There Is No Such Thing as Italian Cuisine

A few years ago, I took a cooking class in the town of Lecce in the Salento region of Puglia (the heel of the boot of Italy). We learned how to make orecchiette pasta with various sauces and other local specialties. At one point, my teacher mentioned that just 20 minutes away there was a town whose residents spoke an entirely different native language and cooked a cuisine unlike anything in Lecce—one they guarded fiercely with zero interest in assimilating to anyone else’s way of eating. They were perfectly content in their own bubble.

It got me thinking about my own culinary experiences—having traveled all of Italy’s 20 regions and devoured the wildly divergent landscape of gastronomic traditions. From the four famous pastas of Rome to the red-sauce pots of Napoli, from risotto Milanese to pesto alla Genovese, from Sicilian caponata to ragù Bolognese, and on and on. If you’re paying even the slightest bit of attention, you’ll notice that every region boasts its own singular trove of dishes, often so specific that you can’t find them anywhere else—sometimes not even in the next town over.

Yet outside of Italy, we tend to lump this massive variety into one tiny bucket: Italian Cuisine. When you imagine “Italian,” do you see spaghetti and meatballs? A steaming heap of lasagna, pizza, cannoli, or gelato? Or mortadella, prosciutto, arancini, risotto, pesto, carbonara, polenta? This list is just scratching the surface in a country that is beyond obsessed with food—and, crucially, it doesn’t all go together under one neat umbrella.

So while it’s fair to say that a restaurant serving dishes from Italy can be labeled “Italian,” I’d argue that we do a disservice by pretending there’s such a thing as a monolithic Italian cuisine. Below, I’ll lay out a detailed argument for why we need to stop classifying it as such in favor of getting local.

The Risorgimento: ITALY’S UNIFICATION

Our journey begins with some history. It’s important to note that Italy wasn’t even Italy until a little over 150 years ago. The patchwork of local traditions, micro-regions, feuding states, and foreign influences left us with a dizzying array of dishes that share only the label “Made in Italy.” To fully understand how we got here, we need to talk about how Italy became Italy—namely, through the Risorgimento. Never heard of it? Not surprising. It’s one of those historical terms that most folks skip over in their rush to the Sistine Chapel.

In the simplest terms, the Risorgimento was the 19th-century movement that cobbled together a bunch of independent states, duchies, and kingdoms into a single nation called Italy. The official date of unification was in 1861, though some argue the process dragged on (and on) for the decades that followed. It was driven by revolutionary ideas, secret societies, and strong personalities— Giuseppe Garibaldi (the flamboyant general), Count Camillo di Cavour (the strategic statesman), and Giuseppe Mazzini (the ideological dreamer). They shared a vision: unify the peninsula that had been carved up by foreign powers, local aristocrats, and even the Pope himself.

For centuries, this territory was a hot mess of political boundaries. The north was under the sway of the Austrian Empire, central regions were controlled by the Papal States, and the south was ruled by the Bourbon monarchy, among others. Add to that the islands of Sicily and Sardinia, each with distinct governing structures, languages, and cultural influences—Greek, Arab, Spanish, and more—and you can see why forging a single, cohesive identity was like herding cats.

Here’s the kicker: unification did not erase regional culinary traditions. Italy was politically consolidated, but the mountains, rivers, and downright stubborn local pride kept each region’s cuisine relatively isolated. The north used more butter and cream, the south leaned heavily on olive oil and tomatoes, and central regions had their own flair with hearty soups and offal. There was never a moment where everyone said, “Hey, we’re one country now, let’s standardize the lasagna recipe.” As Italians began traveling more within their newly minted borders, they realized just how alien certain regional dishes were—even to other Italians.

THE ITALIAN BRAND

Once Italy officially became a single nation, the world’s gaze quickly settled on this newly unified peninsula with all its scenic splendor, compelling history, and cultural vivacity. In many ways, the creation of a united Italy sparked its own version of a collective dream—an aspirational identity that promised to elevate impoverished southerners and small-town dwellers into the glamorous fold of “La Dolce Vita.” Film, fashion, and a newfound pride in Italian artistry exploded onto the global stage, painting a seductive picture of stylish people zipping around on Vespas and sipping espresso in sun-dappled piazzas.

