The Bialetti Moka Express: The History of Italy’s Iconic Coffee Maker, and How to Use It the Right Way

I am sure that many an Open Cul­ture read­er has a Bialet­ti Moka Express in their kitchen. I know I do, but I must add that I knew lit­tle about its his­to­ry and appar­ent­ly even less about how to prop­er­ly use one. Cof­fee expert and author of The World Atlas of Cof­fee James Hoff­mann intro­duces us to the appli­ance we think we know in the above video.

Alfon­so Bialet­ti didn’t orig­i­nal­ly get into the cof­fee busi­ness. In 1919, the Bialet­ti com­pa­ny was an alu­minum man­u­fac­tur­er, with the Moka Express invent­ed some­where around 1933 by Lui­gi de Pon­ti, who worked for the com­pa­ny. Accord­ing to Decon­struct­ing Prod­uct Design by William Lid­well and Ger­ry Man­ac­sa, the inspi­ra­tion came from Bialetti’s wife’s old-fash­ioned wash­ing machine: “a fire, a buck­et, and a lid with a tube com­ing out of it. The buck­et was filled with soapy water, sealed with the lid, and then brought to a boil over the fire, at which point the vapor­ized soapy water was pushed up through the tube and expelled on to the laun­dry.”

As Hoff­mann shows, ear­li­er cof­fee-mak­ers did use steam and a drip tech­nique, but the Moka Express was the first all-in-one mak­er that could sit on the stove top and do the work. All the user had to lis­ten for was the tell-tale gur­gle when it fin­ished brew­ing.

In 1945, Alfonso’s son Rena­to returned from a pris­on­er-of-war camp and took over the fam­i­ly busi­ness. He was instru­men­tal in focus­ing on the Moka Express and turn­ing it into an inter­na­tion­al cof­fee brand. He hired car­toon­ist Paul Cam­pani to design l’omino coi baf­fi, “the mus­ta­chioed lit­tle man” whose image is on the side of every Moka Express, and who, dur­ing the 1950s, was in a series of humor­ous ani­mat­ed com­mer­cials. Bialet­ti was the pride of Italy, and for Ital­ian immi­grants liv­ing abroad, it was a trea­sured object in the kitchen.

Such was the iden­ti­fi­ca­tion of Rena­to Bialet­ti with the Moka Express that when he died in 2016, his ash­es were interred in a giant repli­ca pot. Hoff­mann details the fate of the com­pa­ny after­wards, how it has fared against com­peti­tors in Italy and out­side. Will it still be around in decades? Who knows. But it does make a great cup of cof­fee.

And he shows the cor­rect way to brew a cup with the Moka Express in this oth­er video. Here are a few things I was doing wrong: not using hot water in the bot­tom to start; try­ing to pack in the ground cof­fee like I was mak­ing an espres­so; using too fine a grind; and not cool­ing the bot­tom as soon as it’s done work­ing its mag­ic. (Note: a Moka Express cof­fee is some­where between an espres­so and a pour-over.) All these tips I’m going to try tomor­row morn­ing. Maybe you have been mak­ing your Bialet­ti cup the right way all along. Let me know in the com­ments. I’ll read them over a fresh­ly brewed cup.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2022.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Life and Death of an Espres­so Shot in Super Slow Motion

How to Make the World’s Small­est Cup of Cof­fee, from Just One Cof­fee Bean

The Birth of Espres­so: How the Cof­fee Shots The Fuel Our Mod­ern Life Were Invent­ed

An Espres­so Mak­er Made in Le Corbusier’s Bru­tal­ist Archi­tec­tur­al Style: Raw Con­crete on the Out­side, High-End Parts on the Inside

Philoso­phers Drink­ing Cof­fee: The Exces­sive Habits of Kant, Voltaire & Kierkegaard

Ted Mills is a free­lance writer on the arts.

Scientists Discover the Earliest Evidence of Drug Use in 25,000-Year-Old Teeth

Image by Fakhri

“Sci­en­tists Dis­cov­er the Ear­li­est Evi­dence of Drug Use in Real­ly Old Teeth” may sound like odd head­line lan­guage, at least by the tra­di­tion­al stan­dards of the New York Times. But then, the teeth in ques­tion are, indeed, real­ly old. “Archae­ol­o­gists have pushed the time­line of human drug use back fur­ther than ever before by study­ing teeth that belonged to a hunter-gath­er­er who lived in Indone­sia some­time from 16,000 to 25,000 years ago,” writes reporter Becky Fer­reira. This beats the 13,000-year-old beer from Israel that pre­vi­ous­ly held the title of old­est known mind-alter­ing comestible. “The individual’s molars, which were found in a cave on the island of Sulawe­si, are marked with deep grooves that were most like­ly left by inces­sant suck­ing on betel nuts, which release psy­choac­tive stim­u­lants.”

