Taste

My love of food and all that it encompasses only continues to grow every year. It has led me to write cookbooks, become involved in food-related charities, make a documentary series, and it is ultimately what brought my wife Felicity and me together.

As it is fair to say that I now probably spend more time thinking about and focusing on food than I do on acting, as is evidenced by some of my recent performances, it seems appropriate that this primary passion take yet another form: that of a memoir of sorts. The following pages offer a taste of such a memoir. I hope you find them palatable. (More puns to follow.)

Tucci
London, 2021

 

Westchester County, New York, mid-

1960s

My mother and I are sitting on the floor in our small living room. I am around six years old. I am playing with a set of blocks and my mother is ironing. The TV is tuned to a cooking show.

ME: What is she doing?

MY MOTHER: She’s cooking.

ME: What?

MY MOTHER: She’s cooking.

ME: I know. I mean . . . what is she cooking?

MY MOTHER: Oh, she’s cooking a duck.

ME: A duck ?!!

MY MOTHER: Yep.

ME: From a pond?

MY MOTHER: I guess so. I don’t know.

I am silent. I build; she irons.

MY MOTHER: How are you feeling?

ME: I think, better.

She feels my forehead.

MY MOTHER: Well, I think your fever’s gone down.

ME: Will I have to go to school tomorrow?

MY MOTHER: We’ll see.

A silence as we watch the TV.

MY MOTHER: Are you hungry?

I nod.

MY MOTHER: What would you like?

ME: I don’t know.

MY MOTHER: A sandwich?

I offer no response.

MY MOTHER: Would you like a sandwich?

ME: Ummm . . .

MY MOTHER: How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

ME: Ummmm . . . yeah.

My mother raises her eyebrows. I notice.

ME: Yes, please.

MY MOTHER: Okay. When the show is over in ten minutes I

will make you a sandwich.

ME: But I’m hungry now.

My mother just looks at me, eyebrows raised even higher. I go

back to my blocks.

MY MOTHER: Do you remember that show when she made

crêpes?

ME: What?

MY MOTHER: Crêpes. Those pancakes.

ME: Ummmm . . .

MY MOTHER: That I make sometimes . . .

ME: I don’t know.

MY MOTHER: Well, anyway, do you want to help me make

them this weekend?

ME: Ummm, sure.

A beat.

ME: Why is she cooking a duck?

MY MOTHER: I guess she likes duck.

A silence. We watch the TV.

ME: Do you like duck?

MY MOTHER: I’ve never really had it.

A beat.

ME: Do I like duck?

MY MOTHER: I don’t know. Do you?

ME: Have I had it?

MY MOTHER: No.

ME: Then I probably don’t like it.

MY MOTHER: You can’t know if you don’t like something if you

haven’t had it. You have to try it. You have to try everything.

ME: Mmm. Maybe later. Some day, when I’m older, maybe.

I watch the TV. My mother looks at me and can’t help but smile. A silence. The show ends and we go to the kitchen.

She makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for me, which

I eat ravenously. She watches.

MY MOTHER: Wow, you were hungry.

I nod with a mouth full of food and then speak, mouth still full.

ME: What are we having for dinner?

MY MOTHER: Pork chops.

ME: Awwwww!!! No. I don’t like pork chops.

My mother sighs.

MY MOTHER: Well, why don’t you go next door and see

what the neighbours are having?

I sigh dramatically and continue eating the sandwich. My mother smiles and begins to clean the kitchen.

 

‘What Can I Get You to Drink?’

This question was asked by my father immediately upon any guest’s arrival in our home. He loved – and still, at age ninety-one, does love – a good cocktail. He’s never gone in for anything fancy, but our home always had a very well-stocked bar that contained the necessary liquors for any drink a guest requested. My father himself usually just drank Scotch on the rocks in the autumn and winter, gin and tonics or beer in the summer, and of course wine with every meal no matter what the season. I loved to watch him make a drink for our guests, and when I came of age, this task was passed on to me and I proudly accepted it.

Today, I also ask the same question when guests cross my threshold and take great joy in mixing up whatever tipple floats their boat. I also make one for myself every evening. What form it might take differs with the seasons and my temperament. Sometimes it’s a Martini, other times a vodka tonic, on occasion a cold sake, a whiskey sour, or a simple Scotch on the rocks, and so on and so on. This past year I began a relationship with a Negroni and I am happy to say it’s going very well.

Here’s how I make one.

A Negroni – Up

– SERVES 1 –

50ml gin

25ml Campari

25ml good sweet vermouth

Ice

1 orange slice

• Pour all the booze into a cocktail shaker filled with ice.
• Shake it well.
• Strain it into a coupe.
• Garnish with a slice of orange.
• Sit down.
• Drink it.
• The sun is now in your stomach.

(There are those who consider serving this cocktail ‘straight up’ to be an act of spirituous heresy. But they needn’t get so upset. I never planned on inviting them to my home anyway.)