In 1946, my mother Fiammetta was excommunicated from the Roman Catholic Church because she married my father. This might explain many things about my upbringing and my rather jaded view of organized religion. But it probably says more about love in general.
My father, Howard Scott, was a fine, upstanding British Army officer. He was divorced with two children: my half-brother and -sister, Gerard and Angela. He was also penniless, having lost his business when it was destroyed in the Blitz. Before the war, his small advertising agency had done well: my father was proud of having been instrumental in introducing Kellogg’s Corn Flakes to Britain, via teams of hawkers who posted small wrapped boxes of the cereal through the letterboxes of homes in London, Birmingham and Manchester. I have a faded photograph somewhere that shows a team of my dad’s hawkers whitewashing the kerb of a pavement to indicate that they had just finished delivering the boxes to every household in the street.
My parents met on New Year’s Eve 1944, at a huge party in Rome. For reasons I have never quite understood – because neither of them ever really explained it properly – both of them were there on some obscure-yet-official spying mission. When they came face to face, my father said, “What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here!” at precisely the same moment that my mother said the same. Presumably there was a reason and it was explained, but I like to believe that they were both there because destiny had somehow decreed that they should meet and fall in love.
Soon after, my father was posted to Trieste, during which time my mother worked for the Red Cross in Rome. Often, Howard would steal his colonel’s car and drive through the night on a tank or two of ethanol to spend just a few precious hours with Fiammetta. They wrote endless letters to each other during this period, all of which I have kept. Filled with little snippets of everyday news, the pages show their passion for one another that seemed to deepen, letter by letter. They had secret nicknames for one another and I have always read their letters with a slight sense of guilt; I feel I am trespassing on something very private and very deep.
Fiammetta’s family and friends, as well as Carlo’s political colleagues, were up in arms about this union. After everything that the family had been through, the last thing anybody expected was that my mother should fall for an Englishman, and such an unsuitable one at that. Not only was he not an Italian, a Catholic or an aristocrat, but he had been married before.
When they could get away from their work, Howard and Fiammetta loved to spend time near the sea, especially in places like the little harbour of Lerici, on the border between Tuscany and Liguria. People used to travel for miles to eat the catch of the day, and my parents loved the freshly netted silver-blue shiny anchovies, cooked in all manner of styles; or the great bowls of the salty-sweet zuppa di datteri di mare, those narrow mussel-like creatures that burrow their way deep inside rocks, whose lovely Latin name is Lithophaga lithophaga. (They can no longer be caught, as the harvesting of them became illegal in 1988.)
Many years later, my father and I would also spend hours together in Lerici, eating ice cream and talking about classical music. Wandering around the cool, narrow backstreets, we would sometimes discover that some of the same little trattorie were still there. Except for a slightly wider choice of dishes on the menu, little else appeared to have changed in the course of the two and a half decades since my courting parents had eaten at their tables.
In those early post-war times of their courtship, there was never much choice on the menu, but my parents discovered a mutual appreciation of gastronomy as they ate the freshly caught fish and slices of fruit with a glass of white wine. My father would always say my mother had a razor-sharp instinct when it came to ordering the best dishes on the menu. My mother would laugh at this: “Whatever he ordered, he’d always prefer the food on my plate, even though he always refused to order the same thing as me. He’d get so cross with himself!” My father, remembering those days, would chuckle and kiss her: “Yes, but you were always prepared to share with me!”
My parents’ love, immense and all-consuming, never waned: even when they were very old and my father was so terribly ill, they would hold hands on the sofa like young lovers. Food was especially important then: my mother understood – even through the demented tempests in the last few years of his life, when communication with my father became distorted in so many ways – that food was the one true enjoyment he had left. She would spend hours cooking all his favourite dishes: tender, juicy grilled steaks; perfect pan-fried trout scattered with toasted almonds; or velvety-smooth vegetable soups. She would lay the table every breakfast, lunch and dinner with great care, making sure that everything he ate was as mouth-wateringly wonderful as possible.
My mum and dad in Cinque Terre.
My father was not an easy man. He was demanding, belligerent and determined. He did not suffer fools gladly and had a fiery temper when aroused. One thing that inflamed his wrath was when any of us were late for lunch or dinner. Mealtimes were sacred. Being late would result in fierce punishments and even my mother, who sometimes returned late from the hairdressers or a visit to a friend, would walk into a terrible storm of rage.
“Stop it,” she would say to him firmly. “You’re behaving like your father! I’m here now. Please, let’s just eat.” And so the meal would begin, silently, with my father still obviously fuming, so much so that it was hard for him to swallow the food. We would eat in a rush, keen for the meal to end so that we could scatter and leave our parents to make their peace. In restaurants, though, it was worse: it was horribly embarrassing when Dad made a scene. I have witnessed more than one overturned table because we had been kept waiting for our order longer than he felt was permissible.
