Tom Mueller’s “Slippery Business”

From The New Yorker's archive: an exploration of the surprisingly scandalous underbelly of the global olive-oil industry.  View in browser | Update your preferences Letter from Italy Slippery Business The trade in adulterated olive oil. By Tom Mueller A drizzle of olive oil and a sprinkle of salt can turn almost any good meal into a great one. But what if the olive oil on your shelf is actually hazelnut or sunflower-seed oil in disguise? In "Slippery Business," from 2007, Tom Mueller explores the surprisingly scandalous underbelly of the global olive-oil industry—a multibillion-dollar business contaminated, in places, by deception and fraud. By the late nineties, he reports, "olive oil was the most adulterated agricultural product in the European Union," the result of  "sophisticated scams" by the likes of Domenico Ribatti, whose sales of mislabelled oil landed him in prison. The piece describes both the techniques of the swindlers and the process to discern real olive oil from the fake, which some experts can determine simply by swallowing a glug. The E.U. requires that "extra-virgin oil must have appreciable levels of pepperiness, bitterness, and fruitiness," Mueller reports, "and must be free of sixteen official taste flaws, which include 'musty,' 'fusty,' 'cucumber,' and 'grubby.' " Delicious.  More from the Archive Letter from Italy Beppe's Inferno From 2008: A comedian's war on crooked politics. By Tom Mueller Annals of Gastronomy Don't Eat Before Reading This From 1999: A New York chef spills some trade secrets. By Anthony Bourdain More from The New Yorker Letter from Washington Inside the War Between Trump and His Generals How Mark Milley and others in the Pentagon handled the national-security threat posed by their own Commander-in-Chief. By Susan B. Glasser and Peter Baker Postscript Olivia Newton-John's Tale of Two Sandys The singer and actress, who died on Monday, at seventy-three, was a good girl at heart, even after her role in "Grease" gave her a taste of the glory in being bad. By Rachel Syme You're receiving this e-mail because you signed up for the New Yorker Classics newsletter. Was this e-mail forwarded to you? Sign up.   Unsubscribe | Manage your e-mail preferences | Send newsletter feedback | View our privacy policy    The New Yorker may earn a portion of sales from products and services that are purchased through links in our newsletters as part of our affiliate partnerships with retailers.    Copyright © Condé Nast 2022. One World Trade Center, New York, NY 10007. All rights reserved.