LISTEN to the organizers talk, and it’s easy to get caught up in a tizzy of revolutionary fervor. "This is a grandiose cultural and political process," proclaims Boston Slow Food co-founder Rob McKeown. "It’s so much bigger than any one thing ... there are amazing characters and amazing stories as big as the movement."
Wait, isn’t this food we’re talking about?
Kummer is less breathless about the movement — but no less supportive. He explains that Slow has broken new ground by linking up what he calls "lonely pioneers," people who have been living by Slow standards for a long time. "Slow Food is about putting together people who have the same ideals," Kummer explains. "They come and find out there is a whole world of people who share their ideals."
One such person is Sandy Oliver, a Maine-based food historian and author of Saltwater Foodways (Mystic Seaport Museum Publications, 1995). Oliver does canning and pickling, and slaughters pigs on a regular basis. She’s at the Yankee Feast to talk about the roots of the regional dinner, such as the history behind the salty bacon in the smoked haddock, which was used to "offset the low calories of the fish." Wearing a bun, black sneakers, and a loose-fitting, ankle-length skirt, Oliver is — in the food community — about as unpretentious as they come. Several of the recipes on the evening’s menu have been adapted from her own repertoire, along with contributions from Karyl Bannister, another Maine home cook who’s traveled south to talk about her kitchen newsletter, "Cook and Tell," the everywoman’s kitchen confidential. Oliver and Bannister know their roots, often eat organic, and think about their impact on the environment. But for them, this is nothing new. "I’ve been slow long before there was a movement," chuckles Oliver.
Sure enough, Slow was, in many ways, slow to arrive on the foodie scene. In Boston, before Slow, there was (and still is) the Chefs Collaborative, a group of chefs, restaurateurs, and other culinary professionals who promote sustainable cuisine. In California, before she linked up with the Slow Movement there, Alice Waters had been doing much the same with outreach programs like the edible schoolyard, which promotes growing gardens at schools.
Over the course of a few days, three people involved with Slow Food also mention Eero Ruuttila, an organic farmer in New Hampshire, as someone who embodies the ideals of the movement. Boston chapter co-founder Erin Hunt profiled him in the current issue of the Snail, the Slow Food publication circulated to all US members. Ruuttila has the largest organic farm in New Hampshire, producing a wide variety of greens — 100 or so a season, including cilantro, Russian kale, baby vegetables, heirloom tomatoes, and mesclun greens. Twice a week, Ruuttila treks an hour south to bring his produce to 20 of the top restaurants in Boston, including Henrietta’s Table, Oleana, Rialto, and Icarus. In addition, Ruuttila provides Asian greens to homeless shelters in Lowell, a city with a significant Cambodian population.
In conversation, Ruuttila is modest, articulate, and blunt. Asked if Slow Food has helped his business, he says, "No. I’ve been working with chefs for many years; it’s an organization that supports and amplifies how I go about selling my food." For that matter, Ruuttila isn’t sure if Slow will have any impact on his farm. "I’m just trying to maintain the relationships that I have."
At the Yankee Feast, a list of beverages is recommended for pairing with each course. Harpoon provides the beers, Westport Rivers and Sakonnet Vineyards furnish the wines, and West County Cider supplies the ciders. Judith Maloney, an owner of West County, says business has improved significantly over the last two years. "There’s definitely a growing interest in local producers," she explains. But though she’s very supportive of the Slow Food mission, especially as it relates to promoting cider as a threatened food, donating cider to the Yankee Feast is West County’s first collaboration with the Boston chapter. "I would like to be more involved with them, actually," she adds.
On the restaurant end, it’s the same scenario. The Blue Room’s Steve Johnson says his restaurant has been buying locally "wherever and whenever possible" ever since it opened. "We do a fair amount of cheese — raw and cooked preparations." He cites some of his prominent local cheeses: Shelburne Farms Cheddar, Great Hill Blue Cheese from Marion, Massachusetts, fresh goat cheese from the western part of the state. Johnson says he’s followed the lead of people like Jasper White, "in terms of mining all of the riches of the local fruit and vegetable farmers. It’s become very natural for us."
At the same time, Johnson, who has contributed recipes to Kummer’s book on Slow Food, resists calling the Blue Room a "Slow" restaurant. "Every concept or movement has to have a title, so they came up with ‘Slow,’" he explains. "It conveys a message. I’m not sure what you call it. We do what we do, and we hope people like it. We’re about taste and buying local and supporting the New England farmer. If in fact there is an overlap, then I’m happy to accentuate that for situations such as this."
In speaking with farmers and restaurateurs, it becomes clear that while the Slow Food movement touts itself as promoting the causes of local farmers, the question remains: how much action is behind the talk? However ambitious its intentions, right now Slow Food appears to be more of a precious forum for well-fed city slickers to talk big while toasting fine wine. Can Slow really get its hands dirty?