If I refused to eat something at the table, my father would have it removed and there would be nothing except bread offered in exchange. The refused dish would then be presented to me at every meal for several days, until I cracked and attempted to eat it, at which point he would have it removed and I was allowed to eat what everybody else was having. I could never meet my mother’s eye during these episodes because she would always wink at me, which would make me laugh, and that would infuriate my father even more. He never let on that he knew about the wedges of crumbly, salty cheese and sweet ripe pears my mother would sneak up to my room at night after I had gone to bed hungry, but I somehow suspect he did.
My father knew that it was very important for my grandmother Valentine that his and Fiammetta’s marriage should be celebrated in church, preferably a Roman Catholic one, so he tried very hard to make this happen. An audience with a Cardinal, influential in the Vatican City, was arranged, but when my father asked if they could at least be permitted a simple church blessing he was told that it was not possible. A visit to England, to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s advisors, also proved fruitless. The facts were these: Fiammetta and Howard could not be married or blessed in a church because my father had been married before, and had two children to prove it. So they had no choice but to be married at the Campidoglio, in a civil ceremony, attended by a couple of cousins and a few friends. Significantly, neither Valentine nor my uncle Sforzino attended, but Carlo was there – a strong, solid presence at his daughter’s side.
Carlo stepped out of the political arena after the scandal of my mother’s marriage, due to ill-health. His closest allies within the government had said to him: “Carlo, you can become Italy’s first post-war Prime Minister and rebuild your country, but only if your daughter does not marry that Englishman.” My Nonno was having none of it, and replied with this simple sentence: “What matters now is my daughter’s happiness.”
After the wedding in Rome, my Nonno arranged for Howard and Fiammetta to live on the shores of Lake Como, in the wing of a crumbling palazzo that belonged to a friend of the family. There they were to lie low for a few months until the scandal of their marriage had died down. Exactly a year later, on the 10 July 1947, my brother Steve was born in Milan. During that period and for a couple of years afterwards, my mother spent a great deal of her time alone, bringing up her sons (Nick was born just over a year later). Howard had set them up in a house in the Lombardy countryside, called La Canonica, while he worked hard in the city to start up the new post-war family business: schools teaching English as a foreign language. All my mother’s best pieces of inherited jewellery were sold to provide the seed capital for the enterprise.
Once the gossips had turned their focus to somebody new, and ruffled family feelings had been calmed by the passage of time, Carlo gave my parents La Tambura, the house in Tuscany, as a belated wedding gift. It was there that Fiammetta began to create a real home. And even though my family lived in Milan, and then in Rome for a long time, La Tambura always had the most special place in our hearts. There, seated at either end of the long table, my parents gave me a strong sense of security (and taught me to respect the ritual of mealtimes). When they held hands and smiled at each other, it seemed to me that nothing could ever feel more complete.
This is the kind of hearty dish my parents would order for me as a child when we went out to eat in one of our favourite Tuscan trattorie. You can use other types of game, if you prefer, or the milder-tasting guinea fowl instead. Ask your butcher to joint the pheasant for you.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 20 minutes, plus 6 hours marinating and making the pasta
Cooking time: 2 hours 10 minutes
1.5kg/3lb 5oz pheasant, jointed
80ml/2½fl oz/
cup olive oil
8 slices of streaky bacon or pancetta, chopped
a large pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
250ml/9fl oz/1 cup beef or game stock
1 recipe quantity Fresh Pasta (see page 162), cut into 3.5cm/1½in wide long strips (pappardelle)
55g/2oz unsalted butter
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
freshly grated Parmesan cheese, to serve
Marinade:
500ml/17fl oz/2 cups dry red wine
1 large onion, quartered
1 celery stick, quartered
5–6 black peppercorns
a pinch of dried thyme
2 bay leaves
Mix together the marinade ingredients in a large, non-metallic bowl. Submerge the pheasant joints in the marinade, then cover and leave to marinate in the fridge for 6 hours. Drain the pheasant joints thoroughly and strain the marinade through a fine sieve into a clean bowl.
Heat the oil in a large, heavy-based saucepan over a medium-low heat. Add the bacon and fry gently until the fat from the bacon runs out. Increase the heat to medium, add the pheasant joints and brown them all over, then season with nutmeg, salt and pepper. Add a ladleful of the stock and simmer gently, covered, for 2 hours until the meat is very tender. Throughout the cooking time, add the reserved marinade and stock alternately to keep the meat moist.
