Hospitality is a serious problem. Whether you tackle it from the perspective of domestic or international politics, whether you examine its legal framework or make it the object of a survey on urban structures, it not only concerns travelers and tourists, but also emigrants, the stateless, nomads and the homeless. During the last decade, it has become a matter of public concern and urgency in Europe.

This overall approach has overshadowed the reverse side of the hospitality medal – the private and domestic one - as if the ultimate answer lay in the network of hotels and restaurants, or charity organizations. In many languages the same word - hostis, ospite, huesped, oaspete - designates both the person who welcomes and the one who is welcomed, host and guest. At least this used to be so, since the reciprocity of roles has been replaced by an asymmetric relationship between a theoretically authoritative role and a fatally passive one. It would be far too easy to say that, just as a pilgrim without a passport is not considered sacred and a neighbor in dire straits raises suspicion, a wind of crisis is blowing among the most rudimentary forms of hospitality. It is a cold wind that involves fellow-citizens, acquaintances, relatives and friends. An unjustified invitation raises suspicion; the display of luxurious furniture or a sophisticated table appears to subvert the pact of reciprocity and thus engender doubt. Food itself, once the money of charity, the irresistible charm of friendship, is poisoned by the misunderstandings that arise between those who dare not give, and those who are afraid - or ashamed – to receive. It now takes a public guarantee in the shape of political or promotional relations, be they for work or pleasure, to restore the authenticity of this private act. Only thus can invitations be accepted.

In an association like Slow Food, these difficulties can be perceived from a ritual viewpoint. The help provided by the membership bond is flimsy, and culture deprived of hospitality seems to be languishing. There is no money, no space, no time - everything is lacking, apart from will. Organizing a dinner for more than ten people, even assuming the availability of adequate resources, is a personal sacrifice with respect to which the title of host is inadequate, since the contemporary host basically provides a service, whereas the "historical" role of the host used to be qualified by an unlimited availability of goods and servants. The new host must bank on a catering structure which, in classic gastronomy, was the opposite of gratuitousness and munificence. Suffice it to glance at the early 19th century French treatises such as Grimod de la Reynière's Manuel des Amphitryons to realize that hospitality was an art rather than philanthropy, and to measure the extent to which, as an art, it has perished.

Yet, antidotes to this crisis do exist. If love for the stranger - sacred to Zeus in ancient times and Christ's double in the Gospels - has become quite rare, a certain interest in the objects of consumption has survived among men. Those who love wine, charcuterie or cheese will be able to find brothers and companions in wine-shops and taverns. Due to the lack of human will, goods have become the token of brotherhood and the reason of universal love. An authoritative member thus gathers his convivium to taste wine, to introduce a certain food and, in exchange for an idea and his commitment to the organization, he asks everybody to share costs fairly. Is this hospitality? Not in a traditional sense, since the gift of time and effort is implicit, invisible. The paradox is that private hospitality in our times derives from a social pact, from a contribution provided by equals and, in particular, from a fair distribution of money and goods. It cannot exist without a specific cultural identity.

Does this mean that the ancient, sacred and individual forms of hospitality are dead? We have tried to find answers to this question outside the countries where public life has already sapped altruism, generosity and assistance of the individual, translating all this into taxes and laws. In this field, the past, or territorial distance, can overturn customs and clichés: when the habit of hospitality is systematically eluded, you can only hope to regain its earlier significance by surveying it from afar, formulated in different languages. Furthermore, when it comes to the table, the fact that service largely replaces hospitality implies a number of irreversible consequences. If receiving people at home is impossible, and you can only be a customer in public places, how can you escape from the monotony of restaurants and the like? Throughout this century, big cities, holiday resorts, the country have been poles of attractions in Europe - both alternate and alternative - for good food seekers. Terraces overlooking the waterfront, taverns, train station buffets, inns and big hotels have raised, and then gradually dried up, the interest of gourmets.

And this has led to a commonplace: when not at home and in a group you are bound to be given bad food. The tourist says it, the Lions club member thinks it, and the member of a gourmet confraternity prefers not to say it.
So, what can be done? Hospitality ought to be reconsidered and taught to all those involved in the catering business. We should engage with cooks and restaurant owners, demand to be welcomed as active players rather than passive customers, impose ideas, menus, services, dishes, and not just prices. This is what Slow Food can do. If thetransfer of hospitality from the private to the public sphere is an irreversible process, restaurants and the like must be flexible and capable of interpreting expectations, of satisfying personal needs and ideas. In our own homes, everything has become increasingly difficult; so we should try and find a common home with a kitchen where our appetites and tastes can be appeased, and a table that can satisfy our generosity. The host may be dead, but we meet up in the name of his ghost.