Rachele FalchiHow to Assassinate an Island in the Time It Takes for a Heartbeat
Highly controversial content. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I’ve been living in Turin for four years. I’m Sardinian. But I only rediscovered my Sardinian identity after I left the island. It’s true what they say: you don’t really understand something until you leave it behind. Distance gave me a clearer view of my homeland—its history, culture, cuisine, and most of all, the beauty of its people. My people. It’s hard to feel at home when you’re far from your real home. And yet, here I am, consumed by a constant thread of tense nostalgia mixed with loneliness (because in Sardinia, you’re never really alone. You realize that only when you are).
Today, I gave in to temptation. I want Sardinian food. Turin is the perfect place to explore cuisines from every corner of the world. They’re rarely disappointing. But maybe, just maybe, I’d been lying in wait for this city to slip up—ready to catch it in the act. And, Your Honor, here it is: the smoking gun.
First, the location. The outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood caught between a last gasp of bourgeoisie and the overwhelming tide of pop culture (and I mean the poppiest of pop). The area isn’t exactly charming, but it’s got enough rough edges to seem authentic. I think to myself: this could be the jackpot.
I walk in, full of hope. The sign, featuring the iconic Four Moors, promises a taste of Sardinia in all its glory. The restaurant has a name like “Sa Domu” or “Su Redentore” or some other generic riff on the island’s identity. I’m expecting the aroma of myrtle, the poetry of pane guttiau breaking into crisp, blissful fragments, an ode to aged pecorino, or the heavenly scent of slow-roasted porcetto elevated to pure carnal art.
My first encounter is with a woman who is anything but welcoming—in fact, she’s downright pissed off. Pocket-sized and wiry, with a shock of short, asymmetrically-cut, ice-colored hair. Her face is hardened further by harshly tattooed black eyebrows. She’s definitely the boss here.
“Is it still possible to eat lunch?” I ask, feigning a politeness I don’t feel (because, let’s be real, it’s 1:20 PM and the place closes at 2:30 PM). She scans the room as if checking for witnesses, asks the kitchen if “there’s still something left” (uh-oh), and when the answer is yes, she skewers me with a pointed “P-R-E-G-O” that hits me right between the eyes. Is there some kind of secret mafia meeting happening in the dining room, and my presence is unwelcome? Whatever. A waiter promptly leads me to my table.
On the way, my eyes land on the chalkboard menu listing the day’s specials. My heart cracks.
Three starters, three mains, three sides. Twelve euros. Twelve euros. Stuff like plin (Piedmontese ravioli), veal with tuna sauce, anchovies with parsley, carbonara, lasagna, scallopini, breaded cutlet, fries. Blah blah blah. All that’s missing is a compost bin. I don’t even want to imagine how tired the frying oil must be. It’s probably clocked at least 150,000 kilometers by now. There’s no other way you could sustain a twelve-euro menu.
I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to storm out, cursing in Sassarese at full volume. But I’m hungry, and I’ve got an appointment nearby in an hour. It’s freezing outside, with snow in the forecast. “Hold on,” I tell myself. This must be the cheap lunch menu for locals who don’t feel like cooking or market vendors grabbing a quick bite. They must have a proper menu true to what the sign out front promises.
The waiter pressures me to order before I’ve even managed to take off my coat. He rattles off the same dismal list of cafeteria fare I saw on the chalkboard.
“Do you have a Sardinian dish?” I ask confidently. And that’s when the first sign of complete betrayal hits: “It’ll take a long time,” he warns. A LONG TIME, he said.
The waiter’s expression leaves no room for doubt. This isn’t the kind of warning that precedes a lovingly prepared meal. It’s a veiled threat: “DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT.”
But I’m stubborn—hard as the granite of Bechidda, determined as a Sardinian mountain goat, and proud as a shepherd from Austis. I persist. At this point, it’s a matter of principle.
The Culinary Disaster: Brooklyn Bridge Culurgiones
The culurgiones (Sardinian stuffed pasta) are all they can offer. I agree. Diauru!
Since I have to wait, I take a moment to observe my surroundings. The restaurant is split into two sections: purgatory and hell. Paradise must still be under construction.
The first room is like a thousand other mediocre restaurants—nothing special, but it has warm lighting, and the tables are decently set. At some point, though, they clearly decided to expand, broke through a wall, and slapped together the adjoining space, which must’ve been a garage. They made no effort to disguise this fact. The furniture is shabby, the lighting is icy, and the temperature matches. The place settings are worthy of a gas station kitchen on the outskirts of Kolkata.
All the lunch patrons are exiled to the garage. Clearly, we’re here to atone for some unspeakable sin. Comfort and care? Not for us.