All these mil­len­nia lat­er, betel nut-chew­ing remains a major rit­u­al and pas­time. Though it seems nev­er to have caught on in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world, it has a great many adher­ents in not just mod­ern-day Indone­sia but also oth­er parts of south­east and south Asia, includ­ing India, as well as in Chi­na.

Mixed into a com­pound with the leaves of its own plant, slaked lime, and a vari­ety of oth­er ingre­di­ents from coconut to men­thol to cloves to tobac­co — the region­al vari­a­tions are count­less — betel nuts can be chewed all day long, and often are. Whether you call it paan, buai, doma, ngangà, or some­thing else entire­ly, the stuff is “reput­ed to be the world’s fourth most pop­u­lar psy­choac­tive sub­stance after alco­hol, caf­feine, and nico­tine,” write the authors of a study on the Sulawe­si teeth new­ly pub­lished in Sci­ence Advances.

Before you seek out the near­est are­ca palm to expe­ri­ence what all the fuss is about for your­self, know that the doc­u­ment­ed health effects of betel nut-chew­ing include can­cer, car­dio­vas­cu­lar dis­ease, liv­er dam­age, dia­betes, and infer­til­i­ty; even still-fer­tile chew­ers run the risk of caus­ing birth defects. At the very least, those who pick up the habit also acquire a char­ac­ter­is­tic red tooth stain, which has been seen on near­ly 5,000-year-old skele­tons unearthed in south­east Asia. In the case of the skull from Sulawe­si, it was­n’t the col­or of the teeth but their wear pat­terns that told the tale. Grif­fith Uni­ver­si­ty pro­fes­sor Adam Brumm, who led the study, hypoth­e­sizes a “neg­a­tive feed­back loop” in which betel nuts inflict­ed den­tal dam­age on these ancient peo­ples, but also offered the only means of reliev­ing the pain of that dam­age. Whether now or 25,000 years ago, if one sub­stance seems to be both caus­ing your prob­lems and pro­vid­ing their solu­tions, it’s prob­a­bly time to quit.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Humans First Start­ed Enjoy­ing Cannabis in Chi­na Cir­ca 2800 BC

Sci­en­tists Dis­cov­er that Ancient Egyp­tians Drank Hal­lu­cino­genic Cock­tails from 2,300 Year-Old Mug

The Drugs Used by the Ancient Greeks and Romans

The Romans Stashed Hal­lu­cino­genic Seeds in a Vial Made From an Ani­mal Bone

Did Psy­che­del­ic Mush­rooms Appear in Medieval Chris­t­ian Art?: A Video Essay

Hofmann’s Potion: 2002 Doc­u­men­tary Revis­its the His­to­ry of LSD

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How Anti-Chinese Immigration Laws Unexpectedly Led to a Chinese Restaurant Boom in America

This past spring, the old­est con­tin­u­ous­ly oper­at­ed fam­i­ly-owned Chi­nese restau­rant in the Unit­ed States served its last plate of chop suey. Pekin Noo­dle Par­lor had been an insti­tu­tion in Butte, Mon­tana’s Chi­na­town since 1911, long out­last­ing the town’s gold-rush boom, but accord­ing to its final, fifth-gen­er­a­tion own­er, it could­n’t sur­vive chang­ing atti­tudes toward din­ing out in the twen­ty-twen­ties. Whether or not COVID-influ­enced habits or deliv­ery-app addic­tion are to blame, the Pekin’s clo­sure con­sti­tut­ed an occa­sion to reflect on the his­to­ry of Amer­i­can Chi­nese food, and its rapid evo­lu­tion into a dis­tinct cui­sine unto itself.

Take chop suey, which was adver­tised on the Pekin’s neon sign in let­ter­ing larg­er than the name of the restau­rant itself. Often cit­ed as an ear­ly “Chi­nese” dish actu­al­ly invent­ed by Chi­nese immi­grants in the Unit­ed States, it may have a cer­tain basis in the tsap seui eat­en in Guang­dong province from which many of them had come.

But even there, it amount­ed to a tech­nique for throw­ing togeth­er a hodge­podge of left­overs in a palat­able man­ner; only with its Amer­i­can­iza­tion did it acquire a dis­tinct set of fla­vors and tex­tures. A sim­i­lar process seems to have pro­duced Gen­er­al Tso’s chick­en, broc­coli beef, lo mein, and all the oth­er dish­es that the movies have con­vinced the world Amer­i­cans eat direct­ly from wire-han­dled paper box­es.

