Extra Virginity: The Sublime and Scandalous World of Olive Oil

by Mueller, Tom

  For Gino and Rosetta Olivieri

  When a native of the Mediterranean had to leave the shores of the sea, he was uneasy and homesick; like the soldiers of Alexander the Great when he left Syria and advanced towards the Euphrates; or the sixteenth-century Spaniards in the Low Countries, miserable among the ‘fogs of the North’. For Alonzo Vázquez and the Spaniards of his time (and probably of all time) Flanders was ‘the land where there grows neither thyme, nor lavender, figs, olives, melons, or almonds; where dishes are prepared, strange to relate, with butter from cows instead of oil.’

  —Fernand Braudel, The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II

  CONTENTS

  Prologue • ESSENCES

  1 • OLIVES AND LIVES

  2 • OIL BOSSES

  3 • OLIVES SACRED AND PROFANE

  4 • THE LOVELY BURN

  5 • INDUSTRIAL OIL

  6 • FOOD REVOLUTIONS

  7 • NEW WORLDS OF OIL

  Epilogue • MYTHOLOGIES

  Glossary

  Appendix • CHOOSING GOOD OIL

  Acknowledgments

  A reconstruction of the seventh century BC oil mill discovered at Ekron, Israel, which could produce about 500,000 liters of olive oil per year. Courtesy of Jean-Pierre Brun

  Bas relief in the memorial temple of the pharaoh Seti I, in Abydos, Upper Egypt, showing the gods Thoth and Horus anointing Seti with scented oils. Jim Henderson/Alamy

  Greek athletes oil up before a competition, which made their skin more supple and enhanced their physical beauty, making them appear, as classical writers pointed out, like gleaming statues of the gods. Bildarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz, Berlin/Art Resource, NY

  Olive oil was so vital to sports and bathing in the classical world that small containers for scented oil, called aryballoi, have been found in hundreds of archaeological sites throughout the Mediterranean. Courtesy of Maria Rosaria Belgiorno

  Greek women bathing and anointing themselves with oil (note the aryballoi suspended from the tree) on a vase from the fifth century BC, much as Homer described Nausicaa and her handmaidens four centuries earlier in the Odyssey. Erich Lessing/Art Resource, NY

  Greek men harvesting olives by beating the branches with canes, a technique condemned by Roman (and modern) agronomists because it bruises the fruit and damages the trees. Bildarchiv Preussischer Kulturbesitz/Art Resource, NY

  Perhaps the earliest method for extracting olive oil, still being used by these women in Jerusalem in the early twentieth century, involved crushing olives by hand with a stone roller, placing the resulting paste in a bag, and twisting it to draw out the oil. Courtesy of Jean-Pierre Brun

  The olive harvest as depicted by Sano di Pietro, in a fourteenth-century monastic calendar from Siena called the Codex of the Nuns (under the month of October). Scala/Art Resource, NY

  Renaissance apothecaries used olive oil in a wide range of salves, unguents, folk remedies, and nostrums. Note the amphora-like terracotta jars on shelves behind the counter, and the young apothecary’s assistant seated in the lower right-hand corner, blending up a new concoction with a mortar and pestle. Scala/Art Resource, NY

  Pilgrims used ampullae, also called “pilgrim flasks,” to collect lamp oil and holy oil at shrines around the Mediterranean, which were thought to heal illnesses and protect against demons. This Coptic ampulla shows Saint Menas, the fourth-century Egyptian martyr and wonder-worker, flanked by camels. Réunion des Musées Nationaux/Art Resource, NY

  A state-of-the-art olive oil mill circa 1600, as depicted in an engraving after Jan van der Straet, which appeared in Nova Reperta (“New Discoveries”), a manual celebrating technological breakthroughs. Nova Reperta, plate 13, engraved by Philip Galle

  Provençal oil production is limited today, but at the turn of the nineteenth century the region supplied oil to a number of foreign capitals, including the royal courts of Sweden, Luxembourg, and Russia, and to Vietnam, a former French colony. Courtesy of Mark Wickens, http://pages.infinit.net/wickens/

