Sense and sensibility in a hegelian sauce

Many years ago while visiting the Picasso Museum in Barcelona I was struck by the comment of a young graduate friend who was later to become an art historian. After having discussed with me the salient features of cubism she rather abruptly concluded: «And to think that this idea that went into the making of the most significant and far-reaching artistic movement of the century essentially sprang from Picasso’s perennial infatuation for some woman or other». I couldn’t help thinking by her remark of a possible analogy with a poetic movement of which I was especially fond, the so-called “Dolce Stil Novo”, the literary mainstay of the emerging merchant and middle classes in thirteenth century Italy that had likewise developed and grown around the leitmotiv of the beloved and idealised damsel. We thought we could make out some sort of principle from all of this, and namely that feelings are the driving force behind ideas. We were young and quite complacent with our conclusion.

Today, the reverse seems to apply in haute cuisine. A strong knowledge base, be it of a technical, notional, scientific, historical or territorial nature, seems to be indispensable. Self-expression and creativity would appear to be admissible only after one has thoroughly mastered the subject. And yet, the need for self-expression far more than science as it may be applied to hob and oven is the well-spring of what’s best and most original even in the case of haute cuisine. The words of Andoni Luis Aduriz, chef of the Mugaritz Restaurant at Renteira in the Basque Countries, come to mind here: «Ingredients, techniques, our know-how are only means to expressive ends». And if straightforward love appears to be the prime mover, then why shouldn’t a dish also express a chef’s love for a given territory or landscape, as when Aduriz uses liquid nitrogen to recreate the sensations of snow thawing under the tepid rays of spring sunshine or when Réné Redzepi, the very young chef of Copenhagen’s NoMa (an acronym for “Nordic meal” in Danish) Restaurant, creates a dessert reminiscent of the green pasturelands typical of Northern Europe. «What I wanted was a sheep milk-based dessert», he explains, «redolent of the natural habitat and landscape where the animals graze. Glazed Sheep’s Milk Mousse with a Sorrel granité topping was the result. There could hardly be anything simpler. The idea it evokes is that of a pleasant stroll over the meadows the sheep graze on, stopping here and there to pick the same grasses they feed on and then presenting them in a plate together with the milk that derives from them…that’s why I also like to refer to this speciality as “ewe’s milk in a double guise”». This essential,dessert with its strong and highly evocative flavour conjures up images and sensations of northern pasturelands at every mouthful! It’s an approach that keeps that cuisine that’s been rather awesomely labelled and gone down in history as “molecular gastronomy” at arms length. It’s a sort of cuisine in which the rational component more than being celebrated is exasperated. So much so that one of its Italian exponents, David Scabin, chef of the Combal.0 restaurant at the Rivoli Museum of Modern Art, has recently announced his intention to drop his “creative” menu in favour of a menu built around variations of traditional Piedmontese dishes. «The whole thing had got out of hand», Scabin admits in justifying his change of culinary persuasion and practice.

«We’ve got to take a step back and allow emotions to take the lead». After all, what better place is there than the kitchen for the sense and sensibility dichotomy to find a perfect Hegelian synthesis? An essential prerequisite, though, is that the former accept to place itself at the service of the latter, as is the case in any accomplished work of art. What’s more, the Stendhal syndrome isn’t only restricted to painting but applies just as well to the gourmet experience. Over the years, I’ve piled up one tasting menu after another, but the only dishes I remember without having to look up my notes are those which gave me an emotion.

That includes the stockfish tripe speciality prepared by Fulvio Pierangelini of the Gambero Rosso Restaurant of San Vincenzo, that are to the filet of dentex what the carved locks of hair are to the cherubs of the Sistine Chapel; the spaghetti dish with a roe relish (botargo) and carrot dressing by Ciccio Sultano of the Duomo di Ragusa Restaurant, for the explosion of the summer joy of life; the three-course grill menu, including dessert, by that legendary character, a veritable Prometheus of the kitchen, the “asador” Victor Argingoniz, chef of the Etxebarri Restaurant at Atxondo in the Basque Countries; the spicy bitterness of Pierre Hermé’s Java chocolate in Paris; Carme Ruscalleda’s venison speciality at San Pol do Mar near Barcelona; Tom Colicchio’s charcoal-grilled vegetables at Craft’s in New York; the shrimps “nature” by Leif Mannterström, chef of the Sjömagasinet Restaurant at Göteborg; the incomparable crushed ice almond “long-drink” (granita) by Corrado Assenza’s of Café Sicilia at Noto… And that’s leaving aside the many culinary delights prepared by countless mothers, working as simple cooks in many a plain, down-to-earth tavern. The dishes turned out by these nameless women are imbued with sensibility and laced with no more than that empirical rationality that goes by the name of “common sense”:

