This may come as a surprise to non-Italians, but "polentone" is actually an insult. "Big polenta" or "polenta eater" may seem like mild stuff, but it's a pejorative term used by southern Italians to raise the hackles of their northern compatriots. Think of describing a French person as a "frog" or a German as a "kraut," insults that are also based on food preferences. The northern equivalent for southerners, "terrone," also lacks a suitable translation, but is equally, if not more, insulting.
The tension between northern and southern Italians may surprise many non-Italians, who tend to think of Italians as a homogeneous mass. This notion coudn't be further from the truth, especially in the minds of Italians themselves. This is, after all, the country that invented "campanilismo," extreme devotion not merely to one's region or city, but to the area within earshot of the local campanile, or church bell tower. In Rome, for example, your typical aventino believes that your average esquilina may as well be from another planet, not a different hill. You can imagine, then, the chasm that exists between a napoletano and a milanese.
This tension manifests itself most noticeably in three areas: politics, soccer, and food. Italian politics is a muddle, but it also most explicitly reflects the differences between the regions. The Lega Nord, or Northern League, has risen to prominence by giving voice to northern dissatisfaction with the south. At its most extreme, some in this coalition have even called for independence for Padania, their name for the northern third of Italy. This party is not a marginal one. It holds seats in both the Chamber of Deputies and the Senate, and helped to bring Silvio Berlusconi to power, for which it was awarded positions in cabinet. The League's message has softened over time -- it now emphasizes decentralization over independence -- but its popularity testifies to rifts in the belpaese.
Soccer is a notorious vehicle for sublimating broader social, political and religious tensions. One need look no further than the rivalries between Real Madrid and FC Barcelona or Celtic and Rangers, proxies for the battles between Castillians and Catalonians and Catholics and Protestants respectively (How Soccer Explains the World, by Franklin Foer explores this idea in depth). Italian soccer is no different. In A Season with Verona, expat British author Tim Parks chronicles the highs and lows of following his favourite team, Hellas Verona, up and down Italy for one season. The book offers insights into the strained relationship between north and south, filtered through the lens of the beautiful game and the tifosi obsessed with it. While visiting Catania, which, being in Sicily, is about as far south as you can go in Italy, Parks is struck by a newspaper editorial lamenting the return of the Veronesi. "'We must form a common front against these northern barbarians," the article blares. Why the harsh reception? Because at the last match, when volcanic eruptions from Mount Etna threatened the Sicilian city, the Veronese fans brought banners saying Forza Etna ['Go Etna']."
Politics and soccer aside, we come to food. Anyone familiar with Italian cuisine is well aware that "Italian food" is not a monolithic entity. It is, rather, a collection of regional cuisines, many of which bear almost no relation to one another. The Arab and North African roots of the Sicilian kitchen, for example, are completely foreign to the Austrian-influenced dishes of Trentino Alto Adige. There are some ties that loosely bind Italy's diverse culinary traditions -- wheat pasta being the most obvious -- but all regions pride themselves on the distinctive ingredients and techniques that distinguish their local fare.
Throughout much of the north, one of those traditions is polenta. Polenta is textbook Italian -- a rustic dish with peasant roots that's adaptable to a limitless variety of sauces and preparations and is a snap to make. Great. Sort of.
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