Underneath this polished surface, though, the old divides never really vanished. The industrialized north—once under Austrian sway—flexed its newfound unity and prosperity, often belittling the south, even referring to everything south of Rome as “Africa.” Meanwhile, southerners, who had endured centuries of political marginalization, resented being lumped into a country that didn’t fully understand their struggles—or their cooking. Italy’s brand-new national image may have given them a sense of belonging on paper, but local loyalties and economic realities told another story.

Thanks to Italian immigrants spreading out across the globe, the myth of a single, unified Italy took root abroad. A potent blend of Hollywood glamour, high fashion, and romanticized folklore made it easy for outsiders to assume there was one “Italian way”—a single cultural tapestry of perfect pasta, tailored suits, and rolling Tuscan hills. But beneath the shiny veneer of that fractal puzzle of fiercely distinct regions continued to define what Italians actually how they lived, and how they ate.

REGIONAL GASTRONOMY:

In truth, to appreciate Italy’s kaleidoscopic culinary landscape, we need to shift our focus from postcard images to the regional kitchens. Let’s explore some of the most iconic regions to see just how wildly they differ—and why the notion of ‘Italian Cuisine’ starts to unravel.

Sicily: A Cultural Mosaic on a Plate

The southernmost tip on that triangular gem kicked by the Italian boot. Sicily is like a living encyclopedia of all the cultures that ever set foot on its shores: Greek colonies, Arab conquerors, Norman knights, Spanish kings. One day you’re feasting on arancini (or arancine, depending on where you stand in Sicily’s name debate), and the next you’re savoring sweet-and-sour caponata. On the western coast, couscous even makes an appearance, a direct nod to Arab influence. Sicily isn’t just “Italian food”; it’s a tapestry of the Mediterranean, stitched together by centuries of cross-cultural pollination. The sun-drenched hills, robust and hearty people, and rich history have truly impacted a unique Sicilian cuisine.

Naples: The Red-Sauce Epicenter and Birth of Pizza

Fly over the volcanic chain from Etna to Vesuvius into Campania, home to Naples—the face of “Italian” food in many global imaginations. Why? Pizza and tomato sauce. But it’s deeper than a crust and a smear of sauce. Naples was once the capital of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies, thriving on volcanic soil that produced bountiful tomatoes – prized around the world, plus the fresh catch from the bay. Add pastries like sfogliatella and the revered babà, and you can see why Neapolitan cuisine is so ubiquitous. If your notion of “Italian” is a simmering pot of tomato sauce, join the devout worshipping at the Neapolitan altar. No other region has impacted the global perception of Italian cuisine than Napoli.

Rome: City of Four Pastas and Offal Obsessions

Head north to the Eternal City, and you’ll be greeted by its famed pasta quadrilogy: cacio e pepe, carbonara, gricia, and amatriciana. Each is a masterclass in simplicity with pecorino cheese, black pepper, guanciale, and eggs at the core. But don’t ignore Rome’s passion for offal. Historically, the upper classes got the prime cuts, so the working folk made do with the rest—the quinto quarto (fifth quarter). That gave birth to legendary dishes like trippa alla romana (tripe) and coda alla vaccinara (oxtail stew). But let’s be honest, who among us ever really knew anything about cacio e pepe until about 10-15 years ago? Romans we're eating it, but tourists were being served spaghetti, ravioli, and lasagna for decades because that’s what we thought we should eat.

Puglia: The Heel of the Boot

Down in Puglia, you’ll sense yet another culinary world. Known for its endless olive groves, Puglia churns out some of Italy’s finest olive oil. Then there’s the infamous spaghetti all’assassina—“assassin’s spaghetti”—pan-fried until crispy in tomato sauce, an intense dish unique to the town Bari. You simply cannot find it anywhere else (except on TikTok these days). Puglia also prides itself on orecchiette with turnip greens, pillowy burrata cheese, taralli, caciocavallo cheese, and so much more. And there are places like Altamura, which simply blows my mind. Mention it to most Italians and they will immediately reply “oh yes, they have the best bread in Italy”. That’s it. A town known for bread and little else. And they are right, the bread is stupid good.

