Carlo Petrini, the founder of the Slow Food movement, has died at the age of 73. The news has sent ripples through the culinary world, but for the British food sovereignty movement, it is a moment of profound reflection. Petrini, who launched his crusade against fast food in the 1980s, understood something that markets often fail to price: the true cost of industrial agriculture. His legacy is a reminder that the bottom line of a balance sheet is not the only measure of value.
The Slow Food movement, which began in Italy as a protest against the opening of a McDonald's near the Spanish Steps in Rome, has grown into a global network of over 100,000 members. Petrini's philosophy was simple: food should be good, clean, and fair. In an era of hyper-efficient supply chains and relentless cost-cutting, that idea seems almost quaint. But for those who have watched the erosion of British farming and the homogenisation of our high streets, Petrini's work is a beacon.
The British food sovereignty movement, which includes groups like the Land Workers' Alliance and the Sustainable Food Trust, has long argued that our current food system is unsustainable. They point to the dominance of supermarkets, the decline of local abattoirs, and the centralisation of food processing. Petrini's death has prompted a wave of tributes from these quarters. They see him as a prophet who warned that the relentless pursuit of efficiency would lead to a loss of biodiversity, cultural identity, and nutritional quality.
It is easy to be cynical about such sentiments. After all, the market has a way of crushing idealism. The global food industry is worth trillions, and the forces of agribusiness are not easily swayed by appeals to tradition. Yet Petrini's movement has had tangible impacts. The Slow Food Presidia, which support small-scale producers of traditional foods, have helped revive endangered foodstuffs from British artisan cheeses to rare-breed meats. In the UK, the movement has fostered a growing interest in local food networks, farmers' markets, and community-supported agriculture.
But the economics of slow food are challenging. It is a premium product in a world of cheap calories. The British consumer, buffeted by inflation and stagnant wages, is often forced to choose price over principle. The government's approach to food policy has been laissez-faire, favouring market forces over intervention. This has led to a reliance on imported food and a vulnerability to global price shocks. The recent spike in food inflation, driven by energy costs and supply chain disruptions, is a case in point. Petrini would have argued that this is the inevitable result of a system that treats food as a commodity rather than a foundation of life.
The tribute from the British food sovereignty movement is not just nostalgia. It is a call to arms. They want the government to adopt a national food strategy that prioritises local production, short supply chains, and sustainable farming. They point to the success of the Common Agricultural Policy in supporting European farmers, and they argue that Brexit offers an opportunity to reshape British agriculture. But so far, the policy response has been timid. The Agriculture Act 2020 was a step, but it lacks the ambition that Petrini's vision demands.
In the City, we understand the power of incentives. If the market does not reward slow food, it will remain a niche. Carbon taxes, subsidies for agroecology, and public procurement policies could shift the calculus. But that requires political will. Petrini's death is a reminder that the clock is ticking. The global food system is a massive, complex machine, and tinkering at the edges will not suffice.
Carlo Petrini may be gone, but his ideas have a long shelf life. The British food sovereignty movement, in paying tribute, is not just mourning a man. They are rallying around a cause. Whether the market will listen is another matter. But as any good financial editor knows, sometimes the most disruptive ideas are the ones that seem the most out of step with the times.
