The Gastronomer Who Is Not an Environmentalist Is Foolish | In Memoriam: Slow Food Founder Petrini

The one who pressed the piano pedal has gone first.

On 21 May 2026, Carlo Petrini, founder of the Slow Food movement, Italian journalist and writer, passed away.

Having spent wonderful years studying under his guidance, and as someone keen to devote myself to writing about food, I wish to honour him with this piece. I will refer to him here as Carlin, the familiar nickname by which he is known.

Like me, many students who came to the University of Gastronomic Sciences were drawn there by Carlin’s writings and the Slow Food movement. Indeed, he sowed the seeds of this philosophy worldwide: he founded the Slow Food movement, established Terra Madre (Mothers’ Earth), a gathering that brings together small-scale farmers and food producers from across the globe, and launched a university dedicated to gastronomy.

Officially known as the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, the institution was founded in 2004 by the International Slow Food Association. Its campus sits just outside Carlin’s hometown, in the village of Pollenzo near Bra, in the Piedmont region of northern Italy. As a private university, it specialises in food studies through experiential learning, emphasising the nutritional science, politics, culture and ecology that lie behind what we eat. I undertook the one-year master’s course in New Food Thinking, which covered modules in food philosophy, food ecology, foraging and world culinary traditions, alongside weekly thematic food education sessions.

My first lecture at the school was Carlin’s.

He was already 72. Three solid hours of dense Italian, delivered without a single interval. I watched the simultaneous interpreter’s calm demeanour gradually give way to him struggling to catch his breath, whilst Carlin grew ever more impassioned. A glance exchanged amongst the students below was enough to convey a shared thought: “This old man is just bursting with energy.” He waved and spoke from the stage without pause, never stopping for a moment, as though powered by a perpetual motion machine.

I remember he spoke about the word sustainable. He didn’t explain it through its Latin roots, but told us it shares its origin with the sustain pedal on a piano. When playing, pressing the pedal keeps the sound vibrating in the air, slowly fading, so you can feel the music’s lingering resonance. He said, “To build a sustainable world, we must make our voices heard. Not as idle clamour, but as a resonant note whose lingering echo can carry on.”

On 21 May this year, he died in his hometown of Bra at the age of 76. Early that morning, when the news appeared on my screen, what echoed in my mind was the lingering resonance of a piano, though the one who had pressed the sustaining pedal had already departed.

“McDonald’s, get out of Italy!”

On 20 March 1986, Italy’s first McDonald’s opened near the Spanish Steps in Rome and quickly caught on with local young people. Then still an Italian food columnist and journalist, Carlin and a group of friends handed out simple tomato pasta to crowds near the square. They hoped this unpretentious, grassroots protest would voice their anger and prompt public reflection: why had fast, industrialised food like McDonald’s swept the globe, even “invading” a nation so proud of its culinary heritage, while fresh, naturally grown, and wholesome food was left to languish?

In December 1989, the International Slow Food Association was officially established in Paris, adopting a snail as its emblem. Carlin explained that the snail was chosen not to urge people to eat slowly, but because snails move slowly, savouring their journey without haste. More importantly, they carry their home on their back—wherever they go, their home goes with them. Home signifies local, seasonal food, as well as traditional recipes and the ritual of people gathering around a table to share a meal.

The core of Carlin’s Slow Food was never simply about “eating slowly”. On the contrary, he repeatedly emphasised: “Slow Food is not about food, but about us.” What he constantly returned to was the core ethos of the movement: Good, Clean and Fair.

Good, because food should bring genuine sensory pleasure, not standardised numbness of the palate; Clean, because production must respect natural ecosystems, rather than speeding everything up with hormones and chemicals; Fair, because those who cultivate the land, rear livestock and prepare food deserve a dignified wage, not to be squeezed to the very bottom of the supply chain.

In 2004, he spearheaded two further initiatives: first, establishing the University of Gastronomic Sciences in Pollenzo, near his hometown, to elevate gastronomy into a serious interdisciplinary academic discipline; second, founding the Terra Madre (Mothers’ Earth) food expo: a biennial gathering for the global food community held in Turin, bringing together farmers, fishers, herders, chefs and researchers from over 150 countries.

In Carlin’s eyes, food was never merely a casual indulgence, but a political question—one concerning who owns the land, who performs the labour, and whose tastes are being systematically erased.