What­ev­er Hol­ly­wood’s ten­den­cy to exag­ger­ate, the pop­u­lar­i­ty of domes­tic Chi­nese food is real. Accord­ing to the Busi­ness Insid­er video just above, Chi­nese restau­rants out­num­ber even McDon­ald’s fran­chis­es in the U.S. How they reached that point owes more than a lit­tle to immi­gra­tion, as any­one would expect, but also, less obvi­ous­ly, to restric­tions on immi­gra­tion. “Anti-Chi­nese sen­ti­ment was ram­pant in Amer­i­ca in the ear­ly 20th cen­tu­ry — and had been since the lat­ter half of the 19th cen­tu­ry, when as many as 300,000 Chi­nese min­ers, farm­ers, rail­road and fac­to­ry work­ers came to the U.S.,” writes NPR’s Maria Godoy. The neg­a­tive reac­tion to that influx under­lay the Chi­nese Exclu­sion Act of 1882; the Immi­gra­tion Act of 1917, with its “Asi­at­ic Barred Zone”; and the Immi­gra­tion Act of 1924, which intro­duced a nation­al-ori­gin quo­ta sys­tem.

Despite the osten­si­bly severe restric­tion on Chi­nese immi­gra­tion per se, the law allowed that “some Chi­nese busi­ness own­ers in the U.S. could get spe­cial mer­chant visas that allowed them to trav­el to Chi­na, and bring back employ­ees. Only a few types of busi­ness­es qual­i­fied for this sta­tus. In 1915, a fed­er­al court added restau­rants to that list. Voila! A restau­rant boom was born.” Ditch­ing their tra­di­tion­al busi­ness­es like laun­dries, Chi­nese in the U.S. would “pool their mon­ey to start lux­u­ry ‘chop suey palaces,’ then each investor would take turns run­ning the joint for a year or 18 months” in order to earn mer­chant sta­tus. What sus­tained it all was the increas­ing­ly insa­tiable Amer­i­can demand for the food these immi­grants had per­fect­ed, from chop suey to kung pao chick­en to moo goo gai pan and beyond. The sto­ry neat­ly arrives at an Amer­i­can-style moral: where there’s a will, there’s a way — or rather, yǒu zhì zhě, shì jìng chéng.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The 63 Cuisines of Chi­na Explained in 40 Min­utes: A Com­plete Primer

A Brief His­to­ry of Dumplings: An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion

The Sur­pris­ing Rea­son Why Chi­na­towns World­wide Share the Same Aes­thet­ic, and How It All Start­ed with the 1906 San Fran­cis­co Earth­quake

Col­or­ful Ani­ma­tion Visu­al­izes 200 Years of Immi­gra­tion to the U.S. (1820-Present)

Bob Dylan Pota­to Chips, Any­one?: What They’re Snack­ing on in Chi­na

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Thai Beef Noodle Soup That Has Been Continuously Simmering for 52 Years

As Bangkok ris­es into the ranks of the world’s great culi­nary des­ti­na­tion cities, its restau­rant scene caters to ever more well-heeled trav­el­ers. There, you can now vis­it estab­lish­ments with not just one, and not just two, but three Miche­lin stars. Even so, many a Bangkok habitué will sure­ly tell you that the city’s best food is still served in the same hum­ble places as always, or at least whose rent has­n’t been hiked too bad­ly. Even in as hip­ster­ized an area as Ekka­mai Road, though, some have been around long enough to own their real estate. Take Wat­tana Panich, which has been serv­ing beef noo­dle soup in its own build­ing for more than 50 years — and indeed, using the same broth the whole time.

You can have a look at the process in the Great Big Sto­ry video at the top of the post. “For­ev­er soup, also known as per­pet­u­al stew or hunter’s pot, is enjoy­ing a moment as adven­tur­ous cooks and intre­pid din­ers redis­cov­er the old method in which a broth can sim­mer for weeks, months or even years,” writes Shan Li in a recent Wall Street Jour­nal arti­cle.

Third-gen­er­a­tion Wat­tana Panich own­er Nat­tapong Kawee­nunta­wong “has tend­ed the broth from morn­ing until night since gain­ing cus­tody two decades ago. By day, it bub­bles in a giant stain­less-steel pot about 5 feet across and one foot deep, encased in lava-like con­crete and heat­ed by gas. He tweaks the fla­vor by adding fresh ingre­di­ents, includ­ing fish sauce, soy sauce, chunks of beef and sachets of Chi­nese herbs.”

Per­haps you feel you can taste it already. But its reg­u­lar vis­i­tors may insist that you’ll nev­er real­ly know the fla­vor of the shop’s epony­mous broth, con­tin­u­ous­ly refined while being rolled over night after night for five decades, until you try it for your­self. The prospect may put cer­tain West­ern­ers, uncom­fort­able con­sum­ing even last night’s left­overs, ill at ease. But they should rest assured that the sol­id ingre­di­ents are always fresh. It’s just the broth itself, rig­or­ous­ly strained each night and boiled each day, that has been kept in use, tying the estab­lish­ment to its own past in the same man­ner as its inher­it­ed own­er­ship. As with any fam­i­ly busi­ness, of course, each gen­er­a­tion gets com­plete­ly dis­placed soon­er or lat­er, just as every mol­e­cule of “for­ev­er soup” at one time will, in the­o­ry, have been con­sumed by some lat­er time. Is the broth Wat­tana Panich uses today real­ly iden­ti­cal to the one it start­ed with in 1974? That’s a philo­soph­i­cal ques­tion best saved for after the meal.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Chow­da!: Three Cen­turies of Recipes Reveal the Rise of New England’s Finest Culi­nary Export

