There’s only one dish that our two year-old and her parents eat with gusto together: that’s spaghetti. And of all the ways we can eat spaghetti, there’s only one that requires no readjustment of flavours between the generations: that’s pesto.
So I was pretty excited about getting to Genoa, having all three of us sit down at a restaurant, get Milly to turn her nose up at chips, and tuck in to a big bowl of pesto alla genovese.
Genoa is a port in Liguria, a sailor’s city, and the gateway from which many millions of impoverished emigrants left for America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
This city’s famous green sauce should be made from a pretty exclusive little club of local ingredients – at least according to the Genovese.
As with other foods that can so easily be bastardised, Ligurian food producers have sought to protect the authenticity of their food culture through EU protected designation of origin (DOP in Italy).
There is even a confraternity of pesto that has an edict of how pesto should be made: strictly Ligurian basil (does not have the mint/fennel notes of other basils), Ligurian olive oil, European pine nuts, a combination of parmigiano reggiano and pecorino cheeses, garlic and salt.
Such precise provenance requirements from so many ingredients seems over the top, and yet by setting out rules like this, and especially by seeking DOP status for components of pesto (the basil, olive oil and cheeses) producers maintain a marketing edge over corporations who compete with cheaper ingredients, eg cashews instead of pine nuts or basil from Asia.
Why not do everything you can to protect something this good?
We chose an ordinary cheerful, busy café near the wharf for this highly revered, increasingly political sauce.
I would like to say we then proceeded to eat pesto together, but perhaps more inspired by the scent of ocean than my vision of shared pasta, Dave took a swerve towards a swordfish steak at the last minute. Milly and I lapped up every last piece of the tingly, creamy pasta, and could’ve had another bowl. I'm sure when I return to the time scarcity of working motherhood I will inevitably fall back to supermarket own-brand stuff in a jar, but from lofty heights we will fall...
So I was pretty excited about getting to Genoa, having all three of us sit down at a restaurant, get Milly to turn her nose up at chips, and tuck in to a big bowl of pesto alla genovese.
Genoa is a port in Liguria, a sailor’s city, and the gateway from which many millions of impoverished emigrants left for America in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
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| Genoa waterfront |
As with other foods that can so easily be bastardised, Ligurian food producers have sought to protect the authenticity of their food culture through EU protected designation of origin (DOP in Italy).
There is even a confraternity of pesto that has an edict of how pesto should be made: strictly Ligurian basil (does not have the mint/fennel notes of other basils), Ligurian olive oil, European pine nuts, a combination of parmigiano reggiano and pecorino cheeses, garlic and salt.
Such precise provenance requirements from so many ingredients seems over the top, and yet by setting out rules like this, and especially by seeking DOP status for components of pesto (the basil, olive oil and cheeses) producers maintain a marketing edge over corporations who compete with cheaper ingredients, eg cashews instead of pine nuts or basil from Asia.
Why not do everything you can to protect something this good?
We chose an ordinary cheerful, busy café near the wharf for this highly revered, increasingly political sauce.
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| Who needs cutlery when you have pesto in Genoa? |
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