Taste: My Life through Food(38)
Italians do not have a big breakfast culture. They don’t eat eggs and meats like most of Europe, England, and America first thing in the morning. They have espresso or cappuccino but they prefer something sweet rather than savory with which to start their day. The morning caffè will most likely be accompanied by a cornetto (a sweet croissant) or a palmier. In Rome, pastries overflowing with obscene amounts of whipped cream or deep-fried cream-filled sugared doughnutlike sweets are often eaten. In Sicily, a brioche bun split open and filled with gobs of gelato is what passes for breakfast. I have tried all of them, and as I don’t really have a sweet tooth or a death wish, I find them all rather unappetizing, especially first thing in the morning.
But breakfast on an Italian film set offers no such treats and brings the lack of interest in film catering to an even darker place. There is no catering truck. There is no toaster. There are no “baps.” There is a table, on which sits a tray of low-grade supermarket cornetti and a smattering of small focaccia sandwiches containing a single slice of either ham, prosciutto, or salami. Beverages go no further than a few cartons of warm orange juice and an urn of “espresso” (or a thin and highly acidic version thereof), both of which are to be drunk out of flimsy plastic cups. If call time is after ten a.m., bottled beer is also served. That’s it. Tragic for a country that is a culinary oracle.
Das Frühstück Fest: Germany
I have filmed in Germany only once, for about a week. The shots were mostly establishing exteriors, so the days were quite short; therefore my only experience with German film catering was the breakfasts, and they were extraordinary. I have never seen such a selection of meats, spreads, cheeses, and breads anywhere except a farmers’ market at Christmastime, and all of them were delicious. Someone please employ me there again.
Un Petit Déjeuner en Camion: France
We know that the French, like the Italians, are very particular about their cuisine. However, unlike the Italians, as we have just learned, on film sets they retain their appreciation of food and its presentation. I have written about how a lunch hour can really slow down a day on set, if not just protract it. This is not so in France. A lunch hour is religiously observed, and the days seldom go over the allotted time. If they do, I have heard stories of crews just going home. It’s that simple. And frankly (no pun intended), I raise my hat to them, because most film sets are exercises in disorganization, miscommunication, and inefficiency resulting in unnecessarily long days for everyone.
I spent a week observing Robert Altman (who was very efficient) direct Prêt-à-Porter in Paris many years ago. The location was a ritzy hotel in the center of Paris that was standing in for a ritzy hotel in the center of Paris. When lunch was called, everyone was directed down to the street, where a white eighteen-wheeler was parked. A steel stairway led into the back of the truck, which was outfitted with rows of tables on either side, creating an aisle in the middle. Each table could seat four to six people and was covered in a white tablecloth. On every table sat bottles of still and sparkling water, water glasses, wineglasses, salt and pepper shakers, cutlery, cloth napkins, and a bottle of red wine. A small team of waiters dressed in white shirts and vests welcomed us in, and a moment later one of them was at our table listing two or three options for that day’s lunch. Having made our decisions, the waiter poured red wine for those who wanted it and was off to get a bottle of cold white for the others.
I was flabbergasted as it was a distant scream from any catering I had experienced on any film set. I couldn’t help but stare in disbelief at the cast and crew eating together inside a truck so elegantly appointed, while gay Paree buzzed away around us. The whole thing was so wonderful, civilized, and strange that there is a part of me that thinks perhaps I may have just dreamed it all. If so, I’d like to dream it again on every film I make from now on.
Cold Comfort: Iceland
About six years ago, I was fortunate enough to film a British television show called Fortitude. I was very excited to be asked because I thought it was an interesting project; I knew I’d be working with two extraordinary actors, Michael Gambon and Sofie Gr?b?l; and I’d be able to shoot mostly at home in London but also in Iceland, a country I’d always wanted to visit. I don’t know why, but I have always been drawn to northern climes much more so than to warmer parts of the world. I find the redundant sunshine of Southern California mind numbing, the humidity of the American South loathsome, and the tropics make me want to curl up into a ball and die before I drown in my own sweat.
No, for some unknown reason, I feel more at home in the Italian Alps than I do in the brutal heat of Puglia. I like brisk autumns, snowy winters, rainy springs, and temperate summers. The change of seasons allows for a change in one’s wardrobe (I’m sartorially obsessed) and, most important, one’s diet. A boeuf carbonnade tastes a thousand times better in the last days of autumn than when it’s eighty degrees and the sun is shining. An Armagnac is the perfect complement to a snowy night by the fire but not to an August beach outing, just as a crisp Orvieto served with spaghetti con vongole is ideal “al fresco” on a sunny summer afternoon but not nearly as satisfying when eaten indoors on a cold winter’s night. One thing feeds the other. (Pun intended.) So a visit to Iceland to escape the gloom of what is known in London as “winter” was an exciting prospect. However, my greatest concern, as you can probably guess, if you’re still reading this, was the food.