His focus on the social equity behind food was also deeply rooted in his background. His father came from a family of railway workers, and his mother was a primary school teacher from the countryside. In his youth, he studied sociology, working alongside his father during the day and attending classes at night. His devoted passion for food, however, came from his grandmother. He remembers how she would always gather the breadcrumbs scattered across the dining table, ensuring nothing went to waste.

As he later said, “A food lover who is not an environmentalist is foolish, and an environmentalist who is not a food lover is pitiable.” Slow Food champions what McDonald’s cannot offer—the local, the seasonal, and the ritual of gathering round the table to share a meal.

When studying in Italy, 90 per cent of the students lived in Bra, the birthplace of the Slow Food movement. In a way, the town felt rather like a “Slow Food bubble”: there were no McDonald’s or KFC branches, only traditional Piedmontese restaurants and a handful of Turkish and Chinese eateries run by migrants.

Sometimes, students who had grown weary of the local fare would crave a trip to Turin, 50 km away, just for McDonald’s. We’d occasionally joke with a touch of self-deprecation: “We’re this broke, so what’s the harm in a McDonald’s?” There was a persistent rumour that you had to go sneaking around to visit the place, or else face expulsion from the school.

Yet more often than not, we learned about food and came to understand Slow Food within the ordinary rhythms of daily life.

For instance, we could take on a plot at the school’s organic farm, working alongside fellow students to tend the crops and understand the soil.

In spring, we attend foraging classes in the village, learning to identify and prepare hundreds of local wild plants. I never expected the fields and hillsides, just a thirty-minute walk away, to be so rich in edible forage.

After the classes, we would spend hours cooking and chatting, filling a single table with dozens of dishes from different countries and regions. Sometimes, if Carlin happened to pass by, he would simply drop in to join our meals or impromptu dancing sessions.

At the weekend, we would each clear out our fridges and gather up the leftovers, then head up to an abandoned pizza oven on the hillside to bake pizza and bread, and prepare salads…

The university also organised study tours to rural areas across Europe, allowing students to see how local organisations protected seeds, talk with farmers, and understand the nuances of their concerns.

Reflecting on these moments, I realised that the philosophy of the Slow Food movement championed by Carlin was not as idealistic as it might sound. It was grounded in the realities of daily life, found in the rich flavours of every meal and the happiness beaming on everyone’s faces.

“Eating is an agricultural act”

Carlin’s most profound impact on me was his insistence on agriculture’s pivotal role within the food system. He deeply admired a line from the American writer Wendell Berry: “Eating is an agricultural act.” Through their food choices, consumers steer the focus of agricultural markets and production, quietly becoming part of the production process themselves. Within the Slow Food framework, those who embrace these ideals and act upon them are referred to as “co-producers”.

In autumn 2025, I attended the Slow Cheese Festival in Bra. It is the world’s largest biennial festival dedicated to raw milk cheese. It was through this event that I discovered how just three ingredients—milk, rennet, and salt—can yield over 2,000 distinct varieties, making cheese a vivid symbol of food diversity.

Carlin gave a street talk on the theme of “Why We Need Raw Milk Cheese”. He said that pasteurisation is an industrial logic—standardisation, reproducibility, the elimination of variables. But the diversity of raw milk cheese stems from distinct local landscapes, pastures, livestock breeds, and the craft of shepherds and cheesemakers. As a living food, raw milk retains its inherent properties—nutrients, vitamins, enzymes, and lactic acid bacteria—and preserves all the flavours and aromas of the grasses and hay the animals graze on. Most farmers producing raw milk cheese operate on a small scale. They play a vital role in safeguarding the diversity of meadows, pastures, and animal breeds.

During the festival, the streets and squares of Bra transformed into a cheese market. Behind every stall stood producers from across the globe. The air carried a blend of creamy dairy and earthy herbs, a scent entirely unique to the place—something you would never find in a supermarket.

I was drawn to that year’s festival theme, “C”è un mondo interno’—there’s a whole world around you. The joy of immersing oneself in the study of food lies precisely here: from a single mouthful, countless lines of inquiry unfold. An elderly shepherd from Sardinia was explaining why his sheep grazed exclusively on a certain wild grass, while a student stood nearby taking notes. Walking through the market, it felt more like an open-air classroom than a commercial space.

