most pure form: raw

Once Ricci’s olive oil-splashed carpaccio had passed my lips, I knew there was something different happening in this shop. Cool and pure, the tender bite of unprocessed meat left a slight metallic sensation on the palate as if the butcher’s knife, in its intimate exploration of the beef had imparted some of its virtues, while the dollop of olive oil seemed to intentionally recall the fresh grass of the Chianina breed’s privileged diet. Certainly something about the small-scale, slowed-down approach of Ricci had transformed their products. Such a revolution in process might not be possible everywhere, but it offers a model of hope for what might be between man and his meat.

"Nose to the Ground"

Finding the true flavor of Piemontese Wine

Cold, tired, and standing on the side of a busy mountain road with an icy wind whipping around the bend is not the best way to learn about the history of Barbaresco. Certain that gulping down so much exhaust would affect the tasting that should cap off our visit to the Piemontese winery, I attempted to listen to the stout oenologist who motored on with his speech, completely unaware that half his audience was unable to hear him over the roar of the traffic, while the other half was concentrating on bringing feeling back to their frozen legs. After over an hour and a half, our fair group leader was able to get a word in, suggesting politely that we might retire to a more suitable location--preferably indoors. The group perked up and almost skipped up the road to the winery itself, unaware that our endurance had only begun to be tested. At the door, our host stopped us, just steps from shelter, saying that he would like to tell us about the families involved in Barbaresco production, and that it would only take two minutes. When he started his new harangue, at the torturous threshold of warmth, with “Back in 1200…” the members of our group looked from one to another and collectively sighed in resignation to our frigid fate.

This was the fifth of many winery visits for the 2008 masters in food culture course at the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Colorno, and I felt as if we were hitting a new low. Never before had we been so distracted by our circumstances that it was difficult to appreciate the presentation of the producer, but I felt this experience was indicative of something more. We had been to many wineries and knew the drill: here are our vines, here are our aging facilities, here is our finished product; please enjoy the complimentary breadsticks to clean your palate. Though normally the group takes great interest in the role of the oenologist who seems, like an alchemist, to add, alter, manipulate and select to create wildly different final products, the Barbaresco ordeal stuck out as a metaphor for our class’s vague sense of unease and dissatisfaction with our winemaking education. Shivering out in the cold, I wondered how to wake myself up; how to feel inspired by the grandeur that exists in Piemonte, one of the most revered wine producing regions in the world. Before I truly realized what was missing, however, I found it just two days later. Not by the side of the road, but on my hands and knees in the dirt of a vineyard, my nose pressed to a living pile of earth.

It started with a bus ride, much like any other trip to a vineyard, though there was a certain buzz in the air for we were, for the first time, visiting a biodynamic farm. Certain members of the group already had an avid interest in such processes, while others had only heard new age sounding stories about cycles of the moon and the energy fields of living things. What in fact waited for us was a young, hip, scruffy French winemaker looking like he himself had sprouted from the earth. He explained how the farm is run by a small cooperative of people from around the world who live, work and eat together. Their goal: to make living wine that will naturally reflect the true character of the area in which it is cultivated. To illustrate their philosophy, he simply asked us to observe their neighbor’s vineyard, which was dry and dead, what we were used to seeing in February. Then he drew our attention to theirs, the rows, even in winter, teeming with vegetation and with trees grown to attract pests away from the grapes. In fact they use only naturally occurring pest control and actually do use planetary cycles to plan their farming and winemaking activities. To demonstrate the effect of this holistic approach, he fetched a shovel and dug up a pile of earth from each farm. The neighbor’s was characteristically clay-like and drab, while the biodynamic soil was a darker, richer color and smelled of humus and the various herbs they rotate through the rows for soil health. Once he had finished his presentation, he brought us to their comfortable farmhouse for a lunch made with their products and enhanced by their wines, and it was there that I started to realize what was missing from my wine education, namely people, food, and joy.