If the power to stir up emotions is what makes a dish memorable, how much truer can this be for wine? There’s a sommelier specialised in Italian vintages by the name of Henry Bishop who officiates at “La Spiaggia” Restaurant in Chicago and who probably realised before anyone else how important it is for a wine to be given emotionally loaded associations if it wants to be remembered. Years ago this he-man, who could easily sign up as stunt man in an action-packed Western, was among the first to draw up an evocative wine-list. The result is a veritable feuilleton, a wine-list that just asks to be filched for the private pleasure of reading in the comfort of one’s home. «What can defining a wine as “tannic” or saying that it is strongly acidic or that it has a tarry scent mean in the long run?», asks Bishop «This sort of talk doesn’t really help anyone to choose a wine to go along with a meal. But if I describe the emotions elicited by the wine when I drank it, then I’m sure to help someone else make the right choice».

Thus we appraise that a white Trebbiano d’Abruzzo “is the Forrest Gump of wines”. Explanation: «it’s a wine that starts out on the downside: to ampelographers Trebbiano is a second-rate vine, but with this vine it attains the peak of perfection, reaching almost unimaginable levels».

Then there’s a Merlot from the Ticino; in this case we appraise that its maker has a penchant for tailor-made over-wear and that «even his Merlot has the touch and taste that bespeaks of fine tailoring». As to a Picolit, Bishop limits his comment to recounting a dream he had after drinking it. All of this may sound somewhat unprofessional, but it certainly throws open the doors of what others deem a veritable sanctuary, thus letting us catch a glimpse of new and fascinating vistas lying beyond.

Wine makers have had the same hunch as Bishop. In recent years they’ve given memory-jolting names to a number of their products according to the old Latin adage, “in nominee, omen”. It’s an adage that endorses the idea that form and substance are in a way intimately linked. And proof that this is so lies in the fact that such names prompt the spontaneous recollections of a wine connoisseur such as myself, without obliging me to have to look up my notes. Mille e una notte (a thousand and one nights), for instance, is a Sicilian red full of promises; Ben Ryé, “son of the wind” in Arab, is the name of a dessert wine (Passito) from the Island of Pantelleria; Malandrino is an alluring and intriguing Montepulciano d’Abruzzo red whose maker has even gone to the trouble of explaining the name’s etymology on the label; La Togata, a Brunello di Montalcino, is dedicated to the memory of a wife who used to don a judge’s gown (toga). To go back to where we started, it may be said that as much as love maybe fleeting, the works of love are persistent. And that also includes the mnemonic traces left on the taste buds, far less transient than what is commonly believed.

Creativity is not a continuum. There are times it waxes and times it wanes. One has to learn the art of stopping to look, enjoy and listen, and unravel those hesitant interludes. Like in prosody, when the stressed follows the unstressed, or in music, in that hardly perceptible pause when the downbeat heralds the upbeat. That’s where the essence of selftimer shots lies – stopping for an instance to take one’s breath and bearings before starting out again.

