Hogging the myth: an “authentic pizza” stall at a village fair in Somma Vesuviana, near Naples. Photo: Antonio Zambardino/Contrasto/Redux
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When it comes to food, authentic doesn’t always mean good

Can only native Italians bake real pizza and must they hail from Naples for it to be authentic?

With hindsight, I can see I was asking for it. Fancy a southerner having the brass neck to publish a recipe for the perfect Lancashire hotpot – it was “cultural appropriation at its worst”, as one reader thundered on the Guardian website. Another objected that I was clearly not an impoverished Victorian millworker: “Yet another upmarket recipe posing as the original ‘working-class’ dish!” Apparently, my version, based on extensive research and experimentation, lacked that vital ingredient: authenticity.

Such complaints are nothing new. They have surfaced time and again in the four years I’ve dared to put my name to the Guardian’s How to Cook the Perfect . . . column. I’m not Italian enough to make proper pizza, too middle class to know owt about a bacon butty, too omnivorous to have a valid opinion on bean burgers . . . You get the picture.

I take comfort in the knowledge that I’m in good company. A couple of years ago, when Nigella took on pizza, the Daily Mail published the disapproving reactions of some Umbrian nonnas – “It is an insult to Italy!” – and I recently read a review tearing into Elizabeth David for her peasant food aimed at the “upper middle class”. And if David, who spent years travelling across the Continent collecting recipes, doesn’t make the grade, then who does? Can only native Italians bake real pizza and must they hail from Naples for it to be authentic?

Indeed, does a margherita made in Naples by a tenth-generation pizzaiolo lose its integrity when inauthentic old me takes a bite? I have certainly heard it argued that the second someone who isn’t a local eats it, it’s no longer authentic because the outlander can’t know the full social and cultural history of the food. This makes “authentic” consumption sound like a pretty joyless business, frankly.

If the same bona fide Neapolitan travels to the United States, does American flour suddenly render the product a dirty fake? And what if, on returning home, this maverick is inspired to put jalapeños, or ketchup, or (the horror!) pineapple on a pizza, just for the hell of it? Exactly how far back do you have to go to find an authentic recipe?

The more I ponder the idea of culinary authenticity, the sillier it seems. Food, like every other aspect of our culture, is constantly evolving and the word “purity” should be regarded with the same suspicion here as it is in any other context. (It is telling, I think, that most efforts to set a particular recipe in stone seem to be motivated largely by commercial interests.)

Moreover, authentic doesn’t always mean good. Poor cooking has no respect for borders and there’s no guarantee that a samosa from a street vendor in Lucknow will be superior to the ones served at your local Bangladeshi restaurant.

Above all, I suspect that the so-called authentic peasant cooks of the past revered by modern foodies would laugh themselves silly at such posturing. Many dishes now worshipped as classics of cucina povera were born of necessity rather than gourmandism – your average Tuscan peasant would have leapt at the opportunity to liven up a stale bread salad with anchovies, whatever these self-appointed guardians of culinary purity may claim.

That is not to say there is no value in understanding where a dish came from. I’d argue that it’s vital you understand its history before you begin to play about with it. If you know that Lancashire is prime sheep country, for instance, then you’d better have a damn good reason for making its hotpot with duck, Goosnargh or not. But if you do decide to have a go, then I wish you luck. Just don’t expect everyone to thank you for it.

Felicity Cloake’s “Perfect Too” is published on 3 April by Fig Tree (£18.99)

Felicity Cloake is the New Statesman’s food columnist. Her latest book is The A-Z of Eating: a Flavour Map for Adventurous Cooks.

This article first appeared in the 03 April 2014 issue of the New Statesman, NEW COLD WAR

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Everyone behaved like a total idiot in this week’s Game of Thrones

Jon Snow: the bravest idiot of them all.

This week marks the penultimate episode of the season of Game of Thrones – which usually means death, death and more death. Shock death, bloody death, mass death – you name it, a penultimate episode has brought it. And “Beyond The Wall” brought what is certainly the biggest death yet.

If the episode title didn’t give you a big enough clue as to where the vast majority of this week would be set, the first five seconds give you another hint: the camera pans upwards over Dany’s Dragstone map table to the part where the Wall visibly slices across Westeros, and we jump cut to the snow and ice of the far North, where our ragtag bunch o’ misfits (Jon, Jorah, Gendry, Tormund, The Hound, Beric Dondarrion, Thoros, and a few others along for the ride) are striding out to capture and bring back a zombie to show to the already-zombie-owning Cersei Lannister. If this didn’t already sound like the worst plan in history, remember that we’ve pretty much exclusively seen the army of the dead in, well, a massive fucking army. You don’t often see one undead guy just wondering around on a jolly. Yep. These guys have a death wish.