Emilia-Romagna vs. Piemonte: The Heavyweight Fight for Culinary Supremacy

In any discussion on regional Italian food, two giants stand head and shoulders above the culinary capitals of Italy. They share similarities, but in true Italian form, diverge into specialities that define their distinct characters. Emilia-Romagna sits atop a mountain of gastronomic powerhouses: prosciutto di Parma, balsamico from Modena, and the almighty Parmigiano Reggiano. Their pastas run the gamut from porky tortellini to eggy tagliatelle, topped with the legendary ragú bolognese. The processes and ingredients are so precious that their production are mostly controlled by laws like the DOP.

Bordering ER on the northwest is Piemonte (Piedmont)—equally legendary but with a slightly different vibe. Here, tajarin (thin, egg-rich noodles) and agnolotti (little pasta pillows often stuffed with meat) can stand toe-to-to with their neighbor’s pasta offerings. But where Piemonte flexes is with its truffles (the white ones from Alba are worth their weight in gold), top-tier chocolate (think Gianduja), robust wines like Barolo and Barbera, and, oh yeah, hazelnuts that put Nutella on the map. It would be hard to choose who reigns supreme between these two and I’m just thankful they both exist.

Tuscany, Umbria, and Liguria: MORE, MORE, MORE

It would be easy to keep going on with the list, but I think a couple of honorable mentions should suffice. Tuscany is synonymous with rustic fare—bistecca alla fiorentina, hearty bean soups, ribollita, and robust Chianti wines. Umbria quietly steals hearts with black truffles, wild game (particularly cingale / wild boar), and earthy country fare. Meanwhile, Liguria is home to the sacred pesto alla Genovese, along with a crispy focaccia stuffed with gooey cheese. ZOMG.

American Italian: Fuhgeddaboudit

So here’s the elephant in the room: Italian-American cuisine—a category all its own. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, waves of Southern Italian immigrants from Campania, Sicily, and beyond brought their recipes to the United States. But local ingredients differed—beef was cheaper, tomatoes tasted different, and certain cheeses weren’t readily available. So they improvised.

This morphed into massive meatballs, chicken parm, and garlic bread. In Italy, garlic tends to play a subtler role, but in America, it became the starring ingredient. Over time, these dishes evolved into comfort food for immigrant families determined to make sure nobody in the New World went hungry like they did back home.

By the mid-20th century, the Italian-American restaurant—often decked out in red-checkered tablecloths—became an icon. Plates piled high with spaghetti and meatballs became a nationwide emblem of Italian identity, even though that combination is more American than Roman. Fettuccine Alfredo? Loosely Roman in origin, but the version you see stateside is a far cry from what you’ll find in the backstreets of the Eternal City. These adaptations aren’t better or worse; they’re simply different, shaped by immigration patterns, economics, and nostalgia. But let’s be clear, this is not Italian food.

When in Rome…

I travel for the simple reason that I seek to gain a glimpse into the ways of other cultures. The more time I spend in a place, the more details come into focus. Subtleties are my goal. Food is a cultural, historical, anthropological, societal lens into which we can piece together perspective on tradition, relationship, commerce, and community. Understand the way a culture eats and you understand a culture.

The key to understanding Italy is to embrace the notion of When in Rome [do as the Roman’s do]. I’ve made it my obsession to seek the origin story (like eating all’assassina in the restaurant where it was invented and the one where it was perfected). I will drive three hours, each way, to try Pepe in Grani’s groundbreaking pizza in the suburbs of Napoli. I will stop at the roadside Latteria in Puglia where a school girl doing her homework pauses to open the little cheese shop for only me, attached to her family’s farmhouse, so I can buy the freshest-straight-from-the-cow’s-ass-burrata you’ll ever find.

Now extrapolate the idea of When in Rome to When In… and here’s where Italy (or any other country for that matter - think Thailand, China, Spain, the USA) opens up. Think global but eat local. When we stop thinking of Italian Cuisine, we can start appreciating regional cuisine as it actually is meant to be. I’m the first one to admit that chicken parm is my spirit animal. I’ll kill for a good parm. But that’s a New York / New Jersey (and Dana Tana’s in LA) dish. It not on any menu in Florence. And if it is, the best advice I can give is to move the fuck along and go find yourself a hearty bowl of ribollita and chop it up with some locals.