Guest Post: How a dish I once loved lost its soul under a rain of Instagrammable toppings

Rémi Benedetti can't stand burrata anymore

Photo by Amy Vann on Unsplash

Today’s free read is courtesy of Rémi Benedetti. Rémi is a French writer living in Burgundy and writes for my Medium-housed food and drink publication, Rooted. If you like what you read, you can follow him on Medium (and I highly recommend you do!)

By Rémi Benedetti

I remember very well the first good burrata I ate. Not here in France. Over there. In southern Italy. Just a plate on the table, some bread, a drizzle of olive oil.

I had the strange impression of having finally understood what this cheese everyone was talking about was. No need for roasted figs, seeds or yuzu sauce. It was there, simple and whole. And honestly, it was perfect.

But at this point? I’m over it.

The other evening, dinner with friends. A neat address, the kind that proudly displays its menu on a slate, with the names of producers in brackets. We sat down, chatted and, unsurprisingly, at the top of the starters list. Burrata. Roquette. Balsamic vinegar.

Someone suggests we share it. I nod reflexively. It’s almost become a form of politeness. Refusing a burrata these days is like saying no to a spritz on a terrace. You can do it, but you’re kind of ruining the mood.

The plate arrives. Pretty, well laid out. A plump burrata, a few roasted figs, a drizzle of olive oil, pumpkin seeds here and there, a little edible flower sitting in the middle like a showy hat. It’s beautiful, it’s Instagrammable.

I take a bite. And then… nothing. Texture too firm, taste absent, freshness questionable. It’s an assembled burrata. You can tell it’s traveled. Perhaps too much. Perhaps too quickly.

And most of all, I’m not even tasting the burrata anymore. I’m tasting the toppings, the truffle oil, the fruit, the crunch from the seeds. They’ve dressed it up to make it interesting. As if, on its own, it had nothing left to say

And I find myself thinking, a little ashamed: “why do we still order these things ? Why this Pavlovian reflex?”

Italian star born of local economy

Burrata wasn’t originally a trendy dish. It wasn’t even a marketing idea. It was a solution. A salvaged product.

In the Puglia region of Italy in the 1920s, a mozzarella producer was trying to figure out what to do with his cream and leftover strands of spun pasta. So he wrapped them in a thin mozzarella skin, to preserve them a little better. The whole thing is placed in an asphodel leaf for transport.

Simple, rustic, local. Burrata wasn’t designed to seduce Parisian or New York foodies. It was made not to spoil.

And it was precisely this contrast between the modest intention and the sumptuous result that was beautiful.

Its creamy texture, the freshness of the milk and its distinctive taste made burrata a pure local product, which stood for itself.

Then she traveled and left Puglia. She conquered the rest of Italy. Then Italian restaurants abroad. Then all restaurants, Italian or not. And it became what we now call a must-try.

From rare product to marketing object

The problem isn’t the burrata. It’s what we’ve done with it.

For a while, it was still a discreet little luxury. You’d find it in proper Italian restaurants, next to good prosciutto or a ripe seasonal tomato, with just a simple drizzle of olive oil.

But little by little, it slipped. It became mandatory. A shortcut. An easy solution.

Why do you think that is? Well, because it’s practical. It’s round, so it sits well on the plate. It’s white, so it goes with everything. It doesn’t taste too strong, so it doesn’t bother anyone.

And when it flows (if it flows at all), it gives that impression of generosity, of sensuality, that is so visually pleasing, to me first.

It has become the cheese that doesn’t scare. The one you add to a dish to give it an instant touch of refinement. And worst of all, it’s become decorative.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve seen it enthroned in the center of a plate, surrounded by crunchy vegetables, seeds, fruits, aromas, until you don’t even know what you’re eating. It looks more like a moodboard than an appetizer.

A collective fatigue we’re not quite ready to admit

Despite everything, everyone continues to order it. Out of habit, out of fear of making a mistake or because it’s reassuring. It’s a bit like the charcuterie platter or the industrial hummus at the aperitif. You take it, you eat it, and then you forget all about it.

