"A Little Bit of Pineapple?"

Learning in a new and quickly evolving discipline

“How many senses are there?”

An easy question maybe, but one that had an entire class of 26 Food Culture masters students struck dumb with fear and confusion. ‘What does this teacher want?’ they think as he swaggers back and forth between the rows, hands sunk into the oversized silver buckle on his belt. He repeats the question, this time looking at the group as if he has lost all faith in our basic competence, or maybe just wondering if it’s possible that we are all deaf. Sick of the silence, I offer an explanation:

“It depends on who you ask.”

Today, I find out, this is the wrong answer: “Five!” he exclaims, “there are five senses; we are not in a coffee shop discussing philosophy with our friends.” My answer proved relevant moments later, however, when he continued his interrogation with: “How many tastes are there?” This time there was no hesitation.

“Five!” answered the class of foodies, confidently, thinking themselves very clever. After all, we had just recently learned about the molecular aspects of taste from a leader in the field, who had introduced us to emerging research which proves the existence of a taste receptor for not just four, but five basic tastes. Unfortunately, today we were ‘wrong’ again, as this professor was not emotionally prepared to accept umami as a separate, perceivable taste. This incident, common in our studies, shows that as the relatively new discipline of gastronomy evolves, much of even what to some is scientific fact, is subjective in nature and indeed “depends on who you ask.” In this field so based on individual perception, it is difficult to know what is ‘right’, so difficult in fact, that, as seen above, an entire class can be stymied by the most basic of questions. As evidenced by our reluctance, this was not the first time we had been confronted with conflicting information, and it wouldn’t be the last.

In a later instance, our journalism department head, a bright ball of enthusiasm and far-reaching vision packed into a petite, blond frame, which whisked in and out of our lives intermittently, had prepared a unique class to teach us about the art of the interview in a hands-on way by arranging for us the opportunity to question Paolo Gennari one of the four bothers managing their father’s Parmigiano–Reggiano caseificio. The group’s collective confidence was high, as Paolo proudly described the innovative approach he applies to his family’s business, experimenting with longer aging periods than are traditionally attempted, boldly pushing Parmigiano to its organoleptic max. The class listened, eagerly preparing informed questions and educated responses. After all, having undergone an intensive stage tracking the cheese’s production at all stages throughout the countryside surrounding Parma, we were well-prepared for this moment. If that wasn’t enough, we had another ace up our gastronomic sleeves: training from a nose who knows.

Still fresh in our minds was our indoctrination into the church of cheese conducted by our gloriously idiosyncratic cheese tasting professor whose gradients of perfection—"not-so-perfect, a little bit perfect, quite perfect, very perfect, very very perfect" and, finally, "absolutely perfect"—we still use fondly amongst ourselves to rate products. This professor, whose nose we all revered, not only for its accuracy, but also for the way it passionately ferreted out tertiary and quaternary aromas, revealing to us in an almost magical way the secrets locked in a rind, patiently taught us to detect, “a fruity aroma,” “a little bit of potato,” or maybe “a little electric sensation.” Each of us was secretly filled with delight when he would exclaim “my compliments!” for sensing perhaps “a little animal,” “a lot, a lot, a lot of mushroom,” or maybe even “onion marmalade,” his favorite. It was in this empowering environment, backed up by several on-site Parmigiano-Reggiano tastings, that we identified “a lot of pineapple aroma” as a typical characteristic found in the local cheese.

So when Paolo Gennari offered us a taste of his fine product, filled with the smooth, lactic aromas of fresh cream and rendered butter, as well as the bright, fruity aromas we had come to expect, it was with some olfactory pride that one of my colleagues pointed out a predominant, fresh pineapple smell. At first our professor didn’t respond, but as the rest of us nodded in agreement, she spoke up, looking embarrassed, saying not only that she did not detect any pineapple smell, but also that any aromas beyond the fresh, dairy smells which one “should” smell in Parmigiano-Reggiano are actually off aromas, a fact she had “just read in a New York Times article last month.” The rest of us sat in disbelief, nostrils filled with “a lot, a lot, a lot” of fruity aroma, thinking of all the producers we had visited who had approved of and encouraged our observations. Had our cheese guru led us astray? Were all of our noses deceiving us? Does The New York Times know something we don’t? or is it just more official a judgment because it appeared in such an illustrious publication? My classmate argued her case to no avail. Finally our professor and my colleague shrugged off the comments, and the lecture continued. Each spent the remainder of class uncharacteristically tight lipped and subdued, both silently sure they were right. And why not?

This discipline is subjective. So are all of the humanities, even the sciences to an extent, but maybe none so much as Gastronomy, which is strongly based on the individual perceptions of the researcher’s senses. No one will have the same experience in this field, guaranteed. Yet, paradoxically, this course of study is built upon the meaning we assign to our individual judgments, whether expressed in our writing, our anthropological observations, our approach to technology, our analysis of historical food trends, and even in our photos. Our above-mentioned, cowboy-belted sensory analysis professor, whose job it is to measure and quantify such subjective things, would be the first to expound upon the complexity of injecting personal taste into scientific research, citing an example from the field in which a spicy tomato sauce failed because it was too spicy for consumers in the North of Italy, while not nearly spicy enough for those in the South.

In a field so based on individual experience, perhaps the greatest gift of the masters in Food Culture program was not teaching me the facts and figures of the food industry, but rather giving me the confidence to believe in my convictions and the realization that in a field based on individual perception, my educated contributions are just as valid as the next person’s. It is in this spirit that I have compiled a collection of my class’s work. I hope that gathering together our diverse perspectives—all valid in their own right—will provide a more thorough investigation of our experiences, both for us and for future UNISG students and associates. Because of the subjective nature of Gastronomy, we must keep open the discussion and exploration of new ideas and initiatives. I hope the writing of future gastronomes like us stimulates all five or six of your senses and provides you with every gradient of spiciness and pineapple aroma that you seek.

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

"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