Warm, moist whole-wheat bread, the sort that still releases steam upon being torn into, scented the air and set the mood. The women in the kitchen laughed and chatted as they released hearty dish after wholesome plate to our eager hands and mouths. Sensing the energy and care with which it was prepared, the simplest of spelt salads became an elixir of health. I scooped in mouth after mouthful of tender grain, which, upon pressure from the tongue yielded nothing more than the pure, fresh perfume of ripe tomato and vegetal olive oil. Washed down with glass after glass of their bright and floral Montemarino wine from their biodynamic production, I felt joy returning to my countenance. As a delicate asparagus omelet was passed around I contemplated how, because of their methods, I was appreciating the production of this famous wine region for the first time. Six wines in all, from Gavi to Dolcetto, all fermented with the least possible human intrusion, passed my lips and with it a true connection to the land we traveled. Through the soft tannins and violet scented reds, my dissatisfaction dissipated. So much of winemaking thus far had been about manipulating the grape to create a result, and whether or not one believes in the energy of the universe, these people are connected to and working with the land in a way I had never seen and found inspiring. I looked at the smiling, lively face of the producer sitting near me who was at that moment extolling us for educating the public on what constitutes good, clean and fair food, for that, he proclaimed, was the way to initiate change, and exactly what they were hoping to achieve at their establishment. We nodded with understanding; for the first time on our visit to Piemonte, I felt more than my belly full, I felt my spirit touched.

Published in The University of Gastronomic Sciences Reader: Works by the students of the 2008 Masters of Food Culture available on lulu.com.

"Savory Souvenirs"

Whenever I go somewhere new, I try to buy it and take it home. I am not alone in this, however. In fact, America, land of the doggie bag and the free gift with purchase, rears its young to believe that we can take our experiences with us. When on vacation, that can mean anything from attempting to photograph every memorable moment, to taking home ceramic replicas of the major monuments of a city, to broadcasting to every stranger on the street via ubiquitous, souvenir T-shirt, “Ciao Bella!”, “Czech me out” or that “I (heart) Barcelona”. While these physical representatives sit dusty on shelves or remain for years in the closet as proof of our journeys and experiences, when I’m abroad, I make sure to budget for all my senses, spending most on something that won’t last a moment after it’s purchased, at least not at the speed I eat. Physical mementos might help us share our experiences with others back home, but when is comes to reliving the feel of a place: its character, its atmosphere, its history, the memory of our palate can bring it back with crystal clear clarity in a way that a postcard or a t-shirt just can’t. For instance, Venice for me will always mean gelato.

The water-bound city is not by any means the most renowned location in Italy to procure the creamy delight, but it was summer, and it was HOT, and I had measles. The very air we breathed, heavy with steamy humidity, would not allow much more activity at midday than lying on the bed sweating and itching, my clothes clinging to my overheated, eight-year-old body. I was in this tiny, oppressive, air-conditionless hotel room because my dad thought it a fun idea to go and meet the cruise ship on which the rest of my family was traveling, and off which I had been kicked earlier that month when the red marks started appearing. In theory the trip was a good idea, but as a colony of mangy alley cats sang us to sleep each night, we had to reflect on the absurdity of our situation. To make up for it, my father brought me gelato everyday, always the same chocolate chunk and cream flavor, still my favorite, straciatella, which I would triumphantly consume in front of the cranky stray cats outside my window. The smooth, icy cool emulsion was an oasis, like tumbling into a miraculous chocolate-flecked snowdrift in the middle of the Sahara. The blessed relief of the sweet cream comes flooding back every time I recall its flavor, and with it all the things that can’t be captured on film: the heat, the hotel room, the cats, the street vendors, winding nighttime walks and, above all, my father’s loving commitment to making up for the trip we both missed. I don’t remember the Venice in the tour books: the gilded ceiling of S. Marco, gondola rides and glass. I remember gelato and through it, my experience.

When we travel, we pack our days full, trying to appreciate as much of the foreign culture as we can, but it is the culture we introduce into ourselves that often has the most impact on us. So on your next trip abroad, or around the corner, indulge yourself in the souvenirs you can’t take home. Splurge on the food, and let your taste memory bring you back.

Published in the Fall/Winter 2008 Edition of the Culinary Arts Review, the semiannual newsletter of the Culinary Arts Museum of Johnson & Wales