In recent years, we’ve learned to talk about wine with a certain ease. We may not be experts, but we can say whether we prefer a crisp white or a full-bodied red, we recognize some grape varieties, and we think about food pairings. We’ve realized that white wine isn’t just for fish and that red wine isn’t necessarily meant for meat. When it comes to olive oil, however, the conversation often ends in just a few words: “I’ll take the one we have at home,” “A friend brings it to me,” “I always use the same one.”
And yet, for many of us, olive oil is tied to memories that go beyond the kitchen. Harvest days with our grandparents, nets spread out under the trees, crates slowly filled, cold hands, and the whole family pitching in to help. Then the wait at the mill, the scent of freshly pressed oil, and the first taste on bread. It was green, cloudy, intense. And it was, without a doubt, the best oil in the world.
When a flavor becomes a memory, it ceases to be just a food and becomes a part of our identity.
These are experiences that shaped our relationship with olive oil even before we learned how to choose it. They taught us to associate it with home, the land, family—with something authentic. To say that unfiltered oil may be less stable during storage, or that oil does not improve with time, may seem almost like a criticism of what has always been done.
Asking when the olives were harvested, how much time passed before pressing, or how the product was stored may seem like an excessive focus on technical details. It’s not a matter of determining whether homemade oil is good or bad: it can be excellent, of modest quality, or have flaws—just like any other oil.
When we think we already know a product, we stop asking questions and close ourselves off to everything else.
We live in a country with a vast olive-growing heritage, made up of diverse regions, hundreds of cultivars, and varied production traditions. Yet, when we go to buy a bottle, we rely on just a few cues: the label “Italian,” the word “extra virgin,” and the price. Or we start from the assumption that a farmer’s oil is automatically better.
Even more rarely do we consider that an oil might have its own identity, linked to the olive variety, the region, and the choices of its producer. This is also why the work of many producers remains outside our purchasing habits: not because we might not like their oils, but because we often don’t even get the chance to taste them.
Many oils are ruled out before we even get to know them, simply because they don’t fit into our habits.
Tasting different oils is the first step toward understanding how limiting it is to speak of “oil” in the singular. Some are more delicate, others have a vegetable flavor, some are bitter or spicy, with aromas reminiscent of grass, tomato, artichoke, almond, or aromatic herbs. They vary depending on the cultivar, the time of harvest, the region, and the craftsmanship of those who produce them.
Learning more about olive oil doesn’t mean rejecting the oil our grandparents used or replacing a memory with a technical specification sheet. It means preventing what we’ve always known from becoming the sole framework through which we judge everything else.
Tradition can be a starting point, but it shouldn’t become a barrier that prevents us from exploring.
The olive oil we know best can remain the one from family harvests, from waiting at the mill, and from that first taste on bread. But alongside that memory, there’s room for other regions, other producers, and other flavors. The first step is simple: choose a bottle that’s different from what you usually buy and taste it without immediately comparing it to what you’ve always known.