Among the many quotes attributed to Winston Churchill, there is one that goes, "Italians lose football matches as if they were wars and lose wars as if they were football matches." Whether true or apocryphal, we are certain that if he had lived in more recent years, dear Winston – also a great gourmet – would not have hesitated to coin something similar about cuisine. There's a certain Italian inclination to find an altar at which to genuflect, preferably domestic, for that need to present ourselves as experts and align ourselves as apostles. Football is one such altar, but it is much more limited than the good table, which allows everyone, absolutely everyone, to have their say. In a desperate need for a religion, we move with a Manichaean demeanor in search of saints and truths. And it doesn't matter if they are entirely fabricated.
As for me, who has no god or gospel to devote myself to, I find that hysterical and raucous clamor intolerable, which demands taking a position, condemning any belief, or even just preference, that doesn't align with ours. I don't care if you put Parmesan in clam pasta, and even Pecorino doesn't seem like a sacrilege to me. I am willing to taste it, reserving the right to either finish the dish or abandon it after the first bite, solely based on my taste and satiety. The same goes for any recipe, cooking method, or pairing. I taste, try, often taste a second time, and then decide whether I like it or not. I usually re-taste when the opportunity arises, convinced that if something doesn't suit my palate, it may be because I haven't tried it properly or the right moment hasn't come to appreciate it. I know that my tastes often change, just like everyone else's, but I wouldn't bet on it. Sometimes I change my mind, sometimes I don't. But that doesn't mean I think I hold the truth in my pocket. Certainly, it is not some alleged tradition that defines it, much less a church steeple that sometimes seems more like a prison. After all, even Sir Winston, in defiance of every Anglo-French rivalry, did not hide his preference for Champagne (Pol Roger, obviously). So, please, let's put an end to it.
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