When Al Capone Opened a Soup Kitchen Dur­ing the Great Depres­sion: Anoth­er Side of the Leg­endary Mobster’s Oper­a­tion

Allen Ginsberg’s Per­son­al Recipe for Cold Sum­mer Borscht

How to Make the Old­est Recipe in the World: A Recipe for Net­tle Pud­ding Dat­ing Back 6,000 BC

The Old­est Restau­rant in the World: How Madrid’s Sobri­no de Botín Has Kept the Oven Hot Since 1725

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

How to Cook Like Frida Kahlo & Georgia O’Keeffe

It’s a myth that starv­ing artists don’t eat.

They do, just not often or well. Their meals rarely rate recipes, let alone cook­books.

Those cook­books do exist though.…

The most­ly con­cep­tu­al Starv­ing Artist Cook­book put togeth­er by EIDIA (aka artists Paul Lamarre and Melis­sa Wolf) comes close to the spir­it of sus­tain­ing life through mea­ger ingre­di­ents… like spaghet­ti or 4 pages of shred­ded Prav­da.

Not so this oth­er title, which approach­es cute over­load with an abun­dance of Insta­gram-wor­thy illus­trat­ed fare—mojitos, an unstruc­tured berry tart, a “man­ly” burg­er.…

Do “starv­ing” artists no longer fear being out­ed as posers?

Suc­cess­ful artists may not wor­ry about that, as they eat what­ev­er and how­ev­er they want.

Andy Warhol had the taste of an eccen­tric child.

Mari­na Abramović takes the ascetic route.

Many have glad­ly trad­ed the can­dle in the Chi­anti bot­tle for the most rar­efied restau­rants in town.

Geor­gia O’Keeffe and Fri­da Kahlo, PBS Dig­i­tal Stu­dios’ series the Art Assign­ment informed us, took cooking—and eating—seriously.

So seri­ous­ly, their culi­nary efforts led to cook­books, which the Art Assignment’s host, cura­tor Sarah Urist Green, tried out on cam­era.

O’Keeffe, who grew up in Wis­con­sin on home­made yogurt, home­made cheese, and plen­ti­ful home­grown pro­duce, ground her own flour in order to bake dai­ly loaves of whole wheat bread.

Green treats view­ers to a brief overview of O’Keeffe’s life and work as she strug­gles with the grinder. (You might get the same, or bet­ter, results if you take a $5 bill to a good bak­ery right at open­ing.)

She also tack­les the wheat germ Tiger’s Milk smooth­ie advo­cat­ed by Adelle Davis, a nutri­tion­ist whom O’Keeffe admired, and Green Chiles with Gar­lic and Oil and Fried Eggs, using recipes from the cook­books A Painter’s Kitchen and Din­ner with Geor­gia O’Keeffe.

Before attempt­ing the same, you might want to watch the Kahlo-cen­tric episode, above, in which Green dis­cov­ers a much bet­ter method for roast­ing the poblano pep­pers she hap­less­ly sub­sti­tut­ed for New Mex­i­co chiles in O’Keeffe’s egg dish.

Here, they’re used for Chiles Rel­lenos, a dish whose pro­nun­ci­a­tion the self-effac­ing Green butch­ers, along with a mul­ti­tude of oth­er Span­ish phras­es, a fact not lost on the video’s Youtube com­menters. They also take issue with the pres­ence of plan­tains, her prepa­ra­tion of the Nopales Sal­ad, and her cook­ing skills in gen­er­al. No won­der Green—a self-pro­claimed wussy where ser­ra­nos are concerned—seems so eager to reach for a shot of tequi­la as din­ner is final­ly served.

Green chose the dish­es for this episode from Frida’s Fies­tas: Recipes and Rem­i­nis­cences of Life with Fri­da Kahlo by Marie-Pierre Colle and Kahlo’s step­daugh­ter, Guadalupe Rivera.

Kahlo her­self learned to cook from her mother’s copy of El Nue­vo Cocinero Meji­cano, and from hus­band Diego Rivera’s first wife, Guadalupe (lead­ing one to won­der if some of that cook­book’s recipes aren’t mis­at­trib­uted to the more famous cook).

As with the O’Keeffe video and the cook­books cit­ed here­in, there’s a wealth of vin­tage pho­tos and repro­duced art­work on dis­play.

Even though Green alludes to Kahlo’s dark side, sen­si­tive stom­achs might have trou­ble with the inclu­sion of the graph­i­cal­ly vio­lent Unos Quan­tos Piqueti­tos. Anoth­er paint­ing, My Nurse and I is at least relat­ed to eat­ing, if not cook­ing and recipes.