Just before the pheasant is cooked, bring a large saucepan of salted water to the boil. Remove the pheasant from the sauce and either keep it as six joints or remove the meat from the bones in large pieces. Cover the pheasant with foil to keep it warm and leave to one side.
Add the pasta to the boiling water and stir, then cook for 3 minutes or until al dente. Drain the pasta and return it to the saucepan. Pour the sauce over the pasta and toss together thoroughly. Add the butter and toss again. Spoon the pheasant joints, or pieces of meat, over the sauce-covered pasta and serve sprinkled with Parmesan.
My mother loved seafood more than anything, and her insistence on keeping all dishes that use it absolutely simple is a rule to which I have always adhered. The all-important flavour of the fresh fish must shine through – that was what she always told me! I like to serve langoustines with chunky chips and a crisp green salad dressed with a little olive oil, salt and lemon juice.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 15 minutes, plus 30 minutes marinating
Cooking time: 10 minutes
8 large, raw langoustines
90ml/3fl oz/generous cup olive oil
2 garlic cloves, finely chopped
3 tbsp chopped parsley leaves
juice of 1 lemon
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
wedges of lemon, to serve
Rinse the langoustines thoroughly, then cut each one open on the underside using a pair of sharp scissors and carefully remove and discard the black intestinal tract.
Put the langoustines in a shallow, non-metallic dish. Mix together all the remaining ingredients, except the lemon wedges, in a jug and pour the mixture over the langoustines. Cover and leave to marinate in the fridge for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 180°C/350°F/Gas 4. Lay the langoustines in a shallow roasting tin and roast for 10 minutes, basting frequently with the marinade and turning them occasionally, until they are cooked through. Alternatively, cook on the grill rack over a hot barbecue. Serve hot or cold with wedges of lemon.
This is the sort of starter my parents always loved to order and one they would have undoubtedly enjoyed eating together in the early days of their courtship. Use whatever seafood is in season, as long as it’s super fresh: razor clams, queen scallops, crab or small chunks of monkfish tail are all lovely additions. This dish only needs some crusty Italian bread to soak up the delicious juices and dressing.
Serves 4
Preparation time: 30 minutes, plus cooling
Cooking time: 25–30 minutes
1kg/2lb 4oz mussels
1kg/2lb 4oz baby clams
200g/7oz cleaned and prepared squid, cut into neat strips and rings
175g/6oz small raw, shell-on prawns
4 large raw, shell-on prawns
juice of ½ lemon
6 tbsp extra virgin olive oil
3 tbsp chopped parsley leaves
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
crusty bread and lemon slices, to serve
Scrub the mussels and clams thoroughly with a stiff brush under cold running water to remove all traces of grit, then remove any barnacles or other debris attached to the shells and pull off and discard the “beard” from the mussels. Rinse the shellfish again and discard any with broken shells or that do not close as soon as they are tapped.
Bring a saucepan of salted water to the boil. Add the squid, reduce the heat and simmer for 25–30 minutes, or until tender. Drain and leave to cool. Meanwhile, put the mussels and clams and a splash of water in a large saucepan. Cover with a tight-fitting lid and steam over a medium heat for 8 minutes, shaking the pan occasionally, until the shells open. Discard any that remain closed. Drain and leave the mussels and clams to cool.
Put the small prawns in a saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring to the boil and cook for 1 minute, or until they turn pink, then drain and leave to cool before peeling. Bring a separate saucepan of water to the boil, add the large prawns and cook for 2–3 minutes, or until they turn pink, then drain, de-vein and leave to cool.
Remove the mussels and clams from their shells, then put them in a salad bowl with the peeled prawns and squid and mix together. Add the lemon juice, oil and parsley to the seafood, season with pepper and mix well. Just before serving, season with salt and add the large prawns. Serve with crusty bread and lemon slices.
The humble mackerel is a sadly underrated fish, but it does need to be as fresh as possible for it to really show off how wonderful it can be. Any oily or white fish works very well cooked in this way – and it was one of my parents’ favourite ways of enjoying fresh fish. Making it always reminds me of them, and, like my mother before me, I serve this with garlicky pan-fried courgettes and boiled potatoes dressed with good olive oil.
