Still on the subject of traditions, I found myself thinking back to when, some fifteen years ago, I took a cookery course. Yes, I am also a cook, but that is another story. I still remember those tiring, hectic days, full of things I wanted to learn more about and people to share them with.
Between one presentation and the next, between lessons and dinners to prepare for the exams, every morning I used to walk down the long corridor that separated the kitchens from the demonstration room.
That room had been built precisely to host the chef and the brigade on duty, who with great skill and diligence prepared the gala dinner at the end of each term. I still remember the excitement, the smells, the precision and the speed that ruled the room in those moments, before everything was finished.
The adrenaline was palpable. I knew well what it meant to work to the point of exhaustion for such important occasions, where renowned chefs were likely to be present.
When the evening was finally drawing to a close, I did not think twice: with the excuse of sharpening my knives, since the machine for it was right in that “famous” room, I went in. To my great surprise I spoke with one of the chefs at the event. But I was not very lucky, because he soon withdrew, just the time for a few compliments.
In his place a member of the brigade came over: a young man (he later told me he came from Kyūshū), so proud in his uniform, with a confident stride.
So, out of nowhere, the conversation came to life naturally, and it seemed rather strange to me, since I am quite reserved; yet at that moment I changed my attitude completely. Surely because of the topic of the conversation. (I loved, and still love, cooking: in my free time I enjoy making desserts and I am very curious about the culinary world in general.) So, with immense pleasure, we struck up a long chat, which other members of the same brigade joined too.
I must say that at the time this was something incredibly interesting, because for the first time I realised how much appeal and devotion surround the tradition of the ancient culinary art, above all the Italian one, and everything it stands for in the world. That was the very heart of our chat.
He explained to me as precisely as he could, despite some language difficulties, how long it had taken him to organise this experience, and how long he had had to wait to become part of that particular brigade. (Yes, I already knew about it, because I knew the pastry chef well, and I knew you had to be on a waiting list for at least two years before hoping for a possible admission.) So he had left everything, “for the time being”, to follow that very pastry chef, practically all of whose recipes he had studied.
So, word after word, we listed the ingredients for some classic desserts, as tradition required. The aim was to manage to remember them all, according to the canons of Italian pastry-making.
His training was still very much in progress, there were more than three months to go, but comparing notes with what he had learned up to then, he would certainly go home extremely well prepared.
And between a quick check on the babàs soaking in rum and the preparation of various glazes and fillings, full of expectations as only the young are when they get ready to work hard for their goals, he added very proudly that he intended to study other things too. So he was not only trying to make his name in professional pastry: aiming high, he wanted to try his hand at other dishes, because, as he explained, his plan was to offer, back at the family restaurant, good traditional Italian cooking from starter to dessert, alternating it with the local one.
Clearly he felt a strong need to bring together, as far as possible, two culturally different cuisines, which in some ways he had already sensed could be rather attractive to both regular and new customers.
This plan of his made me think again about the concept of “itameshi” (イタメシ), a term coined by joining Italia and meshi (dish/food), which stands for the fusion, and at the same time the celebration, of different ingredients and cooking styles.
Even today it seems possible to try this style of cooking in the places we often come across when travelling, where dishes of the Italian tradition are offered, not strictly tied to the original, but trying to bring out their character and appearance. A kind of cooking with many difficulties, since it is not always possible to find the same fresh ingredients, sometimes not even the basic raw materials locally, especially for recipes that are unusual for the local culture.
Even so, the idea of “itameshi” is valuable for tourists too: it does happen that familiar dishes are in demand precisely because, in a new place, not everyone is willing to try recipes typical only of the place they have chosen. In short, it is also one way like any other to “comfort” the tourist who is not used to trying dishes they do not fully know.
But “itameshi” has notable precedents. Its first “introduction” into Japan by an Italian was followed by many examples of the same kind. Today there are many restaurants following this culinary model in different parts of Japan.
After the first Italian restaurant was opened in Niigata by Pietro Migliore from Turin, around 1881, our dishes gained an enormous following, earning almost as much praise as French cuisine and even more, though French cooking had always been considered superior by the classic canons of cooking in general.
A trained eye, or at least one that knows the dishes of the Italian tradition, knows perfectly well what to expect, for example, from a pizza made in a place that follows “itameshi”: the ingredients will not be those of the Italian recipe, but the look will probably make it very similar.
The pizza is generally made with mochi, to make the dough chewy and crispy, topped with shiitake mushrooms, cheese, tomato sauce, seafood, dried fish roe and one extra touch: a dash of Tabasco. Of course you can also find simpler ones with fewer ingredients.
Spaghetti napolitan, often made with other kinds of sauces and different toppings, was first cooked by Shigetada Irie, chef of the Hotel New Grand in Yokohama (after the Second World War).
At first the recipe did not call for ketchup instead of the classic tomato, but tomatoes were hard to find, which forced the chef to make this change. All the other ingredients, such as garlic, parsley, onion, ham, mushrooms, peppers and oil, were normally available locally. Even today the dishes can vary, not only in the ingredients used, but also in cooking, method and preparation.
It seems that following the “itameshi” culinary model has a very precise reason: pleasing a bit of everyone, trying to combine Italian tradition with Japanese innovation.
So on the one hand there is an attempt to satisfy the tourist looking for “comforting” dishes, and on the other the local palate is respected and guided towards something new, trying to draw it towards the cultural idea of Italian cooking.
And have you tried this kind of culinary model?