Those with stom­achs of steel on the oth­er hand can con­tin­ue on to anoth­er Art Assignment—the supreme­ly gross Meat Sculp­ture from the Futur­ist Cook­book.

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

The Futur­ist Cook­book (1930) Tried to Turn Ital­ian Cui­sine into Mod­ern Art

The Recipes of Famous Artists: Din­ners & Cock­tails From Tol­stoy, Miles Davis, Mar­i­lyn Mon­roe, David Lynch & Many More

MoMA’s Artists’ Cook­book (1978) Reveals the Meals of Sal­vador Dalí, Willem de Koon­ing, Andy Warhol, Louise Bour­geois & More

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

Andy Warhol’s Vibrant, Imprac­ti­cal, Illus­trat­ed Cook­book from 1959: A Feast for the Eyes

Ayun Hal­l­i­day is an author, illus­tra­tor, the­ater mak­er in NYC.

Why Ancient Egyptian Honey Remains Edible After 3,000 Years

The glob­al bee pop­u­la­tion comes up in the news every now and again. Some­times we’re assured that the num­ber is sta­ble or ris­ing; more often, we’re warned about col­laps­ing colonies and the large-scale eco­log­i­cal dis­as­ter that could result. As with most high-stakes issues, it can be dif­fi­cult to know what to believe. But even if you lack the time to invest in an under­stand­ing of the sci­ence behind the com­plex con­nec­tions between api­an and human wel­fare, you can eas­i­ly come to appre­ci­ate the impor­tance of bees if you learn just how long they’ve played a role in our civ­i­liza­tion.

As Elana Spi­vack writes at History.com, “a cave paint­ing in north­east­ern Spain depict­ing a human har­vest­ing hon­ey dates back 7,500 years to the Neolith­ic peri­od, accord­ing to research pub­lished in 2021 in the jour­nal Tra­ba­jos de Pre­his­to­ria.” Just last year, a paper in the Jour­nal of the Amer­i­can Chem­i­cal Soci­ety con­firmed that bronze con­tain­ers dis­cov­ered in an under­ground shrine in a sixth-cen­tu­ry-BC Greek set­tle­ment not far from Pom­peii con­tained a residue of hon­ey. We’ve long known of hiero­glyphs from ancient Egypt that depict bees and the keep­ing there­of; “accord­ing to a 2022 paper in the jour­nal Ani­mals, the use of hon­ey­bees in the Nile Val­ley can be traced to the ear­li­est years of the Egypt­ian king­dom.”

Here in the twen­ty-first cen­tu­ry, most of us regard hon­ey as noth­ing more than a rel­a­tive­ly healthy sweet­en­er. In ancient Egypt, too, it was used to improve the taste of their bread and beer, but it was also put to impor­tant med­ical uses. “Because it’s so thick, rejects any kind of growth and con­tains hydro­gen per­ox­ide, it cre­ates the per­fect bar­ri­er against infec­tion for wounds,” writes Smith­son­ian’s Natasha Geil­ing. “The ancient Egyp­tians used med­i­c­i­nal hon­ey reg­u­lar­ly, mak­ing oint­ments to treat skin and eye dis­eases.” They may not have been the first to do so, giv­en that the ear­li­est known uses of hon­ey are record­ed on Sumer­ian clay tablets, but they took respect for the stuff to a whole new lev­el, describ­ing hon­ey­bees as orig­i­nat­ing from the tears of their sun god Re (for­mer­ly known in the Eng­lish-speak­ing world as Ra).

That par­tic­u­lar piece of mythol­o­gy is record­ed on some Egypt­ian papyri; oth­ers reveal how much hon­ey was rationed to work­ers, at least those employed direct­ly by the Pharaoh. In those days, the sub­stance’s gold­en col­or reflect­ed its dear­ness, and it seems that com­mon labor­ers and their fam­i­lies could go a life­time with­out ever tast­ing a spoon­ful them­selves. Today, of course, we take it for grant­ed that we can go down to the super­mar­ket and cheap­ly buy an econ­o­my-size tub of hon­ey that nev­er goes bad. But then, ancient Egypt­ian hon­ey has nev­er gone bad either: thanks to the very same chem­i­cal and bio­log­i­cal prop­er­ties that made it use­ful for heal­ing, the sealed jars of it remain the­o­ret­i­cal­ly edi­ble even after 3,000 years. Driz­zle it on some gen­uine Greek yogurt, and you’ve got a large swath of the his­to­ry of civ­i­liza­tion in break­fast form.

via Boing Boing/Smith­son­ian

Relat­ed con­tent:

Try the Old­est Known Recipe For Tooth­paste: From Ancient Egypt, Cir­ca the 4th Cen­tu­ry BC

