What is Italian Food, Anyway?
I scanned the menu during my first dinner out in Italy and expected to see some familiar items: Fettuccine Alfredo, Chicken Parmesan, Spaghetti and Meatballs. These were things I had grown eating and associated with Italian food. I was eager to taste how much better they would be in Italy rather than my local Olive Garden.
But I couldn't find them on the menu. I figured since the menu was in Italian that they were there but just buried in my novice abilities to read the language. Sure enough, a student intern who was from Italy assured me that my reading skills were up to par.
What I knew to be Italian food wasn't actually in Italy. What I knew was American-Italian food. This surprised me. In a way, I felt silly. How could I not have known this? She didn’t do or say anything to make me feel this way, but I still did. I thought the food I had been eating and praising my whole life was a poor reflection of what real Italians eat. It wasn’t authentic.
Then again, what does it mean to be authentic? I spent the majority of my time in Italy in Arezzo, a Tuscan town about a fifty-minute train ride south of Florence. There, the bread isn’t salted. It’s just water, flour, and yeast. Nothing else. A theory from historians and the one I was told in Italy was that salt was heavily taxed in the middle ages, so bakers just made bread without it. Salt is inexpensive today, but the style remains.
However, the bread in Livorno, a coastal Tuscan town, is salty. Being on the sea, salt was much easier to come by. It’s technically Tuscan bread, but it doesn’t match the typical associations that come with Tuscan bread. Does that mean it isn’t authentic? I think the folks in Livorno would say it is authentic. They made the bread they could with the ingredients they had where they were.
While in Italy, I learned how much Italians value where their food comes from. They want to eat local ingredients in dishes that originated where they are from. But towns and regions have different foods they consider authentic, and that’s okay. If something is authentic to someone, then that thing is authentic. Just because it’s not authentic to you doesn’t mean it’s not.
I wanted to cook an Italian meal for my family when I returned to Texas. I was excited for them to experience Italian food in a new light. I brought back a package of pici pasta and a seasoning blend from a store in Arezzo. I also shipped a crate of wine home from a winery in Arezzo that arrived a few days before I did.
At home, we had some chicken breasts that were close to expiring, a can of tomato sauce from HEB, Texas toast garlic bread (also from HEB), and some Mozzarella from a local dairy farm. From that, we made chicken Parmesan with pici on the side. It was a blend of Italian and Texan ingredients that combined to make a dish that couldn’t really be called Italian or Texan. It was just ours. And it was damn good.
Chicken Parmesan, like many other Italian-American dishes, originated in the northeast U.S. by Italian immigrants and grew to national popularity by the 1950s. While it might not have been authentic to their parents back in Rome, Chicken Parmesan was authentic to the kids who came to New York.
Americans tend to look down on Italian-American food when they learn that it’s not “what real Italians eat.” I was the same way. But we have to throw away this notion that there is only one true authenticity. Bourbon that doesn’t come from Kentucky is still bourbon. Tacos in Kansas City that are dusted with Parmesan cheese are still tacos. Electronic music, though made without instruments, is still music. If we continue to gatekeep, we risk missing out on so many great variations of the things we love.
At its core, I think the spirit of Italian food is making what you can with what you have where you are. That’s what Italians do in Italy. That’s what Italian immigrants did in America. And that’s what my family and I did in Texas.
“X marks the spot” is a common term which refers to the Hollywood idea that pirates would mark their maps with an “X” on spots where you could find buried treasure. These spots are typically hard to get to, well-hidden, and lowkey. They are not common.
There are a few common spots in Arezzo where young people tend to stick around. Piazza Grande and its restaurants are one of Arezzo’s main attractions. Piazza della Badia buzzes with nightlife. Individual places like Dal Moro and Zio Pepe receive a steady flow of afternoon lunch-goers. These spots are well-known. Of course, just because a place isn’t well-known does not mean it isn’t worth your time.
La Tua Piadina is tucked in a tight alleyway between Corso Italia and Via Madonna del Prato, two larger streets that dominate the attention of pedestrians. I didn’t stumble upon La Tua Piadina by accident. It was recommended to me. My friend and I sought out a place for lunch on a sunny Monday afternoon. Tired of pasta and pizza, we wanted something new. A couple of strolls down winding cobblestone streets didn’t offer us what we desired. Defeated, we turned to what many view to be the lowliest joint in all of Arezzo: Chicken Taste, a Frankenstein attempt to recreate American fried chicken.
My friend and I approached the bright blue and red doors of Chicken Taste with caution. A man scoffed from behind me.
He wore a tan shirt with short sleeves and black slacks. His brown shoes were shiny. The man had white hair and a wrinkled face mostly covered up by his mask. He wagged his finger and, in broken English, begged us not to go.
Humored by his passion, we asked where we should go instead. He recommended La Tua Piadina, pointed us in the right direction, and went on his way. Despite not knowing what a piadina was, we listened and started walking.
Locals sat at tables with umbrellas outside of La Tua Piadina. Some were alone and quietly ate their food. Others sat in groups of three or four and laughed between bites. A thin man in a tight white polo shirt greeted us at the open door with a smile and gestured us inside.
The restaurant’s inside was small. A tiny table in front of a wooden bench attached to a wall would have, in non-COVID times, allowed waiting patrons to shade themselves from the sun. Instead, it served as storage for napkins, to-go containers, and plastic cutlery.
A sign to my right displayed the menu. It didn’t mean much to me, since I didn’t know what a piadina was, but I recognized the Italian words for tomato and different meats and cheeses.