  This skull of a Roman-era athlete on Crete, discovered in a tomb near the town of Hagios Nikolaus, wore a crown of golden olive leaves that had been set on the deceased’s brow, which over the centuries became laminated to the skull. Nikos Psilakis

  Some nineteenth-century explorers in North Africa believed that the remains of Roman olive presses were cultic structures from some lost pagan ritual. Courtesy of Jean-Pierre Brun

  A range of amphora shapes catalogued by Heinrich Dressel, the nineteenth-century German archaeologist and classicist who led the first systematic study of Monte Testaccio in Rome, a 150-foot hill composed of broken olive oil amphorae. Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. 15

  Amphorae in various forms used to transport olive oil and other goods throughout the Roman world. Such amphorae were carefully packed in the hulls of transport ships, and have been found, still interlocked, on the sea floor, in the hulls of Roman-era shipwrecks throughout the Mediterranean. Metropolitan Museum of Art, NY

  Roman olive oil amphorae frequently bore inscriptions that recorded where and when the oil was produced, its weight and quality at shipment, and the name of the imperial functionary who received it in Rome—all methods for preventing olive oil fraud. Courtesy of José Remesal Rodríguez

  Harvesting ancient olive trees can be physically demanding, involving acrobatics that the older generation of farmers is less and less able to perform, and long hours that their children and grandchildren have little taste for. Donatello Brogioni/Contrasto/Redux

  Ancient olive trees grow throughout the southern Mediterranean, some reputedly over 2,000 years old. Courtesy of N’ora Futura

  In super-high-density olive groves in California, Spain, Portugal, and elsewhere, 700 or more trees are packed into an acre of land, and are harvested by over-the-row harvesters like those used in the wine industry. Courtesy of Corto Olive

  In open-air Masses held in olive groves, a common event in southern Italy, the power of the rite is enhanced by the religious resonance of the trees themselves, familiar biblical symbols of peace and fortitude. Gianni Berengo Giardin/Contrasto

  An estimated 700 different olive cultivars grow worldwide (this plate alone holds fifteen), each containing a distinctive—and sometimes radically unique—oil. Paul Vossen

  Traditional mills continue to operate throughout the southern Mediterranean, like this donkey-driven mill in Tin Mal, Morocco, a village in the High Atlas Mountains 60 miles from Marrakesh. Jerzy Strzelecki

  These granite millstones in Calabria, Italy, similar to those used by Roman millers, are still widely employed, though they are steadily being replaced by stainless steel hammer and disk grinders. Paul Vossen

  Modern grinding machines, like this stainless-steel disk mill made by Alfa Laval, are replacing old-fashioned grindstones, because their speed, precision, and ease of cleaning often produces better oils. Alexandra Kicenik Devarenne

  Olive oil plays a central role in Christian rites and symbolism, and is considered a vehicle of conversion, health, and cleansing. Here Bishop Gerald M. Barbarito celebrates the Eucharist with the blessing of oils at the Cathedral of Saint Ignatius Loyola in Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. Taylor Jones/Palm Beach Post/ZUMA Press/Newscom

  Villagers on Crete frequently bring a bottle of their early harvest oil to the village church to be blessed by the priest, and used as medicine and in church rituals. Nikos Psilakis

  In yaglı gures (“oil wrestling”), a popular Turkish sport that continues the Greco-Roman tradition of olive oil in athletics, contestants (known as pehlivan or “hero
es”) slather themselves in olive oil and then try to come to grips. Reuters/Fatih Saribas

  As with wine, the appreciation of a fine oil and the detection of a flawed oil start with the nose, in tulip-shaped tasting glasses that concentrate volatile aromas. Leah Bradley

  Chemical analysis of an olive oil helps to reveal its freshness and nutritional value, as well as certain frauds—though lab tests are far easier to satisfy than a trained taste panel. UC Davis Olive Center

  Droning like twin jet engines, these centrifuges at the California Olive Ranch in Artois, California, spin crushed olives at thousands of rpms, separating the oil from the water, pits, skins, and pulp also contained in the olives. Paul Vossen

  Olive-pomace plants, like this facility in Puglia owned by Fratelli Rubino, use industrial solvents to remove the last oil from the solid waste produced by olive oil mills. Paul Vossen

