STANLEY TUCCI is a nice guy. What we know about him, from his books, TV shows and movies, is enough to give him access to the guest room of our minds. His dry sense of humour is unique at a time when it is a rarity.
A journal about what he ate in one year is the kind of project that could only have been born in the mind of a literary agent. In this case, the agent was his own wife, Felicity, who thought – well, basically the way a literary agent thinks. Such a project will always be able to bag everything that is interesting about Tucci, but I'm willing to bet that he himself surrendered to the project only with the greatest reluctance. It has now been published as What I Ate in One Year [and related thoughts].
It's just that he is not a natural journal writer. He's too decent.
You won't catch Tucci out writing like the gossipmonger diplomat Henry “Chips" Channon did about someone in the 1930s: “[Charles Wood, son of Lord Halifax] is a charmer, handsome, weak, stupid, good-mannered and with a certain shrewdness about money which he inherits from his father.” When Tucci's wife forgets that he is going to see King Charles in the morning and saddles him with some tedious chores, he sends up a quick prayer that her train be delayed that day. That's the way he gets back at people.
It's a different sphere that Tucci finds himself in: the league of subtlety. It doesn't make for great revelations about other people. It does allow us to understand Tucci's frustrations and seasoned insights.
He wrote the journal in the year in which he was working on the TV series Conclave. He travels the world to advertise other projects. He is a virtuous father to his children and makes sure they eat good food. He tries to be the eternal lover to his wife and makes her dishes in which the language of love can be read. She doesn't always understand this language.
When they pick up a quarrel, he puts the food away and they both go to bed grumpy and on empty stomachs.
A feeling grows in your gut. Is it possible that Stanley Tucci is someone other than who he pretends to be in this book? Did he polish his image and hide with light brushstrokes all the wrinkles that come with unbridled egoism?
But no. The morning after he and his wife got into an argument, the family sets off on a short vacation in the French countryside. For two days, one looks for flashbacks to the fight, but no, Tucci is focused on his children, and can't even remember what Felicity ate every mealtime. But three days later, something has clearly happened, out of sight and out of writing. The two visit a local market in search of oysters. He doesn't have to spell it out. After all, we know what oysters are good for.
Our Stanley knows very well what's cooking in the world of nutritional science. His entry for May 15 includes: “I made myself scrambled eggs and avocado with sliced tomato. Luckily it was a tomato that actually tasted like a tomato. Like so many vegetables these days, tomatoes often taste of nothing. When did that start happening? Things used to taste like what they were. Now something that looks like a tomato or a carrot tastes like just a thought of those things. If fruit and vegetables are organic, they usually taste better, but not always … Anyway, I ate the egg-avocado-tomato combo on a small, warm tortilla. I actually ate two. They were delicious."
He sets in motion a whole debate, and he knows it. He says just enough. My children's stepmother and I have a very long discourse going on off-camera about the difference between Woolies' and Babylonstoren's vegetables.
Elsewhere, he explains how Felicity and he watch a crime drama on TV before bedtime. All the actors are good, but the script is tacky. One can agree with Stanley Tucci on so many things. And never will you catch him calling the erring screenwriter (or chef, or writer or whatever) by name.
I especially agree with him that cottage pie (with beef) is tastier than shepherd's pie (with mutton). And my sincere condolences to him for his children not understanding that he is a great chef. Imagine, they turn up their noses at the cottage pie and prefer to eat pork sausages and peas. “Philistines," Tucci says. Amen.
For the gourmets, the journal includes references to numerous restaurants across the globe. Make a note. Maybe one day you'll win the lottery and you can go look for them.
There are recipes too. Fairly common in nature, but the one for borscht seems like an obligation. The Tucci family feasted on it for three days, twice even for breakfast.
If it's true that the book was conceived by Tucci's wife, but no one is ever lashed by the rapier of his tongue, one surely has to say it is a qualified success. It's the unexpected gifts that make the book precious. For example, Tucci mentions at one point that he made himself scrambled eggs with anchovies on toast for breakfast, with parsley. I tried it. Did anchovies ever make so much sense?
What I Ate in One Year [and related thoughts] by Stanley Tucci was published by Fig Tree and costs R410 at Loot.
♦ VWB ♦
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Kerneels Breytenbach is a former publisher and journalist from Cape Town. He also authored the short story collection Morsdood van die Honger, the novels Glimlag, Piekniek by Hangklip, Ester, and Hond se Gedagte, and the cookbook Die Lekkerste Lekker. He often writes for magazines about food and restaurants, and as a journalist has also become known as an expert on pop music.
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