A woman behind a plastic COVID shield waited for my response with a pen and paper in her hand. I ordered a piadina with tomato, pecorino, and salami. She nodded, wrote down my order, and took my payment. My friend ordered one with crudo and mozzarella, and we sat outside.
Not long after we took our seats, the man in the striped shirt brought us our food. A piadina is a thin Italian flatbread folded over a filling usually made of meats, cheeses, and vegetables. It’s shaped like a taco, but much larger. I smiled and thanked the man for bringing our food.
The piadina was wrapped in paper and was warm in my hands. A heavy, savory scent of oil and salt rose from the salami and pecorino. I took a bite. The toasted flatbread crunched and splintered, leaving a pile of crumbs in my lap. I first noticed the rich, peppery flavors of the meat and cheese. Acidic and citrusy flavors from the tomatoes soon followed.
My friend and I were satisfied with our meal. The piadina was filling, but didn’t weigh us down. Before we could leave, the man returned and asked us how we liked it. We shared with him our thanks and praise. He smiled, patted us on the back, and urged us to return. I noticed we weren’t the only people he spoke to. He made conversation with nearly every table and seemed to know some people as more than just customers.
La Tua Piadina isn’t a tourist destination. It’s not on a main street. They don’t sell a type of food that is universally appealing. Even the signage is discrete.
It is a place where locals gather and eat traditional food from their country. In many ways, La Tua Piadina represents Arezzo: a place that doesn’t see many tourists and prides itself on authenticity. However, this doesn’t mean tourists aren’t welcome. The man in the striped shirt was happy to have my friend and me. He was elated to see us experience food for the first time that he’s probably eaten his whole life.
You won’t hear about it, but La Tua Piadina is one of the best places to get lunch in Arezzo. With a little searching and some help from a local, my friend and I were able to find it. Though I’m certain there are many other hole-in-the-wall joints here that offer great food.
This sentiment is not tied to Arezzo, however. One of the many lessons I’ve learned during study abroad is the value of straying away from the crowded centers of town and venturing off to find lesser-known places, shops, and restaurants. Those are the kinds of spots where you get to meet interesting people and make personal connections. I’ve done that here in Arezzo, and I am excited to do the same when I return to America.
I hope you do as well.
Myself and La Tua Piadina's wonderful owners.
Prosecco and Panorama - June 10, 2021 (Arezzo)
I grimaced and looked down. My pristine white shoes kicked up dust from the gravel ground with every step I took. I worried that I would dirty them on what had only been my third night in Arezzo, Italy.
A cliffside appeared through a gap in the trees. My worries vanished. A vast view of the Tuscan countryside came into sight. Tiled rooftops, grassy hills, and distant mountains stole my attention. Birds flapped above me and the voices of people on the streets below me echoed through the scenery. To my left, an Italian couple strolled by and admired the view. Beyond them, more people stared at the grand landscape. It seemed the view was enticing to tourists and locals alike.
Curiously, a small structure was nestled in a forested corner near the cliff's edge. There was nothing to indicate the building's purpose. My interest was piqued. I approached the shack. A small sign that read "Il Chiosco del Prato" was tied to a metal frame. Another set of chalkboards listed a simple food and drink menu.
A counter fully wrapped around the cafe. The kitchen rested in the center. A small door in the back allowed one worker to enter and exit freely. Rain from the afternoon clung to the plastic table and chairs set up on the ground outside of the cafe. I eyed the driest one and approached the counter. The warm scent of fresh-baked bread filled the air.
A woman dressed in a black shirt and jeans with a tight ponytail waited for me. Soft wrinkle lines were etched around the corners of her green eyes. A photo of her and a man rested on a shelf next to a bottle of an Italian liqueur.
"Cosa vuoi?" the waiter said, asking what I wanted.
I glanced back at the menu and examined my options. A negroni was five euro. It was a good price, but not what I was in the mood for. Prosecco, listed at four euro, was an even better deal and seemed fitting for the view of the Tuscan countryside.
"Un prosecco, per favore," I asked.
"Si," she responded.
She reached into a fridge below her and pulled out an unopened bottle. I grew nervous. I didn't want her to open a whole bottle just for me. But she had the cork popped and the glass poured before I could consider ordering something else.
"Grazie," I said, taking the cold glass from the counter.
"Prego," she responded.
I took a step toward my predetermined chair, but I lingered at the counter instead. I pointed toward the cliff.
"É molta bellissima," I said to the woman, trying to make simple conversation.
She smiled and nodded.
"Si, la panorama," she replied.
I said goodbye and took my seat. A light breeze flowed through the trees. It sent a gentle chill through my body. A rather large pigeon picked at a piece of bread. My Prosecco bubbled on the table. Whatever sunlight that slipped through the tree branches above me shined through the golden liquid and refracted into my eyes.
My fingers grasped the cold glass to take a drink. The Prosecco was cool, bubbly, and sweet. It sizzled on my tongue with a light fizz. My nose sensed notes of spice, citrus, and flower. But the sip did little to satisfy my stomach that longed for food or drink of any kind. The Prosecco quickly escaped my tongue, ensuring I never spent too much time between sips. My glass was empty in ten minutes.
Il Chiosco del Prato was a fine spot for a quick drink in front of a gorgeous view. The drinks on the menu were cheap and the Prosecco was refreshing, but it remains unknown if the other drinks are equal in quality. I suppose I'll have to go back.
I wouldn't mind that.
My view from Il Chioso del Prato.