  Prologue

  ESSENCES

  When the olive oil reached 28 degrees Celsius, the temperature at which its aromatic substances become volatile, the eight tasters removed the lids from the glasses that contained the first sample of oil, inserted their noses, and began snuffling loudly, some closing their eyes. These were members of the tasting panel of the Corporazione Mastri Oleari, in Milan, one of the most respected private olive oil associations; they sat in individual cubicles of white formica, each equipped with a sink, a pen and a stack of tasting forms, and a yogurt maker with a thermostat, on which sat six tulip-shaped tasting glasses containing samples of oil. They were a diverse group, which included a thirty-three-year-old farmer from Lake Garda, a forty-seven-year-old Tuscan marchesa who worked as a personal motivation coach, and a sixty-six-year-old Milanese businessman. They’d begun trickling in around 9 am, grumbling about being deprived of their morning coffee and cigarettes, which are forbidden before a tasting because they dull the senses; now they sat silently in their cubicles in attitudes of attention and reflection, like chemists in a lab, or scholars in a library. On shelves around the walls were several hundred bottles of olive oil, as well as sixteen brown laboratory bottles with neat white labels on which were printed “musty,” “fusty,” “rancid,” “winey/vinegary,” “cucumber,” “grubby,” and other unpleasant smells—the official taste flaws in olive oil, which these eight people had trained their senses to detect in the faintest degree.

  The panel tasted the six oil samples according to a strict protocol, which, like each feature of the panel test room itself, was prescribed by Italian and European law. Cradling the glasses in their palms like brandy snifters to keep the oil warm, they smelled it carefully, jotting down the fragrances they perceived. They took a mouthful of oil. And then, as if they’d all been stricken by an oil-induced seizure, they began sucking in air violently at the corners of their months, a technique known as strippaggio, which coats the taste buds in an emulsion of oil and saliva, and wafts the oil’s aromas up into the nasal passages. After the first volcanic slurps, the strippaggi grew softer and more meditative and took on personal notes, the marchesa’s wheezy and almost wistful, the businessman’s deep and wet, as if he were gargling Epsom salts. After tasting and retasting each oil for ten to fifteen minutes, and periodically cleansing their palates with mineral water, they recorded its flavor, aroma, intensity, texture, and other characteristics on a scoring sheet.

  The tasters pottered in their cubicles for the next ninety minutes, snuffling and slurping and musing over the oils. Finally, after evaluating the last of the samples, they stood and stretched like people rising from sleep, and moved to the conference table in the middle of the room. Here they enjoyed their long-awaited cigarettes and coffee, while the panel leader, Alfredo Mancianti, collated their scoring sheets. “The tasters themselves don’t score an oil,” Flavio Zaramella, the Milanese businessman and president of the Mastri Oleari, told me. “They just identify and quantify the sensations they perceive in it. It’s the panel leader who actually assigns a score to the oil, by making a composite of their eight assessments using robust statistical methods.”

  Looking over the panel leader’s shoulder as he worked, I saw that the eight tasters had been remarkably consistent in their appraisals, describing the texture and personality of each oil in similar ways, and identifying the same subtle flavors and fragrances in each—artichoke, fresh-cut grass, green tomato, kiwi.

  “The tonda iblea from southern Sicily was memorable, with those afternotes of artichoke and green tomato,” Zaramella told the other tasters. “But all in all, I think the best full-bodied oil was the Marcinase DOP Terra di Bari from Puglia.” The others nodded, though one taster said she preferred the Villa Magra Gran Cru from Tuscany because it was more balanced and harmonious.

  By now I found it hard to sit still. Artichoke? Fresh-cut grass? They hadn’t been tasting first-growth Bordeaux, for heaven’s sake, but liquid fat. No doubt these oils had been made with great skill, “cold-pressed” and all that, but artichoke? Green tomato? Kiwi?