In these early stages of their venture beyond the Wall, things are still pretty cheerful. Jon and Tormund have a chat which hammers home the message of how refusing to bend the knee is Actually A Bad Thing That Gets Ordinary Men Killed. The rest of the men remind us of their previous alliances and battles, only just avoiding the phrase “Previously, on Game of Thrones”: Gendry argues with the Band of Brothers (Brotherhood without Banners, whatever) over their attempt on his life back in season 3, and Jon and Jorah remind us of their relationships with each other’s families. In fact, the two engage in some classic male bonding through the ancient Game of Thrones practice of Talking About Their Dead Dads. Jon tries (and thankfully fails) to give Jorah his only Valerian steel sword, his one weapon against the dead, because, as mentioned earlier, he’s an absolute idiot.

In a truly joyful scene, Tormund flirts outrageously with The Hound until he bristles:

“You want to suck my dick? Is that it?”
“Dick?”
“Cock.”
“Ah, dick! I like it.”
“I bet you do.”

Then Tormund lists all the things he loves about Brienne of Tarth. Truly, we are too blessed. “How did a mad fucker like you live this long?” Clegane asks. I don’t know, but please say this mad fucker lives a little longer. Seven episodes longer, to be precise. Meanwhile Beric Dondarrion and Jon Snow also engage with some male bonding via the ancient practice of Talking About Their Dead Dads, and also death.

Meanwhile, Tyrion and Dany chat about how stupid (and horny) all the men in her life are.

Heartwarming scenes north of the Wall cannot last. The next hint we get that the plan might not be the best idea is when a fuck-off undead bear appears from the mist and attacks them all. Despite it being several against one, it is an enormous fuck-off undead bear, so it puts up a very good fight, severely maiming Thoros. The bear is only just defeated before Jon and Tormund glimpse a group of about ten undead men and one White Walker moving through the frozen river beneath them. Seems, weird, right, because of how they normally move in one enormous army? “Where’s the rest of them?” Jon asks. “If we wait long enough we’ll find out,” Tormund replies. Ah yes, blindly attack a few zombies and simply decide not to worry about the 10,000 semi-indestructable undead men that are probably hot on their heels. This seems like a great strategy.

Jon kills the White Walker with his sword (thank Jorah later, mate) and all but one of the undead crumble to the ground along with him. They tie up the last remaining one, their new prisoner and proof of the oncoming war. So far, so good. But wait. A distant rumble. The mist parts. Ah, there’s the unending army of the dead! Great work, lads! Gendry, the fastest idiot, leaves his hammer behind and escapes to alert the Wall and Danaerys of the others’ unfortunate fate. The rest all run for their lives, but tens of thousands of zombies soon catch up. They make it across some thin ice, which collapses into water behind them, to a small rock in the river. A small moat of unstable ice is all that separates them from a horrific number of undead men, who surround them on all sides in a perfect circle. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Hours pass as Gendry just about makes it to the Wall. The Hound, bored and scared and frustrated, kicks an undead and they all seem to feel it – add to the list of Things That Are Creepy About The Undead. Thoros freezes to death in the snow, because apparently the dicks with fire swords didn’t feel the need to keep him warm. “We’ll all freeze soon, and so will the water,” Jorah says – and suggests that they try and kill the White Walkers to kill the rest of the undead. Jon is all like Nooooo we need to keep one undead man semi-alive, wildly underestimating the extent of the danger they are in. Apparently he just can’t see the enormous army about to kill him?

More hours pass as word reaches Daenerys at Dragonstone (apparently Raven Speed has massively been upgraded in the past few weeks). Tyrion tries to persuade Dany not to hop on a dragon and fly beyond the Wall because she “can’t take the Iron throne” if she’s dead. She’s also not going to have a great time sitting on it if the entire world is overrun by an army of the dead, though, is she mate. This is absolutely terrible advice. “Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do,” he says, irritatingly.

Anyway. It’s very cold and boring over on Surrounded-By-A-Million-Zombies-Island, so Sandor Fucking Idiot Clegane decides he will play a fun game of “skipping stones on the newly-frozen over ice to alert the undead that we are sat here defenceless and they can walk over here and kill us any time they fancy”. As a result, the undead realise that our men are sat there defenceless and that they can walk over and kill them any time they fancy. They rush at them.

