In August 2023, during the annual Meeting Rimini, organized by Comunione e Liberazione, Minister Francesco Lollobrigida declared that in Italy, “the poor often eat better than the rich.” Why? Because, he claimed, “by going directly to the producer to buy at lower cost, they often end up with better quality.” The remark sparked widespread discussion and had struck several nerve points in the narrative of Italian food: that humble is always better, that the frugal meal is the healthiest, that the Mediterranean diet — based on fruit, vegetables, legumes (and carbs, of course) — is a key to longevity. That farmers’ markets should cost less than supermarkets. That the lower classes may not be eating croissants, but thanks to their close connection to the land, they come out ahead in terms of food morality: fewer excesses, better health, a longer life.
All assumptions that, when put to the test in reality, are easily debunked. “Artisanal” products are often priced higher than those from industrial supply chains; the frugal meal may lack key nutrients; and the Mediterranean diet itself is an invention of American physiologist Ancel Keys (the same man who designed army rations for US soldiers), who based his interpretation of Italian eating habits on those observed in the Cilento region, where he spent much of his time. And of course, there’s no need to explain that greater economic power not only makes it easier to dine out more frequently, but also allows for higher-quality ingredients when eating at home. Still, the question remains — regardless of Minister Lollobrigida’s statement — what exactly do we mean when we talk about luxury food?
There’s no one simple answer. First and foremost, because luxury is subjective: it’s the extra, the surplus, the non-essential. It’s what we give up first in difficult times. Precious items, exotic ingredients, rare vintages from coveted vineyards — who wouldn’t want a bottle of Romanée-Conti ready to be uncorked? We all have our own idea of what luxury means. But there is at least one point of general agreement: in the world of food and wine, luxury often runs through those restaurants featured in the guides — Michelin above all.
The reason is, of course, understandable: starred restaurants — or at least most of them — by the nature of their menus, offer dishes at a higher cost. An exceptional case among them is Trattoria da Amerigo 1934, located in the hills of Bologna: first courses on the menu range between €16 and €28, second courses between €18 and €24, and desserts between €7 and €9. The tasting menu is around €70 (make sure to book well in advance — you’ll need to, given the long waiting list). The ambiance and level of service, the quality of the utensils, the location, the cost of ingredients (presumably higher quality than a neighborhood trattoria), the preparation techniques involved, the skill, the number of kitchen staff, and the time dedicated to conceptualizing and crafting the dishes — all factors contributing to the higher costs of a Michelin-starred dining experience.
It’s true that within these parameters, everyone chooses their own path. Once again, luxury is neither singular nor unequivocal. Take Arnaldo Clinica Gastronomica, located in Rubiera, in the province of Reggio Emilia — the first restaurant in Italy to receive a Michelin star back in 1959. Here, Michelin-starred dining takes the form of tradition before territory — or rather, it exemplifies how these two elements can engage in a fruitful and necessary dialogue. Among the antipasti, you’ll find Reggio salami, Parma ham, erbazzone (a savory pie typical of the province), and ciccioli (byproducts of pork lard production, also typical of Reggio Emilia), alongside seemingly simple dishes like stuffed zucchini, chicken salad with cream, and carpaccio with truffle oil and Parmigiano Reggiano. For the pièce de résistance, Arnaldo is famous for its “carrello dei bolliti” (boiled meats cart), prepared “like in the old days.” Of course fresh pasta like cappelletti and tagliatelle — served dry or in broth — are also staples of the menu. To complete the picture are sauces accompanying the meat, tortelli, and the spugnolata — a signature dish consisting of lasagna with meat ragù and morels. Here, the luxury of a Michelin star translates into a cuisine that’s rich yet accessible by nature. Boiled meats and lasagna — even without morels — are part of the everyday cuisine for every family in Reggio Emilia, or more broadly, Emilia. Luxury, then, seems to me to be the mastery of preparation, excellence, and superior taste. It’s the certainty of finding an excellent meal and knowing it will be just as good every time you return. I would even dare to call Arnaldo a form of comfort food, though in the most positive sense.
In a way, this kind of luxury has remained in our cultural memory. We see it reemerge: on Sundays, those who love dining out seek a “genuine place.” One that satisfies the stomach and the palate before pleasing the eye (often). Luxury has become a kind of indulgence — a small treat to grant yourself more regularly, a fixed point to reset the week, the taste buds, and start anew. Do we still perceive it as luxury? I don’t think so. Luxury, as traditionally understood, has taken on new forms. At the Michelin-starred restaurant of the Rana family near Verona, chef Francesco Sodano studies fermentation and experiments with house-made ingredients, including miso and other culinary wonders. Scallops in cured ham broth — this is our new luxury. Or in the Venetian lagoon, where Chiara Pavan and Francesco Brutto work with lagoon species, both native and introduced, to craft a menu that captures the present state of an ecosystem and its biodiversity. Intellectual knowledge and sensorial experiences — this is today’s luxury.
It’s not Michelin-starred but it is undeniably perceived as luxury: Jacopo Ticchi, at Da Lucio on the Romagna coast, ages his fish. He takes the luxury of time — the luxury of waiting — and the risk of serving dishes the diners’ palates might be completely unaccustomed to. The same happens in Catania with Alberto Angiolucci and his Angiò, a “fish butcher shop.” In the “strange but true” category, last year I attended a dinner prepared by Edoardo Tilli and Tommaso Tonioni at Podere Belvedere in Chianti Rufina. The price was €450 and it demanded a radical reconsideration of meat: eyes in gelatin, sheep udder with milk, raw fallow deer testicles, Tuscan boiled meat finished on the grill, and dry-aged cuts to chemically transform the fats. This is luxury straight out of a movie — one that has always existed: intellectual, extreme, almost voyeuristic. Almost a self-inflicted trial to test the limits of the participants, and a playground of experiments for the chefs behind the scenes. Remember Filetteria Italiana? Part of its business — and its luxury — was the ability to order bizarre cuts of meat from all over the world. Ethical? Who knows. Luxurious? Absolutely.
Since the rise of consumer society, it has become difficult to define the status of luxury food. This society, in furthering its affluence, dreams of returning to an era when things followed rituals — perhaps unpredictable, but exciting nonetheless. The myth of frugality often leads to historical misunderstandings, but also to an accessible form of luxury. And even a revival of tradition: an intermediate luxury like Masuelli and Nuovo Macello in Milan, for example. These are institutions serving equally institutional dishes — risottos, costolette (cutlets), and more — executed with utmost precision and an average bill noticeably above a casual weekend meal. Is there a wrong or a right way to approach luxury? Eating zebra steak in Italy, regardless of all ethical debates surrounding eating animals, strikes me as an ill-considered choice. Recognizing the true value of a gastronomic offer is the foundation of a virtuous ecosystem of hospitality and restaurants. Any food choice, in fact, seems like a luxury that deserves at least a couple of moments of reflection.
Put differently: some time ago, I chatted with chef Viviana Varese. For years, she held a Michelin star in Milan before closing her restaurant and moving to cook at Hotel Passalacqua on Lake Como. The cuisine there — as well as the hotel’s hospitality — is decidedly luxurious (it ranks among the world’s best hotels according to international rankings like the 50 Best Hotels, and also in the newly introduced hotel section of La Rossa). We talked about how much of Italy’s popular culinary tradition actually derives from noble tables, how difficult it is to break even running a restaurant (Varese is an entrepreneur with two restaurants in Milan), and how all of hospitality — not just that of a high-end hotel — is increasingly becoming not the norm, but the luxury. I had to agree with her.
Dining and Cooking