How Egypt­ian Papyrus Is Made: Watch Arti­sans Keep a 5,000-Year-Old Art Alive

A 3,000-Year-Old Painter’s Palette from Ancient Egypt, with Traces of the Orig­i­nal Col­ors Still In It

How Sci­en­tists Recre­at­ed Ancient Egypt’s Long-Lost Pig­ment, “Egypt­ian Blue”

Behold 1,600-Year-Old Egypt­ian Socks Made with Nål­bind­ning, an Ancient Pro­to-Knit­ting Tech­nique

How Did the Egyp­tians Make Mum­mies? An Ani­mat­ed Intro­duc­tion to the Ancient Art of Mum­mi­fi­ca­tion

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

The Futurist Cookbook (1930) Tried to Turn Italian Cuisine into Modern Art

With the sav­age cuts in arts fund­ing, per­haps we’ll return to a sys­tem of noblesse oblige famil­iar to stu­dents of The Gild­ed Age, when artists need­ed inde­pen­dent wealth or patron­age, and wealthy indus­tri­al­ists often decid­ed what was art, and what wasn’t. Unlike fine art, how­ev­er, haute cui­sine has always relied on the patron­age of wealthy donors—or din­ers. It can be mar­ket­ed in pre­made pieces, sold in cook­books, and made to look easy on TV, but for rea­sons both cul­tur­al and prac­ti­cal, giv­en the nature of food, an exquis­ite­ly-pre­pared dish can only be made acces­si­ble to a select few.

Still, we would be mis­tak­en, sug­gest­ed Futur­ist poet and the­o­rist F.T. Marinet­ti (1876–1944), should we neglect to see cook­ing as an art form akin to all the oth­ers in its moral and intel­lec­tu­al influ­ence on us. While hard­ly the first or the last artist to pub­lish a cook­book, Marinetti’s Futur­ist Cook­book seems at first glance dead­ly, even aggres­sive­ly, seri­ous, lack­ing the whim­sy, imprac­ti­cal weird­ness, and sur­re­al­ist art of Sal­vador Dali’s Les Din­ers de Gala, for exam­ple, or the eclec­tic wist­ful­ness of the MoMA’s Artist’s Cook­book.

Just as he had sought with his ear­li­er Futur­ist Man­i­festo to rev­o­lu­tion­ize art, Marinet­ti intend­ed his cook­book to foment a “rev­o­lu­tion of cui­sine,” as Alex Rev­el­li Sori­ni and Susan­na Cuti­ni point out. You might even call it an act of war when it came to cer­tain sta­ples of Ital­ian eat­ing, like pas­ta, which he thought respon­si­ble for “slug­gish­ness, pes­simism, nos­tal­gic inac­tiv­i­ty, and neu­tral­ism” (antic­i­pat­ing scads of low and no-carb diets to come).

Believ­ing that peo­ple “think, dream and act accord­ing to what they eat and drink,” Marinet­ti for­mu­lat­ed strict rules not only for the prepa­ra­tion of food, but also the serv­ing and eat­ing of it, going so far as to call for abol­ish­ing the knife and fork. A short excerpt from his intro­duc­tion shows him apply­ing to food the tech­no-roman­ti­cism of his Futur­ist theory—an ethos tak­en up by Ben­i­to Mus­soli­ni, whom Marinet­ti sup­port­ed:

The Futur­ist culi­nary rev­o­lu­tion … has the lofty, noble and uni­ver­sal­ly expe­di­ent aim of chang­ing rad­i­cal­ly the eat­ing habits of our race, strength­en­ing it, dynamiz­ing it and spir­i­tu­al­iz­ing it with brand-new food com­bi­na­tions in which exper­i­ment, intel­li­gence and imag­i­na­tion will eco­nom­i­cal­ly take the place of quan­ti­ty, banal­i­ty, rep­e­ti­tion and expense.

In hind­sight, the fas­cist over­tones in Marinetti’s lan­guage seem glar­ing. In 1932, when the Futur­ist Cook­book was pub­lished, his Futur­ism seemed like a much-need­ed “jolt to all the prac­ti­cal and intel­lec­tu­al activ­i­ties,” note Sori­ni and Cuti­ni.  “The sub­ject [of cook­ing] need­ed a good shake to reawak­en its spir­it.” And that’s just what it got. The Futur­ist Cook­book act­ed as “a pre­view of Ital­ian-style Nou­velle Cui­sine,” with such inno­va­tions as “addi­tives and preser­v­a­tives added to food, or using tech­no­log­i­cal tools in the kitchen to mince, pul­ver­ize, and emul­si­fy.”