This kick-starts one of the scariest battles in Game of Thrones history as Jon and co try to fend off the thousands of zombies attacking them. To put it quite simply: they have absolutely no chance. They are attacked from all sides, lose several men, and even Tormund nearly dies. Meanwhile, Jon helpfully starts screaming “FALL BACK! FALL BACK!” Literally WHERE Jon?! You are encircled!! HOW can you possibly fall back?! WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!

Just as the world goes slow motion and the sad Death Is Imminent music starts to play, Dany, Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal turn up to save the day, burning thousands of men in a few short breaths.

Sadly, the Night King loves theatrics and has come prepared with a very long and very pointy ice spear. He takes aim at Viserion and throws it. Viserion is stabbed through the side, collapsing to the ground, and starts to die. Dany watches in horror. As Jon is attacked by zombies and dragged underwater, Dany has no time to wait for her hot, stupid boyfriend, and escapes before Drogon or Rhaegal suffer the same fate.

Weak and alone. Jon emerges from the water, and is immediately charged at by more soldiers. Improbably, he is suddenly saved by Uncle Benjen on horseback, who apparently lives beyond the Wall exclusively to save Starks who have bitten off way more than they can chew. In a Titanic moment, Benjen pretends there is no time or space for him to get on the horse with Jon and stays behind to die, again. Benjen’s horse, seemingly a very gifted horse, carries an unconscious Jon back to the Wall.

Dany walks in on a semi-naked Jon Snow, peeks at his gnarly scars and gets super-aroused. While Jon is naked and draped in rich blankets and Dany is all powerful yet emotionally vulnerable, the two look at each other tearfully and sexily and hold hands. KISS. KISS. KISS. Jon calls her Dany in a bizarre moment of fan-baiting (Dany even says “Who last called me that?” in a line taken from Game of Thrones pub quizzes the world over) before Jon metaphorically bends the knee. Gotta love to see monumental political decisions made out of sheer horniness. There is some sexy, prolonged hand-holding – the risqué shit Game of Thrones is known for. “You should get some rest,” Dany says, and Jon immediately shuts his eyes and pretends to sleep because he’s five years old.

The undead have magically produced four massive iron chains each about a mile in length and are dragging Viserion out of the water. He opens his eye. It’s blue. Dany’s white dragon has become a White dragon.

Phew. If you have any emotional energy for any other characters, then unfortunately Arya and Sansa’s bizarre, wooden feud continues this week. First, the two sisters seem to engage in some classic bonding through the ancient Game of Thrones practice of Talking About Their Dead Dad – before Arya turns on Sansa thanks to last week’s letter of betrayal. Littlefinger continues to be an unnecessary little bitch by widening the gulf between them, and advising Sansa to ask Brienne of Tarth to protect her from Arya. The whole thing culminates in a bizarre scene where Sansa finds Arya’s bag of faces and Arya threatens to take her face, too. For a second, I believe that Arya might kill her with Littlefinger’s old dagger, until she hands it to her, handle-first. Will they take Littlefinger’s face together and stop this ridiculous, out-of-character cold war? God, I hope so. Let this storyline rest forever.

But time for the real question: who was the baddest bitch on this week’s Game of Thrones?

  • The Hound to Gendry: “Your lips are moving and you're complaining about something. That’s whingeing.” +7
  • Tormund to the Hound: “Gingers are beautiful. We are kissed by fire!” +16
  • Tormund to the Hound: “I don’t think you’re truly mean. You have sad eyes.” +12
  • Tormund to the Hound: “Ah, dick. I like it.” +31
  • The Hound rescuing Tormund from certain death. +19
  • Tormund's deluded yet emotionally vulnerable speech about Brienne of Tarth. “I want to make babies with her. Think of them – great big monsters. They’d conquer the world!” + 26
  • Beric Dondarrion casually calling The Iron Throne “some throne made of swords” like it’s utterly beneath him. +16
  • Gendry besting his reputation as a badass long distance rower to become a furious long distance cross country runner. +21
  • Dany taking the time to make sure she’s wearing Beyond The Wall Chic with a Cruella Deville-esque snow white fur robe before she heads out to save the almost-certainly dying men. +19
  • Dany calling Jon “too little” for her. Smooth cover, Dany! We totally believe you don’t fancy him now! +7
  • Jon suddenly and very transparently deciding to bend the knee now he’s in alone in a bedroom with Daenerys! +18
  • Jon holding tight on to Dany’s hand. Bold move. +12


That means this week’s bad bitch is, of course, the man, the myth, the ICON: Tormund. Romantic, flirty, Good At Killing People, and also pretty dumb, Tormund is the fire-kissed angel of my life. May he continue to endeavour to deserve Brienne.

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.