Taste: My Life through Food
Stanley Tucci
To my incredible parents, for giving me and my sisters so much and for teaching me how and why to love life and food.
To my wife, Felicity, for her extraordinary mind, her open heart, and her appetite.
And to my gorgeous children, may they always find happiness wherever they are, especially at the table.
An Introduction
I grew up in an Italian family that, not unusually, put great import on food. My mother’s cooking was extraordinary and there was a daily, almost obsessive focus on the quality of the ingredients, their careful preparation, the passing on of family recipes, and cultural culinary traditions. About twenty-five years ago I made a film called Big Night that told the story of two Italian brothers struggling to keep their restaurant going. It ended up heightening my interest in all things culinary and catapulted me into places, relationships, and experiences I never thought I would have. To this day, restaurateurs, chefs, and food lovers all around the world tell me how much they like and are inspired by the film. I am more than flattered and almost embarrassed by their kind words and, in the case of many, their generosity. I am always thrilled and thankful for such moments, as I so admire anyone who runs a good restaurant, decides to lead the grueling life of a chef, or simply takes the time and effort to make a good meal for people they love.
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.)
S. 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 crepes?
ME: What?
MY MOTHER: Crepes. 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 television.
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. Someday, 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 neighbors 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 fall 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.