The ability for self-observation is a prelude to change. What follows is a picture gallery of such selftimer shots taken over the last forty years of Italian and other restaurants and restaurateurs renowned for their culinary excellence. Click. Late 1960s. The newly weds Nadia and Antonio Santini take a trip to France. They depart from Canneto sull’Oglio where the Santini family manages a popular restaurant with a tradition for good food called Dal Pescatore. Distance helps self-awareness. Nadia and Antonio take a look at each other and at what they do, namely simple, traditional cuisine with a strong sense and flavour of place. What they also see is a wealth of ideas and a richness of contents in demure dressing. Click. From that moment on garb matches the brilliance of gastronomic content at Dal Pescatore, raising the traditional cuisine of Mantua to Michelin stellar heights and fame. Click. Place: the Raw Restaurant, New York; time: the 1960s. The Restaurant was opened in 1906 by Sebastiano Maioglio, an Italian from the town of Monferrato in Piedmont. To begin with Barbetta’s cuisine is broadly Italian-style. Father Sebastiano wants to wind up the business but daughter Laura won’t have any of it, and decides to try her hand at a little over twenty years of age. Click. The venue’s history is the family’s history. Click. The venue is initially no haven for the home cooking typical of Piedmont. Click. New Yorkers were at the time oblivious to the regional differences in Italian cuisine. Click. “Fine restaurant = French cuisine” is the cliché in New York when it comes to eating out. Click. Laura Maioglio reckons it’s time to set the picture straight and goes about refurbishing and reappointing Barbetta, turning it into an elegant restaurant serving traditional Piedmontese cuisine in the Monferrato style. First for truffles on this side of the Atlantic is her boast. First also to offer an alternative Italian culinary experience for that special dining-out occasion, and a not-to-be-missed gourmet’s delight as strong as ever still today. Click. Late 1980s. Two restaurants opened at Queens in New York, and still Lidia Bastianich is disgruntled. Why? She simply can’t put the fact that Italian cuisine changes every few miles or so while her patrons are complacently stuck on the stale and stodgy Italian-American culinary cliché out of her mind. Click. Lidia opens Felidia at Manhattan. Dishes range from her native Istria in the north down to distant Sicily in the south. She takes new recipes back with her every time she drops over to visit in Italy. Today, Lidia Bastianich heads a restaurant holding in the United States, is a television celebrity, and an acknowledged guru of Italian cuisine. Click. Bry-on-Thymes, 2007. The Fat Duck has the understatement of a pub on the outside but inside it’s the haven and temple of English molecular cuisine. Click. Your chef, Heston Blumenthal, is in a self-questioning mood: “what am I doing?”; “where am I heading?”; “where’s all this leading to?”, he wonders. The future of molecular cooking is blurry. Click. History’s often a good source of answers to the sort of questions he’s posing: Blumenthal goes into search mode and starts browsing through ancient English recipe books. The outcome is a new course, a new menu, a revised revival of historical specialities and dishes of a culinary notorious nation. The gauntlet’s taken up; an identity based on an unfairly neglected legacy is proudly declared. Click. Davide Scabin is synonymous of molecular cuisine in Italy. It’s 2007 and our chef’s in a fix, not unlike Heston Blumenthal: “where’s all this leading to?”, he equally wonders. And just as equally, the answer comes from the past; from roots; from a legacy. There’s a new menu at Combal.0, the restaurant annexed to the contemporary arts museum at Castello di Rivoli, with traditional dishes typical of the territory, whose great, time-honoured and tested flavours are given new flare and flamboyance by the chef’s unfailing creativity Click. Place: the Pinchiorri Wine Shop and Bar, Florence, Tuscany; time: the 1980s. As its name suggests, Enoteca Pinchiorri is patronised for its wines. But one day a famous woman writer firmly rejects the fare that’s meant to accompany the drink. “What’s this”, she exclaims and complains, “there are no traditional Tuscan dishes on the menu?” Click. Annie Feolde stares at her image staring back at her. A restaurant has to reflect the territory in which it is located. Having come to this realisation, she sets about exploring traditional Tuscan cuisine; her menus begin speaking the local idiom and telling the stories of this fabulous land. Click. Barcelona, Spain, 2008. A group photo of a post-Adrià generation of chefs shot in the self-timer mode. “He put our country on the international gourmet map”, Gresca’s chef Rafa Peña and Coure’s chef Albert Ventura acknowledge. “But we’re not out to copy him”, they clarify. “We’re very much after doing our own thing.” The venues opened by the young chefs of Gresca, Coure, Hisop, Saüc, Abac appearing in this group photo are youthfully casual and trendy, but their cuisine packs in all the experience and know-how acquired from Adrià and more.“Creativity is not a continuum. There are times it waxes and times it wanes. One has to learn the art of stopping to look, enjoy and listen, and unravel those hesitant interludes. Like in prosody, when the stressed follows the unstressed, or in music, in that hardly perceptible pause when the downbeat heralds the upbeat. That’s where the essence of self-timer shots lies – stopping for an instance to take one’s breath and bearings before starting out again. The ability for selfobservation is a prelude to change” Click. Place: Athens, Greece; time: the 1990s. Another group photo shot in the self-timer mode. There’s Christophoros Peskias of 48 The Restaurant; Yiannis Baxeyannis of Hytra; George Venieris of Elektra Palace; Chrysanthos Karamolengos of Apla; and the forerunner of them all, Lefteris Lazarou of Varoulko. Click. Athens, and once more haute cuisine and the fashionable venues that cater to it are French-speaking. Click. Who says local culinary traditions and refinement can’t go together? Click. The Olympic Games bolster local pride and help rectify matters. Click. A pioneering and innovative Athenian chef rediscovers tradition and elaborates on it, like the ancient writers with Greek myth: a common legacy added onto by individual storytelling inventiveness. Click. Today, tantalising the taste buds in the polisthe Greek way is a not-to-be-missed gourmetexperience.