Happier meals are here again

Art Culinaire, Winter, 2004 by Carol M. Newman

THERE IT WAS FOR A THIRD TIME. ANXIOUS TAPPING beneath the table. An hour into what should have been a delightful, hosted luncheon with a favorite colleague at my side (in what sounded like steel-toe Allen Edmunds), he leaned in close and whispered, "I'm antsy. I just can't sit here anymore. Sorry Newman. I'm outta' here."

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I should have been annoyed. I should have told him to pipe down and appreciate the branzino that was before us and share his thoughts about our wine pairing. I should have kicked him. Or maybe just a sharp glance would have done the trick. But I did none of these things. Instead, I said nothing. What was even more disturbing about the incident was that I envied him when he made the bold move to stand and exit politely. I wanted to follow. But I was caught behind the heavy banquette, the service staff pushing it close to me after helping my friend out. Trapped. Possibly for hours. And this was only the second in a series of courses to come.

What happened to me? I had no pressing appointment. No deadline. Only an undeniable, built-in sense of urgency. I was unable to shake the need to get up and go. Somewhere. Had I been sucked into a vacuous, unappreciative, homogenous culture that moved at breakneck speed? Or was I blowing an isolated incident completely out of proportion?

The next morning, I walked to the boulangerie and bought a Bay Bread artisan baguette. I gave it a good toasting, bathed it in local Marin County butter and added a swathe of huckleberry preserves from the Mendocino Coast. I cursed myself for accidentally purchasing pre-ground (what was I thinking?) Fog Lifter Blend coffee on my last trip to the Monterey Peninsula. Then I lingered--longer than usual, watching the dense fog dance across the Richmond District, out towards Sea Cliff--until it dissipated--hours later.

Yes, this extra contemplation would make up for my sinful fast-forward thinking the previous afternoon.

But I was wrong. It didn't.

By now over 80,000 members (and more folks) worldwide know the story of farm activist, Jose Bove who drove a tractor into a McDonald's[R] slated to open in the old city of Bra, Italy. The maneuver was a show of tactical force by both opponents; the corporate goliath, Ronald McDonald[R] with the blazon to stick his Pantone[R] 123 'M' in the Piazza Bra. Mr. Bove, the tread-upon farmer had his own designs for McDonald's[R]. His tractor stunt was in blatant disregard of the "Logo and Trademark Standards" Number Three, 'Improper Logo Usage' that cites, "The 'M' should never be obstructed by any item; it should be seen in its entirety and not overpowered by other designs."

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This incident (and another similar crusade against McDonald's[R] in Rome) was enough to incite Slow Food, literally a direct-response campaign that began in 1986, but without the hard sell. The organization doesn't need one. It's hard to dispute its platform. The message(s) is powerful, pensive and persuasive.

Slow Food is dedicated to preserving and supporting traditional ways of growing, producing and preparing food. The cause and effect: awareness and imaginable reconcilement to globalization. Slow Food is, in fact, becoming its own sect of what organizers refer to as "virtuous globalization", accelerating its vision beyond the small farmer, artisan bread baker or cheese monger, to publicly traded, organic-supported grocery chains like Whole Foods Market (WFMI) or Wild Oats (OATS). The market is ripe--so is the timing as these stores take advantage of an increased in quality foods. 'Organic' once a fledging and transient topic in the 1960s and 1970s has been given a new life. Yes, there is strength, as Carlo Petrini, Slow Food's founder professes, in ideas.

And so the Slow Food Manifesto declares, "A firm defense of quiet material pleasure is the only way to oppose the universal folly of Fast Life." Food takes on a higher level of understanding. It is about freshness, health benefits, preservation, supporting farmers, building community, preserving diversity and building a future network of farmers. Indeed, the creed is a lofty, but peaceful one.

With clever and intelligent concepts like the 'Ark' and the 'Presidia', Slow Food looks after the defense of such items as the black celery of Trevi or the Vesuvian apricot. Animals like the long-tailed sheep of Laticauda, and a Sienese pig are getting media play. Who thought endangered handmade cheeses and salamis would have a voice (or 80,000 voices)?

What's given Slow Food a huge boost is the lingering toll mad cow, foot and mouth disease, and the debate over genetically-modified food has played. At one time, issues that may have been a magnet for a certain social class, perhaps the concerns of a WASP culture (for example, the fate of the Paduan hen) have suddenly acquired political importance and popularity--that cross class lines. Its ideology is pervasive--especially as Slow Food opens local chapters, in a city near you.

The morning of my apology-driven breakfast, I thought it best I tackle the Manifesto. But I didn't turn to Carlo Petrini (or Marx and Engels, for that matter). Instead, I felt more kinship with Henry David Thoreau. It was Walden that was inspirational, and a source from which Slow Food might seek solace. The latter chapters describe a spiritual communion with the natural world that would eventually make Thoreau one of the founders of our modern appreciation for nature and ecology.