In the food industry, storytelling can never be separated from the product. A well-crafted story obviously sets the stage for capturing attention, but those who taste the product (and perhaps experience it firsthand) must find consistency: when this is lacking, no strategy can bridge the gap between communication and actual perception.

Giusi Affronti, Senior PR Executive at Disclosers, has been working on food projects with brands, producers, and restaurants for years.

In this interview, she discusses how to develop a PR strategy in an industry where the sensory experience is an integral part of the narrative (because an event only generates media coverage when it offers guests something to take home beyond just a taste), on how to adapt media relations work to very different editorial audiences, and why the most effective food stories aren’t built by adding adjectives to the narrative, but by stripping away all the excess.

1. The food industry is a sector where direct experience—tasting, attending an event, handling a product—carries as much weight as, and perhaps even more than, a press release. How do you develop a PR strategy when the story must necessarily engage the senses? How does the work of a press office differ from that in sectors where physical experience isn’t central?

In the food industry, PR professionals don't just talk about a product—they create the conditions for it to be truly understood by finding the right story to share.

Let’s take pizza, for example. At first glance, it might seem like one of the hardest products to market: everyone eats it, and everyone has an opinion about it. So the question becomes: why should anyone be interested in this particular one? What makes it worthy of attention beyond the product itself?

The answer rarely lies in the dough or the ingredients. Rather, it should be sought in the culture of the person who conceived it, in the way they interpret a tradition, in their exploration of ingredients, in their connection to the local area, and even in the atmosphere you feel when you walk into the restaurant.

That’s why a good PR strategy always starts with listening: understanding what sets that project apart from others, and finding the common ground between what the brand wants to convey and what can truly capture the attention of journalists, content creators, and the public. The two don’t always align.

And this is where the food industry differs from other sectors: the narrative cannot exist separately from the experience. It can set the stage, enrich it, and give it depth, but those who taste the product must find in it everything they’ve been told about it. If there’s a lack of consistency between the two, no strategy can bridge the gap. 

At the end of the day, that’s exactly what PR work in the food industry is all about: turning a moment experienced by one or just a few people into a collective conversation. A pizza doesn’t win people over when a press office talks about it, but when people start talking about it among themselves.

2. Organizing an event or a tasting means managing logistics, invitations, content, and media coverage all at the same time. What are the factors that distinguish an event that generates real media coverage from one that remains merely a “nice event”? How do you decide who to invite and what narrative to build around the tasting experience?

I believe the difference between a great event and one that truly sparks conversation lies in one question: Why should people remember it? In the food industry (as on social media), we’re used to seeing impeccably set tables, “wow” spaces, and dishes designed to catch the eye on social media. These are important elements, of course, but they aren’t enough. People remember what surprises them, what they learn, the connections they make, and the conversations that arise around a table.

When I’m working on an event, I never think solely about what the guests will eat. I’m interested in understanding what they’ll take home with them beyond just the taste. After all, that’s where media coverage really begins. Not because someone had a good meal, but because they found a story to tell: a person, a bold choice, or a region viewed from a different perspective. If this element is missing, the event risks fading away the moment it ends. 

The guest list follows the same logic as well. I’m not a big believer in invitations based solely on numbers. I’m interested in bringing together people who are genuinely curious and who have different ways of absorbing, interpreting, and then sharing the story we’re “feeding them.” It’s this diversity of perspectives that enriches the conversation: the events that work best are those in which, for a few hours, a small, temporary community is formed. We eat, of course, but above all, we share ideas, questions, and points of view. That’s where the story begins. And the story, almost always, outlives the event itself by far.

3. Food publications range from those with a more journalistic focus to those with a lifestyle focus, as well as content related to the restaurant industry and food producers. How does media relations work adapt to such diverse editorial audiences? Are there common mistakes that food brands make when seeking visibility without a clear understanding of who they’re targeting?

Each publication looks at the same product from a different perspective, which is why the same cheese or the same brand of pasta can become three different stories. Some take a news-oriented approach: a market statistic, a new store opening, an investment, a change in ownership, or a consumer trend backed by data. In this case, the product itself is of little interest: what matters is the newsworthiness and the ability to fit it into a broader narrative (inflation, exports, new consumption trends, “Made in Italy,” etc.). Then there’s the lifestyle world, where the product becomes primarily about imagery: aesthetics, desirability, and ritual. Here, a narrative centered on people, atmospheres, photography, seasonality, and occasions for use works much better. You don’t ”sell“ an extra virgin olive oil; you ”sell“ a certain way of dining or of experiencing a region. Finally, there is the more specialized press focused on the restaurant industry and producers, where the level of detail is higher: production processes, raw materials, agricultural choices, supply chains, and techniques. Here, it’s not enough to simply say ”artisanal“ or ”high-quality”—you have to demonstrate it, describe it with precision, and often adopt a more critical or analytical tone.

I don't put much stock in press releases designed to speak to everyone indiscriminately. Media relations is about analysis: understanding what kind of news you have on your hands and which newsroom will actually consider it newsworthy.

A very common mistake among food brands is trying to cram everything into the same pitch. In other words: “an innovative yet traditional product, artisanal yet scalable, rooted in the local area yet with an international reach.” In the newsroom, this becomes noise because the person receiving the pitch no longer understands what the main angle is and, above all, why they should cover it.

Finally, there’s often a lack of editorial relevance. It’s not enough to send accurate information; you have to translate it into the publication’s language. The same story can become an agri-food business piece, a product profile for a guide, or a profile of an entrepreneur. If you don’t choose that angle, someone else will choose it for you—and often, they’ll choose a worse one. Knowing what to leave out is often more important than knowing what to add, because in media relations, clarity isn’t about simplification—it’s about selection.

4. In the food industry, the line between product communication and cultural storytelling (region, tradition, supply chain) is often blurred. How important is it, in a PR strategy, to craft a narrative that goes beyond the individual product? How can we work to give depth and authenticity to a food story without falling into the trap of overemphasizing “authenticity” or “artisanal” at all costs?

Today, a product on its own isn’t enough—not because it isn’t important, but because it’s no longer enough to hold people’s attention: people want to understand where it comes from, who makes it, what landscape it represents, and what culture or worldview gave rise to it.

However, this does not mean turning every story into a marketing fairy tale, featuring heroic small producers and craftsmanship elevated to an absolute value. On the contrary, the risk of rhetoric is now inherent in the food industry: as soon as you emphasize certain points too much, everything becomes indistinct.

It’s the details that make the difference—the small, sincere things: a shift in cultivation methods that goes against the grain of the region, a production error that forced a rethinking of the process. A non-linear—and perhaps even uncomfortable—business decision. Or a region portrayed without sugarcoating it—with all its contradictions, not just its most “photogenic” side.

The stories that really work aren’t the “perfect” ones, but those that still have a few rough edges. Often, depth isn’t built by adding adjectives, but by stripping away clichés: tradition, excellence, authenticity, passion. Words that, if not backed by facts, do not add meaning but erode it.