Rosita Boland: I just couldn’t order a sandwich called the Italian Stallion

I was in the middle of Dublin town last week, in the market for a take-out sandwich. I went into a place on Dame Street, where I hadn’t been before. I couldn’t tell you how long it’s been there, because its almost two years now since I nipped out of our offices on Tara Street on a regular basis to purchase some lunchtime sustenance.

It was a dedicated sandwich place, as in, it only sold sandwiches, paninis and drinks. A busy place, which I was glad to see. There was a list of what was on offer up on the wall. I fancied the sound of the tomato, mozzarella and pesto panini. The thing is, that’s not what it was called. It was called the Italian Stallion.

The geniuses who came up with this obviously thought: ah, here we have the makings of an Italian caprese salad. So let’s stick a suggestive name on it, because customers at lunchtime are only dying to be thinking of sexy, handsome Italian men.

The urban dictionary defines the Italian Stallion as “a well-endowed, sexually talented male of Italian decent”. There are other definitions too, which are quite a bit more explicit, should you care to look them up.

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The expression goes back to a role Sylvester Stallone played in an 1970 movie, delicately described as "low budget". It was, in fact, a porn movie, originally called The Party at Kitty and Stud's. Apparently he worked only two days on it and got paid all of $200. In 1976, after Stallone became famous in his role of Rocky, The Party at Kitty and Stud's was renamed The Italian Stallion and rereleased.

I queued up to place my order.

“The tomato, mozzarella and pesto panini, please,” I said.

The woman behind the counter squinted down at her computer. “The what?”

“Tomato, mozzarella and pesto,” says I again.

I didn't see anything funny in giving a ridiculous, sexualised name to a sandwich that happened to have Italian-themed ingredients in it

“Can’t find that,” she muttered to herself. Then she looked up at the board on the opposite wall. “Ah, you mean the Italian Stallion!” she said, and started inputting the order. “Is it the Italian Stallion you want?”

I just couldn’t do it. I know it’s a stupid name for a common sandwich, but I did not want to stand in that shop and announce to everyone present that yes, I was ordering the Italian Stallion. Maybe it was my mood that day, but I didn’t see anything funny in giving a ridiculous, sexualised name to a sandwich that happened to have Italian-themed ingredients in it.

“The tomato, mozzarella, and pesto panini,” I repeated stubbornly. By now, I was wishing I had never placed the order. But she took my card, and in due course, a man at the opposite counter called out “Italian Stallion!” and I took the bag and walked away, my mood foul.

I thought about it again last night. I was out with a friend, at a fairly fancy restaurant. Parquet floors, nice lighting, a menu that had items with prices a lot higher than the cost of a panini. I perused the cocktail menu. It had notions.

“We’ve created a cocktail menu of approachable and down to earth drinks. Our cocktails include a couple of twists on the classics with a bit of Dublin attitude thrown in for good measure,” declared a statement.

The Espresso Martini was renamed Your Wan. The Bellini was Scarlet For Ya. The Old Fashioned was They Sound Like Fighting Words. I don’t know why you just can’t call the classic Old Fashioned cocktail by its actual name, but hey. Horses for courses.

The Porn Star Martini was called Shut The Front Door; an ironic renaming with which I’m sure whoever dreamed up was only delighted. In case you’re interested, it consists of rum, passion fruit, pineapple, grapefruit and vanilla liqueur. It sounds a hideously sweet and confused concoction to me, but that’s beside the point: the fact that something called a Porn Star Martini was there on the menu at all in 2021 is just plain weird. And you don’t have to go to Ibiza to find cocktails on menus called Sex On The Beach, Long Slow Screw Up Against A Wall, Between The Sheets, Screwdriver, and The Slippery Nipple.t

The kind of language we use in everyday conversation does matter a lot, because some words are a lot more offensive than others

It’s all a bit of fun, right? Actually, no. Language matters. The words we use in daily conversation do matter. Most of us apologise when we fall into using swear words. I am guilty of using swear words myself, but have always made a conscious effort not to swear in front of my nieces or nephews, or any children. Obviously, I don’t go around swearing at the people I interview, nor the people I work with. That kind of stuff can get you fired, so clearly the kind of language we use in everyday conversation does matter a lot, because some words are a lot more offensive than others.

Restaurant menus, bar menus, coffee shop menus have no business sexualising the language of the food and drink items they sell. It’s an outdated embarrassment. Maybe it seems futile to get worked up about what a lunchtime sandwich is called, or a overly sweet cocktail in a bar, when just about anyone with a phone or internet connection can access porn sites in seconds. But I think it does matter. Normalising sexual innuendoes on menus is not okay.

For the record, the panini was excellent, but I won’t be back to that shop for another.