Modernization and Mass Production are not the same thing
/It’s easy to get lulled by the image, isn’t it? A stone wheel turned by a mule, placidly grinding olives into mash that will then drip fragrant oil into waiting tin buckets? The image and the product become blurred, and it’s easy to assume that oil is the platonic ideal of oil—genuine, sincere; ever so much better than the product turned out by sleek machines.
The problem is, that’s not necessarily true. First of all, who uses mules to turn mill stones anymore? Second of all, do you really want mule sweat in your oil?
Enormous stone mills don’t exist anymore, and even if they could be recreated, would it be fair of us as consumers to demand that our products be manufactured by methods so antiquated, so labor and cost inefficient, without being willing to pay for the privilege of imagining an outdated scene?
Then again, those sleek machines that focus on labor and cost efficiency often translate into a product that is a pale imitation of the original. We all know the dangers of mass produced good with their cut corners, and how that often results in products with added thickeners to create the illusion of body and colorants to trick the eye into thinking the brightly-colored product is fresh.
The thing is, modernization doesn’t have to mean losing sight of sincerity and it doesn’t have to mean the death of authenticity. In fact, modernization can be a way to recreate and preserve the kind of authentic product that once was as easily accessed as a label on a bottle of wine.
Where modernization succeeds is as a response to a desire for quality without compromise, for the consistency in short supply with old school methods, when temperature fluctuations or ambient bacteria impacted the finished result. When there is thought and intention and a passion to have the present serve the past, when there is respect and honoring of the roots of tradition, not just the trappings of it, that is where modernization can ironically take us back to the quality of yesteryear.
All of this hit me like a thunderclap as I watched grass-hued olive oil spill from a spigot at Frantoio Filippi.
It’s funny…I lived in Spello for a year, I cheered the parade of tractors pulling olive trees strung with fish and oranges, I laughed along with my children that they got the day off school to celebrate bread and oil. Even with all this, I still I didn’t get it.
Not until I stood in that gleaming frantoio did I understand the importance of olives to an Umbrian community. Not until I tasted the exquisitely peppery olive oil drizzled on bread and listened to Oriette, whose family owns the mill, describe that they built the room we sat in as a way to encourage the celebration and communion that goes hand-in-hand with the pressing of the oil, and listened to my friend Cristiana from Ciao, Andiamo add that her family used to gather at the mill with neighbors to wait all night for that first taste of oil, did I understand how deeply rooted the harvest and the pressing are to the people who work the land. Not until I looked around the table at the faces of my friends and my children and my husband their faces beaming at the crunch and give of the bread drizzled with a fall of green oil did I understand that olive oil season, it doesn’t last as long as there is oil in the bottle.
The olive oil you have in your pantry, that I have in my pantry, that everyone has in their pantry six months from now bears no resemblance to the oil pouring of the Frantoio Filippi’s spigot in front of my eyes. Because while yes, darkness and lack of oxygen help preserve the new oil’s characteristics, it will nonetheless degrade over time. And so new oil is as seasonal as strawberries. Once the season is over the flavor dulls, the texture loosens. The oil becomes a pale facsimile of itself.
This room, that tradition of expectation for that burst of flavor, shared together, it all clicked into place.
This explains why Umbrians get so excited when the harvest begins, why I see Sauro grinning from ear to ear as he washes the drum that will be used to store the oil from the olives he’ll collect next week. Umbrians are licking their collective lips, ready to taste a flavor they haven’t had in a year—oil, freshly pressed.
That olive and bread celebration that Spello holds every year, but this one—thanks COVID—now I understand it, in a way I couldn’t before. The tradition of harvesting olives, of pressing that new oil, of breathless expectation, of that first taste, together. Well, what could be more worthy of expectation?
And so witnessing how this history and this tradition is kept alive in a frantoio that combines tradition with technology like Frantoio Filippi…I understand it’s importance to keep the old ways alive in a new time, with new twists.
I’ve made a video because nothing compares to seeing olive oil being made, but I’ll outline Frantoio Filippi’s process here as well.
First, the contadini bring their crates of olives to the mill, and a tractor dumps them into a cage set in the floor. The ramp carries the olives up and into the first machine which separates the leaves from the fruit. From here, they get washed, and then they are divided into two processors, one that hammers and one with crushing disks, both create a paste from the olives (they can be adjusted for the kind of olive to make the most of piquancy). The pastes are combined to enhance the complex flavor, and put into a drum to knead for 25 minutes to extract the oil in a vaccuum, avoiding oxygenation and keeping the temperature consistent. Heat, you should know, like light, is the enemy of olive oil, which is why olive oil is often sold in tins and you are advised to store it away from a heat source.
Once the kneading is complete, the paste moves to a centrifuge which separates the oil from the water produced by the crushed olives. From here it spills into a gleaming basin, forty-five minutes after the olives first fell into the chute.
Forty-five minutes! From olives dropped to oil captured. It’s just enough time to sample the new oil and also to have a conversation with Oriette about her family’s business. It’s distracting, of course, to hold an interview then the air is laced with the scent of olive oil and there is still a piece of glistening bruschetta on the table, but, for you, I persisted.