But deep down, I think a lot of us are fed up with it. We don’t say it too loudly, because it’s a consensual food. But the weariness is there.

The debates on this subject that have been igniting the web are a case in point. Over the past few years, articles, reddit posts and videos have been pouring in to say, sometimes humorously, sometimes with considerable annoyance, what many people are confusedly feeling. We’ve had enough of burrata.

Tammie Teclemariam, New York’ Magazine’s “Underground Gourmet” columnist, published a biting article in 2023 entitled “A Big Fat Blob of Boring”. Humorous and full of bite, it’s an article that’s provoked numerous reactions on the Internet, and I highly recommend it.

Other articles defend burrata or moderate certain comments, insisting that Tammie Teclemariam isn’t attacking burrata directly, but rather that the concern is what it embodies today in a restaurant industry subject to algorithms, fear of risk and lazy marketing.

That feeling of having already tasted it, of having already seen it, of eating a product that has been stripped of its substance to become an object of culinary marketing wins me over every time I’m served burrata in a restaurant.

Industrial Burrata sanitized, standardized, and soulless

And then there’s the question of taste. A good, fresh, local burrata, just out of the factory, is a miracle. But the ones we eat here are pasteurized, standardized, refrigerated for days on end and, inevitably, often tasteless.

The taste of the milk has evaporated, the cream has congealed. It’s a far cry from the original burrata. And yet, we continue to pretend.

A study published in 2016 in the Italian Journal of Food Safety, shows that artisanal burrata differs markedly from its industrial version.

Produced from raw milk and naturally raised cream, artisanal burrata has a lower moisture content, reduced water activity and higher salt concentration. These characteristics enhance its texture, taste and authenticity.

Handmade, with no imposed standardization, artisanal burrata expresses the traditional know-how of each individual cheesemaker.

Industrial burrata, on the other hand, is made from pasteurized milk and UHT cream in a fully mechanized process, and is characterized by a more watery texture, a much lower salt content, and a uniformity which, while guaranteeing better sanitary control, is often to the detriment of richness of taste.

Conversely, artisanal burrata, though more fragile, embodies a lively, local approach to fresh cheese. The quality of artisanal burrata takes precedence over standardization.

Could we take a break?

I don’t want burrata to disappear. I love it too much for that. But as with any relationship that’s a little too close knit, I think we need some space. A little distance.

For a few months, can we stop finding her on every card page? Can we let her breathe and step out of the spotlight to regain some of her mystery?

And above all, can we re-learn how to choose it properly? You can’t order burrata lightly. It has to be earned. You need to know where it comes from, how it’s made and how fresh it is. It’s not meant to be basic and insipid. It’s precious.

And when it’s good, it deserves to be served on its own, or almost. No frills. Just the dish, a little bread, a nice olive oil. Nothing else.

Fortunately, there are still a number of small, traditional producers. They are committed to making the most of their know-how and producing burratas in the purest tradition. And some people, like Claudia Romeo, are determined to bring this authentic culinary heritage to life. The journalist, for Insider Food, takes us on a short documentary journey to meet a traditional burrata producer.

The end of an era? Maybe. And honestly, good riddance

I’m not anti-burrata. I’m anti-banalization. I’m against this reflex that pushes us to always order the same thing, to want to please everyone, to look for smooth, risk-free dishes.

It’s not my idea of cooking. And today, burrata doesn’t provoke anything. It has become a neutral product. A perfect match with no surprises.

Tonight, I’m in the mood for something different. A slightly livelier fromage frais. A runny goat’s cheese, a homemade ricotta, a slightly dry pecorino with a glass of full-bodied white wine. I want to rediscover the surprise, the emotion, the taste.

And who knows? In a few months, on a summer’s evening, maybe I’ll come across a real burrata again. A beautiful burrata. And my heart will melt again. Just like on the first day.