There are maybe fifteen people in total, scattered across four or five tables. A couple of men in work uniforms eat in silence at one. Then there’s the couple at the table next to mine—a glorious contradiction. Their age is hard to pin down, maybe sixty to eighty. She’s rail-thin, missing teeth (and fashion sense), frumpy but decked out in jewelry. He’s a bit more polished, clearly still vain, but radiating decay. If they were wearing slippers, it wouldn’t surprise me. They’re talking about someone they plan to visit soon in New York, reminiscing about a dish they loved there. They’re at ease with the waiter, clearly regulars.
I wait for my culurgiones. Because if Sardinia teaches you anything, it’s that time is an ingredient in its own right. I imagine the filling—that delicate alchemy of potato, pecorino, and mint; the dough, hand-stitched like a dream.
Finally, the plate arrives.
The Scene of a Crime
Four sad, shriveled lumps. Deformed. Mangled. Drenched in a bucketful of rancid tomato sauce.
Unu raju chi ti falede!
I push forward and take a bite. I can recall chewing gum under the Brooklyn Bridge with more passion. They’re hard, unchewable, and flavorless.
Honestly, I’d have preferred if they’d hurled them at me straight from the freezer, like a stone-throwing ambush. At least it would’ve been honest.
The Hypocrisy
Sardinian identity isn’t just a decorative detail. It’s not about slapping the Four Moors on a sign, stocking some Cannonau or Ichnusa, and hanging a few photos of nuraghes on the wall.
Sardinia doesn’t settle for mediocrity. Every authentic dish carries centuries of stories, traditions, and uncompromising flavors. But here, it’s all been stripped down to a hollow name, slapped on to lure curious or unsuspecting diners. This is the epitome of tasteless vulgarity and rudeness—yes, even Sardinia has that. But exporting it? That’s too much.
The Committee for Sardinian Integrity
At this point, my indignation is so great that I start fantasizing about drastic measures. Culinary authoritarianism, diauru! Let’s protect the island not just from energy exploitation but from gastronomic exploitation too. Let’s establish the Committee for Sardinian Integrity.
A council of grandmothers, tradition-keepers, and visionary chefs armed with aprons, ladles, Sardinian knives (pattadesi), and an iron will. Any restaurant claiming to be “Sardinian” would face a rigorous exam—a mix of cultural interrogation and practical tests. The committee would be composed of representatives from every region of Sardinia:
- Ziu Baroreddu “Su Nuraghe” Pischeddu
“Bring the wine—nothing works without wine!” - Tzia Mariuccia “Sa Culurgionesa” Piras
“Culurgiones aren’t ravioli—there’s a difference!” - Bobboreddu “Sa Bottarga” Marras
“I’ll handle the bottarga and the bill!” - Tzia Antonia “Carasau” Nieddu
“It’s carasau, not crackers!” - Gavineddu “Su Mirto” Angius
“Myrtle isn’t liquor—it’s medicine!” - Ciprianeddu “Su Casu” Dettori
“Few, mad, and strong cheese!” - Tzia Maria “Panada” Satta
“The panada is the answer to everything.” - Ziu Bachischeddu “Su Cannonau” Serra
“Two glasses of Cannonau a day keep the doctor away!” - Tzia Pasca “Tunnu” Demuru
“Tuna is not sushi!”
- Tzia Maria “Panada” Satta
“The panada is the answer to everything.” - Ziu Bachischeddu “Su Cannonau” Serra
“Two glasses of Cannonau a day keep the doctor away!” - Tzia Pasca “Tunnu” Demuru
“Tuna is not sushi!”
If you don’t pass the test, no Four Moors for you. Strip away every reference to the island. Take down the flag and crawl on your knees over jagged rocks (innorammara, no less).
Sardinia Is Not for Everyone
Do you understand me?
The truth is, Sardinia demands respect. Its identity isn’t a brand or a trend. It’s history, tradition, and pride woven into every dish, every gesture, every word. If you can’t honor that, then just call yourself something else. But Sardinia? Sardinia is sacred ground.
Postscript:
Oh, and one last note for those outside Turin. There’s a peculiar regionalism in Piedmontese Italian that might confuse you unless you’ve lived here long enough: “il più” (literally “the more”) is often used to quantify something specific, like a single item or a limited quantity. For example: “Sono a corto di pacchi di pasta in dispensa, ne ho solo più uno” translates to “I’m out of pasta in the pantry; I’ve only got one left.”
This is why, dear Sardinian-Piedmontese restaurateur, all you have left of Sardinia is just più the flip-flops.
