Dear friends of the stove, die-hard foodies, Instagram chefs, and gourmets with sharp forks: today I take off my consummate critic’s coat and pick up my (digital) pen to confess a sin of love—and rebellion.
Yes, I admit it: I love burrata. I love its uncontrollable softness, its creamy heart that spreads like a whisper on warm bread, the slight contrast between the stretched curd and the cream inside. It is a small dairy masterpiece, and it should not be treated as just any supporting role — it deserves respect, it deserves space, it deserves silence and poetry.
But today — alas — I struggle to recognize it. Because burrata has become the wild card ingredient, the “universal snail” that is printed on pizza, focaccia, risotto, crudités, fish, meat, desserts (yes, I’ve seen ice cream with burrata) — and, when the script calls for it, they even sprinkle pistachio grains on top as if it were a sacrosanct addition.
When adoration degenerates into obsession
I peeked at the web, not surreptitiously: with a critical eye. I’m not the only one turning up my nose. In a recent article, Leonardo Romanelli thunders (here): “Burrata is everywhere, enough is enough!”, denouncing a danger: “Its abuse risks debasing the very thing that makes it special.”
And how true those words are. When every dish—from the most daring to the most mundane—is crowned with burrata, it creates a “milky inflation,” a culinary hyperbole that numbs the palate and dulls creativity. It becomes an aesthetic quirk, a gastronomic cliché used to seduce visually, rather than a thoughtful combination that adds value to a dish.
Don’t get me wrong: I’m not disputing burrata, I celebrate its value. I dispute its indiscriminate militancy: its contribution to a recipe must be justified, not imposed by the fashions of the moment. If I put burrata on a tuna tartare, taking care to maintain the balance, I can applaud. If I find it on top of an egg salad, I say “stop everything.”
Pistachio grains: friend or foe?
And now we come to the corollary (or the bête noire): chopped pistachios. Ah, chopped pistachios! Never before have they been so overused as a decorative fiasco: “A touch of green, crunchy, extremely Instagrammable” — says the modern script — “the crunchy touch” — as the foodies would say.
But let’s be clear: pistachios are delicious when used in moderation, toasted, fragrant — but they cannot be the crunchy equivalent of a tribute icon. In too many recipes (pizza, fish, meat), chopped pistachios are thrown in like confetti, without any harmonious reason. Be careful: it’s not that “more is better” — no, often “too much is too much.” Remember that in cooking, when in doubt, it’s always better to take some off.
When a dish calls for sweetness, acidity, saltiness, aroma, umami, and texture, and I end up with burrata topped with chopped pistachios as if it were an edible hedgehog, I realize that something is wrong.
And it’s not playful romanticism: it’s consistency in the service of taste.
The duty of balance (and cunning)
And now we come to the corollary (or bête noire): chopped pistachios. Ah, chopped pistachios! Never before have they been so overused as a garnish: “A touch of green, crunchy, extremely Instagrammable”—as the modern script goes—“the crunchy touch”—as gourmets would say.
But let’s be clear: pistachios are delicious when used in moderation, toasted, fragrant — but they cannot be the crunchy equivalent of a tribute icon. In too many recipes (pizza, fish, meat), chopped pistachios are added like confetti, without any harmonious reason. Be careful: it’s not that “more is better” — no, often “too much is too much.” Remember that in cooking, when in doubt, it’s always better to take something away.
When a dish requires sweetness, acidity, saltiness, aroma, umami, and texture, and I find myself with a burrata covered with chopped pistachios as if it were an edible sea urchin, I realize that something is wrong.
And this is not about playful romanticism: it is consistency in the service of taste.
The duty of balance (and cunning)
Dear readers, I don’t want to come across as a radical anti-burrata. No, I am a lover with a discerning palate. I love burrata, and when it is used well, it can be poetry on a plate. But today I see it flaunted, shouted about, abused—it remains a symbol that should be preserved, not acrobatically manipulated and massively exploited.
To unbridled fashion, I say: enough.
To the romanticism of taste, I say: go ahead, but with moderation.
And you, chef, food blogger, pizza maker, or food lover: be bold, but with courage. Use burrata—yes—but not as a passe-partout: use it as an act of love towards the dish, and therefore towards your guest.
With critical affection,
Stefano
Photo credits: web and foodohfood.it
