Goodbye, Spaghetti – The Last Meal of a Nation

There are political decisions that change the course of the world. And then there are tariffs on pasta. Donald Trump apparently confused the two. In a country that once reached the moon, the president now wants to conquer the kitchen - with a tariff hammer of 107 percent on Italian pasta. The man who sees himself as a friend of the common people is declaring war on penne and fusilli. America First - Pasta Last. Just imagine it: the shelves at Walmart and Kroger, swept clean, as if someone had declared a state of emergency over Italian cuisine. Where Barilla, De Cecco, and Garofalo once reigned, there now stands a sign: “Temporarily unavailable - due to national greatness.” In Rome, nuns weep, in Brooklyn Italian Americans curse, and somewhere in Mar-a-Lago, an intern is testing whether spaghetti can be replaced with mac and cheese.

The White House’s justification sounds like a joke from a bad business show: Italian producers allegedly sold their pasta “below value” - as if durum wheat were the new cocaine and ravioli a threat to national security. Trump calls it “a matter of fairness.” Fairness, of course, for the American pasta industry, which famously consists of two factories in Iowa and an influencer in Texas. But the real triumph lies elsewhere. This administration has managed to find a country that, until now, had never been an enemy. After Canada, Denmark, and wind turbines, Italy is now next - a country whose most dangerous exports until now were Chianti and Laura Pausini. One can only hope the Navy will not soon blockade Naples.

The consequences? Beyond all irony: prices for imported pasta will double. American restaurants are already complaining about shortages. “We can’t serve America’s favorite dish,” says a restaurant owner in New Jersey. “Because America decided it hates flavor.” The Washington bureaucracy calls it “strategic pasta patriotism.” People call it: food without taste.

And so Trump accomplishes what no trade war has before - a national famine of the soul. No more lasagna evenings, no spaghetti Tuesdays in school cafeterias, no ravioli in college dorms. Instead: patriotic macaroni made of corn, labeled Made in USA and tasting like campaign ads. When historians one day describe the Trump era, they may not talk about tariffs, inflation, or migrants, but about this moment: when America decided to defend its plate against the fatherland. The newspapers will write that it began with a number - 107 percent - and ended with a tragedy: a country without pasta, but with a cookbook for collapse. America First - Pasta Last.