Serves 6
Preparation time: 45 minutes
Cooking time: 20–25 minutes
6 tbsp olive oil, plus extra for greasing
8 ripe tomatoes
6 large or 12 small mackerel, gutted, heads removed and boned
4 garlic cloves, sliced
1 handful of black olives, stoned
2 tbsp salted capers, rinsed and drained
pared rind of 1 unwaxed lemon, chopped
200ml/7fl oz/scant 1 cup dry white wine
1 heaped tsp dried oregano
sea salt and freshly ground black pepper
pan-fried courgettes and boiled potatoes dressed in olive oil, to serve
Preheat the oven to 190°C/375°F/Gas 5. Grease an ovenproof dish with a little oil. Cut a cross in the bottom of each tomato, using a sharp knife, then put them in a heatproof bowl and cover with boiling water. Leave to stand for 2–3 minutes, then drain. Peel off and discard the skins, then deseed and roughly chop the flesh. Leave to one side.
Rinse the mackerel and pat dry with kitchen paper. Lightly oil the fish inside and out with 2 tablespoons of the oil, then put half the slices of garlic, olives, capers and slivers of lemon rind inside each fish. Season with salt and pepper inside and out.
Put the mackerel in the greased dish side by side and head to tail. Sprinkle with 2 more tablespoons of the oil and the remaining garlic, olives, capers and lemon rind. Pour half the wine over, then cover with the tomatoes and sprinkle with the oregano.
Bake for 15 minutes, then remove from the oven and add the remaining wine. Bake for a further 5–10 minutes, or until the fish is cooked through. Drizzle the fish with the remaining oil and serve with pan-fried courgettes and boiled potatoes dressed in oil.
Remember that not all eggs or batches of flour are exactly the same, so you may need to adjust the recipe quantities slightly. Other factors, such as the weather, humidity and temperature, will affect the way the pasta turns out, too. Everyone who makes pasta will make it slightly differently; and each time it’s made it will be a bit different to the last. You can use just “00” flour, if you don’t want to use the semolina flour too.
Serves 4–6
Preparation time: 20 minutes, plus at least 20 minutes resting
200g/7oz/scant 1
cups “00” flour, plus extra for dusting
200g/7oz/scant 1 cups semolina flour (semola di grano duro) (or use a total of 400g/14oz/scant 3¼ cups “00” flour)
4 large eggs, beaten
Mix together both types of flour on a work surface and form into a pile. Plunge your fist into the centre to make a hollow, then pour the beaten eggs into the hollow.
Using your hands and a dough scraper to avoid too much mess, draw the flour and eggs together with sweeping movements at first, then begin to knead together. Knead for about 10 minutes until the mixture forms a very smooth, pliable ball of dough – the dough should suddenly feel cooler and become springy. Don’t over-knead or it will lose its elasticity and become brittle.
Cover the dough with a clean tea towel or wrap in cling film and leave to rest for at least 20 minutes to relax the gluten and to make the dough more manageable.
ROLLING OUT BY HAND
Divide the dough into four pieces and wrap three of the pieces in cling film. Roll out one piece of the dough as thinly as possible (about 5mm/¼in thick) with a strong, long rolling pin. Continue to roll until the dough is very elastic, smooth and shiny. When it is ready, the sheet of dough will feel exactly like a brand-new, slightly damp chamois leather. Leave the sheet of pasta to dry on a floured work surface for about 10 minutes.
Repeat with the remaining dough. Do not let the rolled-out pasta sheets become too dry or they will be difficult to cut. You can cover them with slightly damp, clean tea towels if necessary. Using a sharp knife, cut the pasta into strips or the desired shape as soon as it is just dry enough to roll up without sticking to itself. Once cut, use the fresh pasta immediately.
USING A PASTA MACHINE
If you are using a hand-cranked pasta machine, make the dough and leave it to rest for at least 20 minutes as before. When the dough has rested, unwrap it and cut off a piece about the size of a small fist, then re-wrap the remaining dough.
Flatten out the piece of dough with your hands, then feed it through the widest setting of your pasta machine. Fold the pasta in half widthways and feed it through the rollers again. Do this twice more, or until you hear the pasta “snap” as the rollers force the tiny air pockets to burst and make a sound. When this happens, turn the machine down to the next setting and feed the dough through the machine twice more.
Continue to feed the dough through the rollers, reducing the setting by one notch after every second time, until the last or penultimate setting on the machine, depending on how fine you want the pasta to be. If the pasta becomes too long to manage easily, cut it in half widthways. Leave the sheet of pasta to dry on a floured work surface for about 10 minutes.
Repeat with the remaining dough. Do not let the rolled-out pasta sheets become too dry or they will be difficult to cut. You can cover them with slightly damp, clean tea towels if necessary. Using a sharp knife, cut the pasta into strips or the desired shape as soon as it is just dry enough to roll up without sticking to itself. Once cut, use the fresh pasta immediately.
Pictured from left, my cousins, Caroline and Tim; me; my brother, Howard (Din); Rosanna; Andreina with her son Antonio,; Molly; and Beppino.