Yet, for all the high seri­ous­ness with which Marinet­ti seems to treat his sub­ject, “what the media missed” at the time, writes Maria Popo­va, “was that the cook­book was arguably the great­est artis­tic prank of the twen­ti­eth cen­tu­ry.” In an intro­duc­tion to the 1989 edi­tion, British jour­nal­ist and his­to­ri­an Les­ley Cham­ber­lain called the Futur­ist Cook­book “a seri­ous joke, rev­o­lu­tion­ary in the first instance because it over­turned with rib­ald laugh­ter every­thing ‘food’ and ‘cook­books’ held sacred.” Marinet­ti first swept away tra­di­tion in favor of cre­ative din­ing events the Futur­ists called “aer­oban­quets,” such as one in Bologna in 1931 with a table shaped like an air­plane and dish­es called “spicy air­port” (Olivi­er sal­ad) and “ris­ing thun­der” (orange risot­to). Lam­br­us­co wine was served in gas cans.

It’s per­for­mance art wor­thy of Dal­i’s bizarre cos­tumed din­ner par­ties, but fueled by a gen­uine desire to rev­o­lu­tion­ize food, if not the actu­al eat­ing of it, by “bring­ing togeth­er ele­ments sep­a­rat­ed by bias­es that have no true foun­da­tion.” So remarked French chef Jules Main­cave, a 1914 con­vert to Futur­ism and inspi­ra­tion for what Marinet­ti calls “flex­i­ble fla­vor­ful com­bi­na­tions.” See sev­er­al such recipes excerpt­ed from the Futur­ist Cook­book at Brain Pick­ings, read the full book in Ital­ian here, and, just below, see Marinetti’s rules for the per­fect meal, first pub­lished in 1930 as the “Man­i­festo of Futur­ist Cui­sine.”

Futur­ist cui­sine and rules for the per­fect lunch

1. An orig­i­nal har­mo­ny of the table (crys­tal ware, crock­ery and glass­ware, dec­o­ra­tion) with the fla­vors and col­ors of the dish­es.

2. Utter orig­i­nal­i­ty in the dish­es.

3. The inven­tion of flex­i­ble fla­vor­ful com­bi­na­tions (edi­ble plas­tic com­plex), whose orig­i­nal har­mo­ny of form and col­or feeds the eyes and awak­ens the imag­i­na­tion before tempt­ing the lips.

4. The abo­li­tion of knife and fork in favor of flex­i­ble com­bi­na­tions that can deliv­er prelabi­al tac­tile enjoy­ment.

5. The use of the art of per­fumery to enhance taste. Each dish must be pre­ced­ed by a per­fume that will be removed from the table using fans.

6. A lim­it­ed use of music in the inter­vals between one dish and the next, so as not to dis­tract the sen­si­tiv­i­ty of the tongue and the palate and serves to elim­i­nate the fla­vor enjoyed, restor­ing a clean slate for tast­ing.

7. Abo­li­tion of ora­to­ry and pol­i­tics at the table.

8. Mea­sured use of poet­ry and music as unex­pect­ed ingre­di­ents to awak­en the fla­vors of a giv­en dish with their sen­su­al inten­si­ty.

9. Rapid pre­sen­ta­tion between one dish and the next, before the nos­trils and the eyes of the din­ner guests, of the few dish­es that they will eat, and oth­ers that they will not, to facil­i­tate curios­i­ty, sur­prise, and imag­i­na­tion.

10. The cre­ation of simul­ta­ne­ous and chang­ing morsels that con­tain ten, twen­ty fla­vors to be tast­ed in a few moments. These morsels will also serve the ana­log func­tion […] of sum­ma­riz­ing an entire area of life, the course of a love affair, or an entire voy­age to the Far East.

11. A sup­ply of sci­en­tif­ic tools in the kitchen: ozone machines that will impart the scent of ozone to liq­uids and dish­es; lamps to emit ultra­vi­o­let rays; elec­trolyz­ers to decom­pose extract­ed juices etc. in order to use a known prod­uct to achieve a new prod­uct with new prop­er­ties; col­loidal mills that can be used to pul­ver­ize flours, dried fruit and nuts, spices, etc.; dis­till­ing devices using ordi­nary pres­sure or a vac­u­um, cen­trifuge auto­claves, dial­y­sis machines.

The use of this equip­ment must be sci­en­tif­ic, avoid­ing the error of allow­ing dish­es to cook in steam pres­sure cook­ers, which leads to the destruc­tion of active sub­stances (vit­a­mins, etc.) due to the high tem­per­a­tures. Chem­i­cal indi­ca­tors will check if the sauce is acidic or basic and will serve to cor­rect any errors that may occur: lack of salt, too much vine­gar, too much pep­per, too sweet.”

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2017.

Relat­ed Con­tent

When Ital­ian Futur­ists Declared War on Pas­ta (1930)

Sal­vador Dalí’s 1973 Cook­book Gets Reis­sued: Sur­re­al­ist Art Meets Haute Cui­sine

MoMA’s Artists’ Cook­book (1978) Reveals the Meals of Sal­vador Dalí, Willem de Koon­ing, Andy Warhol, Louise Bour­geois & More

The Artists’ and Writ­ers’ Cook­book Col­lects Recipes From T.C. Boyle, Mari­na Abramović, Neil Gaiman, Joyce Car­ol Oates & More

Josh Jones is a writer and musi­cian based in Durham, NC. 