  Something in my face must have alerted Zaramella to my skepticism. He stubbed out his cigarette, hopped to his feet, took my arm, and steered me into one of the tasting cubicles. “Oil talk sounds like effete nonsense, until you actually put a good oil in your mouth,” he said. He began pouring samples of oil into tulip glasses and placing them on the warmer beside me, capping each with a glass wafer to hold in the aromas. When the thermostat light went out, indicating that the oil had reached twenty-eight degrees, Zaramella showed me the approved oil-tasting technique: how to smell the sample deeply several times, trying to clear the mind between sniffs; how to take a small sip and to roll the oil around with my tongue to coat the inside of my mouth; and how to perform the loud, slurpy strippaggio. From time to time he reminded me to clean my palate with mineral water, or with a bite of a Granny Smith apple.

  For the next hour, under Zaramella’s direction, like someone beginning to study ballet or yoga or violin with a master, I made my first brief foray into the vast, largely uncharted continent of extra virgin olive oil. I learned that oils made from different olive varieties, or from the same varieties grown in different places, can be every bit as diverse as wine from different grape varietals: the straw-colored casaliva oil from Lake Garda was almost sweet, with hints of pine nuts and almonds, while the emerald green moraiolo from central Tuscany was so peppery it left tears in my eyes and a lovely sear at the back of my throat. And sure enough, the tonda iblea from the hills of southeastern Sicily had distinct green tomato and artichoke overtones, just as Zaramella and his colleagues had said. Tasting these oils was like strolling through a botanic garden, touring a perfume factory, and taking a long drive through spring meadows with the windows down, all at the same time—equal parts scientific analysis and lingering, attentive hedonism.

  I raised the last sample Zaramella had poured for me, sniffed it perfunctorily, and sipped. Then, after a swirling moment of bewilderment and dawning disgust, I spat it into the sink. Something was wrong with this oil: after the tart, intensely fresh-tasting essences I’d been trying until now, it felt flabby and coarse in my mouth, and tasted like spoiled fruit.

  Zaramella laughed his gruff laugh. “I brought the supermarket oil last,” he said, “because it would have ruined your palate for the good ones, as surely as if you’d gargled cat piss.”

  He pulled down the brown lab bottles from the shelf on the wall, and set them in a row on the conference table. “Now comes the fun part,” he told me. “You have to figure out precisely what’s wrong with this last oil. It’s like being a detective. Or a coroner.”

  He opened the bottles one by one and handed them to me, telling me to try to memorize each scent. The bottles contained a stunning range of reeks, stenches, and pongs, to which their labels—“rancid,” “fusty,” “winey/vinegary,” “muddy sediment,” “metallic,” “esparto,” “grubby”—hardly did justice. Then, after several bites of the apple and a lot of deep breathing to cleanse my palate, I sampled the oil again, sniffing and tasting and trying to put names t
o its flaws. I thought I recognized several, and jotted them down on a profile sheet.

  When I’d finished, Zaramella drew me out of the cubicle and sat me down at the conference table, seated himself across from me, lit another cigarette, and took a voluptuous drag. He scanned my sheet. “Pretty good,” he grunted, exhaling a cloud of smoke that briefly darkened the room. “‘Rancid’ and ‘fusty’ are both there. But you missed a few. The winey/vinegary is strong, and there’s noticeable muddy sediment, too.” He picked up the bottle of supermarket oil I’d been tasting. “You know, according to the law, if an oil contains just one of these defects—one hint of fusty, a trace of brine—it’s not extra virgin grade. Basta, end of story. In fact, with the flaws this oil has, it’s classed as lampante: ‘lamp oil.’ Which can only be legally sold as fuel: it’s only fit for burning, not eating. Trouble is, the law is never enforced.”

  Suddenly he banged the bottle down on the tabletop, making coffee cups and ashtrays hop and rattle. “This is what nearly everyone in the world thinks is extra virgin olive oil! This stuff is killing quality oil, and putting honest oil-makers out of business. In wine, you can trust the label: if it says ‘Dom Perignon 1964’ then that’s what’s in the bottle, not last month’s Beaujolais Nouveau. In fact, champagne and Beaujolais support each other, spreading the prestige and brand recognition of French wine up and down the quality scale. But olive oil labels all say the same thing, whether the bottle contains a magnificent oil or this schifezza . . .” He pointed the neck of the bottle at me like a gun, then lifted his glasses to read the label. “It says what every olive oil says: 100 percent Italian, cold-pressed, stone-ground, extra virgin . . .”