Yet it was hardly a classroom of the conventional kind. After his talks, Carlin would invariably drag students and visitors from far and wide to sing and dance. Here was a man in his seventies, dancing a lively Italian folk tune right in the midst of the crowd. His joy and vitality were utterly unguarded, and in that moment, I understood exactly why he had inspired so many.

Is Slow Food really just elitism?

During that festival, I attended several panel discussions. These were meant to be spaces where diverse voices could converge—the audience seated below included producers, researchers, and activists from more than a dozen countries—yet the floor was repeatedly monopolised by the lengthy monologues of a few Italian men. They played off one another on stage, their voices growing louder and increasingly self-congratulatory.

It was only towards the end of the event that the moderator handed the microphone to a shepherdess from Macedonia. She had roughly five minutes. She showed a few photographs: flocks of sheep on the hillsides, stone-built sheds, and images of her making cheese with her children. She spoke in halting English, concise and poetic, with the stillness of those who truly live on the land. Those five minutes were by far the most enriching moment of my stay. Yet as I walked out afterwards, I was left with a complex mix of emotions.

Ever since, I’ve been wondering: how could Slow Food offer me two such contrasting experiences in the very same place?

Criticism of the Slow Food movement has never ceased: it seems to carry a distinct Italian-centrism, a kind of arrogance that treats the culinary traditions of a particular region as the standard. In the real world, truly Good, Clean and Fair food often comes at a higher price, and not everyone can afford that sort of “fairness”.

Carlin himself was by no means blind to criticisms of elitism. In interviews, he repeatedly stressed that Slow Food was never about turning food into a luxury, but about reshaping society’s priorities when it comes to food. It was never his intention to cater to the wealthy. But how do we put this into practice and reflect on our own class position and cultural biases? Perhaps that is precisely the question he leaves for us to continue pondering.

The Piano’s Lingering Resonance

The Movement Remains Unfinished

Bra is a small town; it takes less than twenty minutes to walk anywhere, which means everyone’s lives are closely intertwined. My classmates and I would often run into Carlin around town. Though he didn’t speak English, it never hindered his ability to connect with students from across the globe, for he communicated through food. The moment you mentioned you were a student at the university, he would stop, using Italian and animated gestures to ask: What have you been eating lately? What did you pick up at the market? What have you been up to? He was as welcoming as a neighbour.

One winter, caught in a heavy snowfall, a group of us students huddled under a covered walkway in central Bra, waiting for the storm to ease. Carlin happened to pass by, spotted us, and beckoned us warmly over, inviting us to his place for a drink. And so, a group of us followed him home, opened up his wine cabinet, and gathered to drink and chat while the snow fell in quiet stillness outside.

The last time I saw him was a year ago, in a café in Bra. I jokingly asked him whether ordering a cappuccino in the afternoon really earned you a few raised eyebrows in Italy. He laughed heartily, stood up, went to the counter, ordered me one, and came back saying, “Drink it if you fancy it!” Hearing his bright laugh, I thought to myself that this little town of Bra was truly like a time capsule. The cafés were just as they appeared on nineteenth-century posters, and you were constantly bumping into shopkeepers and familiar professors on the streets.

Carlin would often say after a lecture or a class, “Now, it is your turn to step up.” Back then, I was at a loss as to what I could possibly do.

After graduating, I spent two years drifting between different countries and regions—studying soil on organic farms, working in cafés, cooking in kitchens, and even doing a stint as a delivery driver. This kind of learning by working felt like putting a broader extension of Slow Food into practice. I may not yet be fully equipped to carry on the Slow Food spirit, but at least I am already on the path.

But I believe the Macedonian shepherdess’s five minutes, too, should form part of Slow Food’s transformation. Voices allotted too little time, those who do not stand on stage, practitioners excluded in the name of “tradition” — what the Slow Food movement leaves behind is not merely what it has already achieved, but also what it has yet to complete, or even what it has consciously sidestepped.

For when the piano pedal is held down, the resonance lingers on.

Ciao Carlin, buon viaggio! Farewell, and safe travels on your next journey.

– This is Foodthink’s 810th original article –

All images by the author unless otherwise stated

Edited by Pei Dan

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