Jamie Oliver has got into trouble in his new book for suggesting
that the poor would do well to copy the diet of a Sicilian
street-cleaner whom he claims to know, and who feasts on mussels,
cherry tomatoes, and pasta.
He has a point. Simple food can be sustaining, healthy, and free
of the gunk that clogs arteries and leads to obesity and early
death. As someone who has always been overweight (although nearly
always on the virtuous side of the clinical state described by the
"o" word), I acknowledge a potential addiction to junk.
But I recently had a food experience in Italy which made me
think that Oliver was right. I was in Italy on holiday. My
companion and I had travelled to Naples, determined to take in the
cathedral, the museum, and the catacombs of San Gennaro. It was
blisteringly hot.
After seeing the cathedral, we climbed up cobbled streets to the
museum, only to find that it was shut. It was lunchtime. Exhausted,
we found ourselves in a small unprepossessing café crowded with
Formica-topped tables and chill cabinets for ice cream and fizzy
drinks. The menu was pizza or pizza; so we both ordered a
Margherita. It felt too hot for anything but the plainest possible
variety.
When it came, it was a revelation. The dough base - the part I
usually find rather boring - was so light and exquisitely seasoned
that it was a treat in itself. The tomato passata was bright and
tangy; the cheese a sweeter, mellow contrast. Right in the centre
was a twin leaf of oil-soaked basil. Its perfume was so
concentrated that it made me mildly dizzy. The ingredients, of
course, were spanking fresh and locally sourced. The dish arrived
straight from the oven.
I couldn't help thinking with shame of the pizzas I have
ordered, and not really enjoyed. Why do we go for the weird
additions of pineapple, or ground beef, or chicken? I thought of
those horrid creations, the crusts of which have been injected with
soft cheese; and of pizzas claiming to be virtuous, yet piled up
with anchovies and capers, sultanas, pine nuts, and spinach.
What is it all for, this excess? A plate needs three flavours;
any more is indulgence. All of us, rich and poor, would eat better,
and to God's glory, if we re-learnt to keep it simple. (This is at
least for everyday eating: I am not so reformed that I have stopped
watching Masterchef.)
The Revd Angela Tilby is Diocesan Canon of Christ Church,
Oxford, and Continuing Ministerial Development Adviser for the
diocese of Oxford.