Taste: The No.1 Sunday Times Bestseller

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Taste” does end in a memorable and ‘cute’ way rounding out the text and going full-circle to the beginning of the piece. This is done well on a writing level and with its attempt to connect with readers concluding “Taste” on a positive note. The book started off well enough with memories of his mother in particular who cooked up a storm and growing up in an Italian American family. Many memories made me laugh because I also grew up in an Italian American family. In my family, however, my father worked two jobs to make ends meet and when things got tough, monetarily, my mom went out to work at a bank and rose in ranks as the head teller. Those were difficult times as we hardly saw our parents but my mother always, always “cooked up a storm” for her family. As Tucci explains in his new memoir, “ Taste: My Life Through Food,” his career has orbited the world of food and drink nearly from the start. The book is a decidedly un-Hollywood memoir that traces Tucci’s path from son (and grandson) of magnificently talented Italian American home cooks up through his most recent project, the CNN series “Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy,” in which he takes on the role of culinary tour guide. He writes that the realization that food, and not acting, is the central passion of his life came in 2017, after he was diagnosed with a form of oral cancer, the treatment for which destroyed his taste buds and left him temporarily reliant on a feeding tube. “Food not only feeds me, it enriches me,” he writes. “All of me. Mind, body, and soul.” Tucci and I spoke recently via video chat, as part of The New Yorker Festival. Our conversation, which has been edited for length and clarity, touches on the process of writing a memoir, the importance of truth in art, and why terrible meals aren’t always bad. My crush on Stanley Tucci isn’t primarily sexual. It’s more about the delights he whips up in the kitchen, his well-tailored ensembles, and the way his entire body so precisely flits along the surface of every changing emotion.

I was sorry to learn that he had oral cancer — suffered, lost his taste for awhile-but was equally happy to learn he is now cancer-free…. My bad I guess because I was hoping for more funny similarities about Italian Americans growing up! Delving into memories of his childhood and revisiting cherished times with friends and family in his own words, Stanley explores how food has often been a meaningful centre-point of these interactions. Alongside the likes of anecdotes about Meryl Streep and tales of his courtship of his wife, Felicity Blunt, he includes a number of unmissable recipes, from the Negroni that became an internet sensation, to his family’s cherished tomato sauce. The resulting book is a reminder of how food is so often a portal to our past, a connection to our loved ones, and almost always present at life’s most precious moments. I had obviously seen this book around…..so when the library had it available, I thought I would chime in. 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.”

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There are recipes! Many recipes. For pasta of various types. For ragout. For meat. For fish. Two very different styles of roast potatoes. He talks about the history of the Martini (yes, it must have a capital M). There is a lot of talk about cheese. I looooove cheese. My stomach rumbled. During summer vacations we followed the same routine like crazed ants at an endless picnic. I don’t remember anyone in our neighbourhood ever going on an extended summer vacation, so we all just hung around together for those two humid months, going from one dwelling to another, eating our own and each other’s parents out of house and home. I found summer vacations so joyful. The days were long, allowing us to play outside until nine p.m., at which point we would have already negotiated a sleepover at one or another of our homes so that we might never be parted even in slumber. Summertime also brought my favourite holiday, besides Christmas: Independence Day, also known as the Fourth of July. Now that I spend most of my time in London, I must admit celebrating American Independence Day is a tad uncomfortable for one fairly obvious reason: the colonists won and the British lost. (I know the war was a long time ago, but I never quite know how to celebrate that victorious day here without feeling like I’m rubbing it in some Brit’s face—like my in-laws.) However, during the Obama administration, my family and I were fortunate enough to be invited to two July Fourth fêtes at Winfield House in Regent’s Park, the home of the American ambassador. These were lovely, casually posh daytime affairs for expats (a nice word for immigrants) and their families, complete with American military bands, jazz singers, and all the traditional American foods one could eat. How ironic that in England, of all places, on these two occasions I would be reminded of all the positive aspects of this important American day. Taking part in joyous celebrations of American democracy on foreign soil made me long for a time in my youth when the sausage and peppers of Italian immigrants sat peacefully on the grill alongside their American cousins, the hot dog and the hamburger.

The man, the myth, The Devil Wears Prada legend Stanley Tucci has blessed our hungry souls with a food memoir to feed our mounting appetite for the actor and cook’s wit, warmth and, let’s face it: tight polo shirts. He divulges some of his most treasured memories and stories behind favourite recipes — prepare to feel bereaved when it’s over." —Joanna Taylor, Evening Standard The answer is both. I’ve known for many years that food was something that I was gravitating toward. Certainly, after we made “ Big Night,” which was twenty-five years ago, and then, after I did “Julie & Julia,” I just became more and more interested in food. Whenever I went to restaurants, if it was a good restaurant, I would figure out a way to insinuate myself into the kitchen shamelessly, so that I could just sort of see the way they work, and what the setup was, and maybe ask how they made a certain dish. It was fascinating to me. It became all I could think about, even when I was acting. So I knew that that was who I was. But, as I started writing, I realized that it was even more of who I was, if that makes sense. Stanley Tucci puts the sexy in Sixty! He's that handsome, bald, Italian-American guy, with the devilish smirk, who you just know he's thinking about something good. In adult years, we travel with Tucci in his career and learn about the on-set food and hear wonderful tales of Italian food and history.

It was part of my grandfather, whom we adored, and that made it the sweetest liquid ever to pass our lips. The sharing of recipes. The friendships and bonding that occur over shared meals. The conversations. The moments you will never forget. Taste is a reflection on the intersection of food and life, filled with anecdotes about growing up in Westchester, New York, preparing for and filming the foodie films Big Night and Julie & Julia, falling in love over dinner, and teaming up with his wife to create conversation-starting meals for their children. Each morsel of this gastronomic journey through good times and bad, five-star meals and burnt dishes, is as heartfelt and delicious as the last.