The frantoio’s story begins with Orietta’s grandfather, Francesco, who was nicknamed Manso (hence the name on one of their oils). Francesco was a simple, country farmer, like many in the region. What he grew sustained his family—wine, olive oil, even animals. Unlike many farmers, though, he was well known, since he sold his products to restaurants around big cities like Spoleto and Foligno. He gained a reputation for being like the ancient stone mill he used to press his olive oil (long abandoned)—humble, but with a strong force of will.
It’s been 25 years since Francesco passed away, but still his battles, even with his son, Orietta’s father, have taken on the patina of legend. After his death, he left the territory—the vines and trees and equipment—to the family. Orietta’s father took charge and ran it on his own for years, but it became more and more difficult to manage, and eventually the family decided to turn it into a project together.
And really, it’s their life blood. When I asked Orietta how she decided to join the family pursuit, she said that it felt like a free choice that she couldn’t imagine making any other way. She was born into this, raised by this, and she cannot picture doing any other work.
The mill is run now by her brother, her father (who we saw walking around outside), her mother standing in the frantoio, and her husband, who was born in Perugia, but loves the sport of learning and adapting new processes to continually improve the oil.
Orietta and Max from Ciao, Andiamo in Umbria, Italy
I asked how her father felt about using modern methods for what has historically been an ancient process. After all, older generations can sometimes be reluctant to embrace technology. I know very few older people in Spello with email. But Orietta smiled and said all they had to do was explain to her father that there were many, many mills in the area, but that farmers weren’t satisfied with their options. They needed a place to mill their olives where the oil, the quality of the oil, would be paramount. Where their labor would be respected.
This family, under the ever-present arm of Francesco’s legacy, knows in their bones that when a farmer brings his olives to the mill, those olives represent their union with the earth, a kind of symbiosis, as well as a journey—the work of an entire year of caring for their vital crop. Olives are a fruit that enrich the table—this is so primary, so elemental, that it would be impossible to consider buying oil from the supermarket.
Orietta’s father agreed. They must care for the farmers, respect their oil by pressing each farmer’s oil separately so that those that spend their lives shepherding olives can celebrate the fruits of their own labor.
This fit in with Orietta’s fathers dream, of turning the building beside his father’s ancestral home, that once made beams, into a place where the contadini could gather, to celebrate. Because, remember, that’s traditionally a time of waiting together with other farmers, sharing a meal, hungry for that first taste of new oil.
And so his dream became their dream. And their dream became his dream. And all of this was fueled by a desire to protect and celebrate the farmers who entrusted them with their precious crops, their olives.
The room is complete now, almost as long again as the room with the pressing equipment. Orietta’s face alights as she talks about the wait for the oil, and how when it comes pouring out, it’s a party. With that first taste of oil, that first taste of bruschetta, contadini invite in people from outside to celebrate. It’s a moment full of humanity.
The farmers take most of the oil home—it’s only green and new for a limited time, but it’s used all year and longer. Some of the oil stays at the frantoio, as their cut, so to speak. That oil is bottled to sell to consumers (like us!) and even a cursory glance at those bottles illustrates that at Frantoio Filippi, every detail is considered. Nothing is done because it’s “always been done that way”, rather the family thinks through the why, why things are traditionally done. Olive oil bottles are usually dark to prevent light from degrading the oil so quickly, but they usually are festooned with labels boasting images of olives. That last part is irrelevant to quality, and in fact, the family wants to showcase that this oil is a little different, a little more thoughtful and intentional. So the bottle is darker than bottles usually are, with a top for pouring that allows in very little air. most dramatic is the shape of the bottle, rather than the label (thought the label is clever, harkening back to the old school way of pressing oil). It’s simple, but rich in detail.
There have been even more modernizations in the form of energy efficiency. The frantoio is powered by solar panels and the water created in the process of making oil, along with the water used for washing the olives, is recycled in the form of irrigation. Even the olive paste debris is reused, reformed as pellets for stoves.
Her father agreed to all these ideas, in fact, Orietta laughs that she thinks all this adapting is keeping him young. Her voice grows serious again as she emphasizes—
Olive oil isn’t a condiment. It’s a food—a complete element. Deserving of care and presentation worthy of its importance. This kind of oil, anyway. Unfortunately there are other sold in markets that are forged, manipulated. The oil at Frantoio Filippi is simple—olives in, olive oil out. They don’t have a lot of quantity, but what they make is excellent. That is what gives them peace.
So you see, modernization doesn’t have to mean the death of authenticity. Instead, it can be a logical outgrowth, a way to preserve the past in the passion of today.
As I left, Cristiana pulled my elbow and suggested we drizzle our new oil on tagliatelle for dinner. Never one to let anyone down, this is exactly what we did. Here’s what’s funny, one of my favorite comfort foods is pasta with garlic and pepper flakes sautéed in olive oil. Not until I sat down with my plate of tagliatelle drizzled with new oil and a sprinkle of salt did I realize, my spaghetti alla diavola is but a way to recreate the joy of new oil. Because that green oil, it has the bite of garlic and the pepperiness of red pepper flakes.
It is complete.
