Italy’s cuisine has now joined Unesco’s “intangible” heritage list, an announcement greeted within the country with the sort of collective euphoria usually reserved for surprise World Cup runs or the resignation of an unpopular prime minister. Not because the world needed permission to enjoy pizza – it clearly didn’t – but because the news soothed a longstanding national irritation: France and Japan, recognised in 2010 and 2013, had beaten us to it. For Italy’s culinary patriots, this had become a psychological pebble in the shoe: a tiny, persistent reminder that someone else had been validated first.
Yet the strength of Italian cuisine has never rested on an ancient, coherent culinary canon. Most of what passes for ancient “regional tradition” was assembled in the late 20th century, largely for tourism and domestic reassurance. The real history of Italian food is turbulent: a saga of hunger, improvisation, migration, industrialisation and sheer survival instinct. It is not a serene lineage of grandmothers, sunlit tables and recipes carved in marble. It is closer to a national long-distance sprint from starvation – not quite the imagery Italy chose to present to Unesco.
To make matters worse (or better, depending on your sense of humour), the “Italian” cuisine that conquered the world was not the one Italians carried with them when they emigrated. They had no such cuisine to carry. Those who left Italy did so because they were hungry. If they’d had daily access to tortellini, lasagne and bowls of spaghetti as later imagined, they would not have boarded ships for New York, Buenos Aires or São Paulo to face discrimination, exploitation and the occasional lynching. They arrived abroad with a handful of memories and a deep desire to never eat bad polenta again.
And then something miraculous happened: they encountered abundance. Meat, cheese, wheat and tomatoes in quantities unimaginable in the villages they had fled. Presented with ingredients they’d never seen together in one place, they invented new dishes. These creations – not ancient recipes – are what later returned to Italy as “tradition”. In short: Italian cuisine did not migrate. It was invented abroad by people who had finally found something to eat – a truth that fits awkwardly with Unesco’s love of millennium-old continuity.
But the most decisive transformation came not abroad but at home, during Italy’s astonishing economic boom between 1955 and 1965. In that decade, the country underwent the culinary equivalent of a religious conversion. Refrigerators appeared in kitchens, supermarkets replaced corner shops, meat ceased to be a luxury. Families who had long measured cheese by the gram discovered, with a mix of disbelief and guilt, that it could be bought whenever one wished. What the world interprets as Italy’s eternal culinary self-confidence is, in reality, the afterglow of that moment. Italians did not inherit abundance. They walked into it, slightly dazed, like people entering the wrong cinema screen and deciding to stay.
Photograph: Getty Images/iStockphoto
This context makes Italy’s current wave of culinary sovereigntism particularly surreal. We hear stern warnings against “globalist contamination” from politicians who grew up eating industrial panettone and Kraft slices in school sandwiches. We are told that Italian cuisine must remain pure, fixed and inviolable – as if purity had anything to do with our past. Italian food is a champion of adaptation. It has always survived by stealing, assimilating and reinventing. The Darwinian logic is embarrassingly simple: the cuisines that change are the ones that survive. Yet sovereigntist rhetoric insists on freezing everything in place, as if the national menu were a snow globe.
Of course, the British have helped. Britain has cultivated its own affectionate fantasy of Italy: eternal sunshine, tomatoes that taste like childhood holidays, families who spend hours eating together as if they were auditioning for a commercial. Television personalities such as Stanley Tucci have perfected this fantasy into a polished export brand – the loud, lovable Italian bursting into your kitchen to rescue you from beige British food. It’s fun, it sells and it has about as much to do with Italian history as Mamma Mia! has to do with the Greek economy.
This British fantasy intersects perfectly with Italy’s own mythmaking instinct. For centuries, Italians were hungry – not poetically, not metaphorically, but literally hungry. Pellagra, starvation, malnutrition: these were the foundations of Italian “tradition”. And it is precisely because the past was so bleak that modern Italians felt compelled to build a golden myth of themselves. A myth in which the grandmother is an oracle, the tomato a sacred relic and “tradition” a serene and ancient truth rather than a post-1960s reconstruction.
So what did Italy actually submit to Unesco? The real story of our cuisine, shaped by hunger, migration, innovation and sudden prosperity? The glossy tourist-brochure version, the one lit like a Netflix travel programme? Or – stranger still – what some promoters called “the relationship Italians have with food”, described in the breezy vocabulary of airport psychology? A heritage not of recipes, but of feelings; conveniently vague, pleasantly flattering and not entirely falsifiable.
The first version would deserve recognition. The second trivialises it. The third turns heritage into national therapy.
Italy did not need Unesco to feel important. It needed to shed the insecurity that a cuisine is only valuable when validated by an external referee. Instead, the country reached for the certificate, not the substance. And so we embalmed a living cuisine, fixing it into a museum frame just as it continues – thankfully – to evolve in real homes, restaurants and workplaces.
This is the paradox worth remembering. The world already loves Italian food, but often loves a version shaped by television, tourism and decades of gentle mythmaking. Italians rarely resist the myth – it is flattering and profitable – but myths are fragile foundations for a Unesco bid. Because in the end, what Italy submitted was not its history but a postcard: beautifully composed, carefully lit, designed to please.
And like all postcards, it risks being forgotten in a drawer, while the real story of Italian cuisine – restless, inventive and gloriously impure – carries on elsewhere.