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Inside the Automats Where Coin-Operated Machines Created a Modern, Democratic Dining Experience

“Good evening,” said Alfred Hitch­cock to the tele­vi­sion view­ers of Amer­i­ca on March 25, 1959. “Tonight I’m din­ing at my favorite club. There are many advan­tages here. As you can see, infor­mal­i­ty is the rule. There is also the stim­u­la­tion of intel­lec­tu­al com­pan­ion­ship with­out the deaf­en­ing qui­et that per­vades most clubs. Best of all, I like its pri­va­cy: only four per­sons are allowed at a table, and, of course, no one pays any atten­tion to you.” This was an exam­ple of the dead­pan irony with which the film­mak­er intro­duced each broad­cast of Alfred Hitch­cock Presents, for the “club” of which he spoke was clear­ly an automat. Today, many read­ers under about 50 will nev­er have heard the word, but at the time, it referred to a seem­ing­ly per­ma­nent insti­tu­tion in Amer­i­can life.

Or rather, an insti­tu­tion of urban Amer­i­can life, and above all in two cities, Philadel­phia and New York. There, no one could think of automats with­out think­ing of Horn & Hardart, in its hey­day the largest restau­rant chain in the world. The con­cept, which co-founder Joseph Horn import­ed over from Berlin in the ear­ly nine­teen-tens, was of a restau­rant with no wait­ers: rather, you could choose your dish à la carte from a wall of coin-oper­at­ed com­part­ments, pay­ing the nick­el or two that would allow you to take the food inside.

Sal­is­bury steak, creamed spinach, baked beans, a ham-and-cheese sand­wich, mac­a­roni and cheese, choco­late pud­ding, straw­ber­ry rhubarb pie: what­ev­er it was, the behind-the-scenes staff would replace it just as soon as you put the last one on your tray.

Smack of moder­ni­ty though it once did (and in a way, still does), the term automat is some­what mis­lead­ing. We might describe the expe­ri­ence of vis­it­ing one as din­ing inside a giant vend­ing machine, but the actu­al run­ning of the oper­a­tion was quite labor-inten­sive. Most of the work was per­formed out of the cus­tomer’s sight, as far away as in the large cen­tral com­mis­saries that pre­pared many of the dish­es to be trans­port­ed dai­ly to Horn & Hardart’s 88 loca­tions. This sheer scale of oper­a­tion allowed the chain to offer some of the cheap­est meals com­mer­cial­ly avail­able, with the result that its automats boomed even — indeed, espe­cial­ly — dur­ing the Great Depres­sion. Their eco­nom­ic bar­ri­er was low, and of sex and race, nonex­is­tent; those who remem­ber them describe them becom­ing some of the most demo­c­ra­t­ic insti­tu­tions in post­war Amer­i­ca.

You can hear such mem­o­ries recalled in the recent doc­u­men­tary The Automat by fig­ures like Ruth Bad­er Gins­burg, Col­in Pow­ell, and Mel Brooks, who rhap­sodizes about Horn & Hardart’s cof­fee, dis­pensed for just a nick­el from elab­o­rate dol­phin-head­ed spig­ots. That degree of detail was stan­dard in the inte­ri­ors, whose mar­ble, chrome, and glass look pala­tial by the stan­dards of the fast-food joints that ulti­mate­ly replaced the automat. That glo­ry was one casu­al­ty of post­war sub­ur­ban­iza­tion and hol­low­ing-out of cen­tral cities that result­ed. What with the Amer­i­can urban renais­sance of the past few decades, attempts have been made to revive the automat con­cept, but per­haps, as Brooks puts it, “the logis­tics and the eco­nom­ics of today won’t allow any­thing that sim­ple, naïve, and elo­quent and beau­ti­ful to flour­ish again.” Order­ing a meal brought straight to your door may be more con­ve­nient, but even deliv­ery-app addicts have to admit that it will nev­er have the same romance.

Relat­ed con­tent:

Slot Machine Age: A 1964 British News­reel Angsts Over Whether Auto­mat­ed Machines Will Dis­place Peo­ple

How Edward Hopper’s Paint­ings Inspired the Creepy Sus­pense of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Win­dow

Watch the “Bib­lio-Mat” Book-Vend­ing Machine Dis­pense Lit­er­ary Delight

Behold the Art-o-Mat: Vin­tage Cig­a­rette Vend­ing Machines Get Repur­posed & Dis­pense Works of Art

How Fast Food Began: The His­to­ry of This Thor­ough­ly Amer­i­can (and Now Glob­al) Form of Din­ing

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

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