For dinner, Stanley Tucci's youngest daughter, Emilia, six, only eats pasta and cheese, a bit of butter. Occasionally, she will accept pesto. As you c
For dinner, Stanley Tucci’s youngest daughter, Emilia, six, only eats pasta and cheese, a bit of butter. Occasionally, she will accept pesto. As you can imagine, this pains him. Tucci is a man of deep-fried courgette, the giant timpano, barolo and squid-ink risotto. He is a man for whom food is love and the act of cooking a profound and indulgent pleasure. We are sitting on velvet sofas in a bar near his home in south London, drinking wine and beer, and talking about the pain, the shame, the frustration of feeding a child. “And the struggle. And the sadness,” he sighs. “But, that is what she wants. And she’ll grow out of it.”
His three adult children, with his late wife, Kate, have taught him this, as has his son, Matteo, with second wife, literary agent Felicity Blunt. “But still, after a while, you’re like, ‘Just fucking eat. Please.'” He drifts off for a second. “Tonight I’m thinking I’m gonna make pasta with guanciale and peas and cheese, and a little onion. I can’t tell her that I’m putting in the onion. But sometimes I do, just to get her upset.” He pouts.
Sex symbol? I’m thrilled but beyond that I don’t really think about it
Tucci graduated as an actor in 1982 from his local liberal arts college – an early role saw him modelling in a white vest in a Levi’s ad. He has been a fixture on our screens ever since: writing and directing (including the cult hit Big Night in 1996), acting (his best-loved role was opposite Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada), being tipped for awards, expanding his career to take in another great love – food. His show, Stanley Tucci: Searching for Italy, took him from Milan to Venice, cooking, eating, basking in the grand pleasure of, for example, perfectly fried zeppole.
These were the foods he’d grown up on as a kid in New York state, cooked by his beloved parents, secretary Joan and art teacher Stanley senior, first-generation Italian immigrants who whisked Tucci and his two siblings to Florence for a year, seemingly just to eat. But it was only as he entered his 60s – we can date it accurately, in fact, because it happened in an Instagram video that Blunt filmed in their kitchen at the beginning of the pandemic – that Tucci became a bonafide sex symbol.
He was competently mixing a negroni and narrating his process archly in a low, firm growl. Light jazz played in the background. It was a window into a quite beautiful life, controlled and well-lit, one that only seemed richer for the grief and struggle that had been lived before. And then, as if everyone had drunk four of his cocktails, the internet melted. How does it feel to discover, at almost 64, that women have never wanted him more? “I’m thrilled. No, I’m thrilled.” He says it three more times, in gradations of earnestness. “I hope it lasts, you know? I do joke with Felicity, of course, where I say, ‘Do you know how many millions of people…’ She’s like, ‘Yeah, whatever.’ But beyond that I don’t really think about it. I’m glad of it, but it’s not on my mind all the time. Life’s too complicated already.”
His complicated life, which includes but is not limited to, Hollywood movies (the latest is Conclave, a papal thriller), the Italian food programmes and all the travel that involves, and supporting a close family spanning in age from 94 to six, is detailed with humour and vulnerability in his new book, a diary called What I Ate in One Year. “Once you start writing, it helps you make connections and you realise that writing about a piece of fucking sausage or whatever, suddenly this whole other memory unfurls.” He’s a skilled artist, too, and has painted two onions, one of which appears fresh and lovely at the beginning, “and then at the end, we just have one onion that’s sliced in half and decaying.” Can you explain the metaphor, I ask. “I don’t think I have to,” he purrs.
Through the diary we journey with Tucci between film sets and school plays, pausing for recipes and his intimate thoughts, both existential and tomato-based. “The slower one becomes, the faster time moves,’ he writes. “I think about death all the time,” he says lightly, “I always have.” In a comfortable way? “No! We used to go to the cemetery all the time and Italians always talk about death. Because there was so much of it. When I went to southern Italy in 1973 all the relatives were wearing black. My dad explained, somebody’s always dying, so they just wear black all the time, fuck it. You’re sort of defined by grief.” In the book he remembers being overcome after a widower approached him in Somerset to ask if he’d consider writing a cookbook for the bereaved, with recipes for one. “It was hard. I knew exactly how he felt. He was feeling exactly what I felt for so long. I’m still feeling it, but in a different way.”
In 2009, Tucci’s wife of 14 years, Kate, died of breast cancer. She was 47. The grief, he says: “It’s always there. But if it were to stay as prominent in your life as it does at the beginning, you couldn’t function. You couldn’t take care of your kids. You couldn’t hold a job. You couldn’t do anything. So, whether we know it or not, we tell ourselves to let it go. And also the person who died would not want you to be that way.” He thinks for a second. “Although, I do want my wife to be that way when I die. I want her to be incredibly unhappy.”
Tucci is 21 years Blunt’s senior. I remind him about the house they’re building in the countryside, the one he writes is for her to live in after his death – with her lover(s). “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. It’s so terrible isn’t it? The things I say!” He’s thinking also, perhaps, of his multiple mentions of Blunt’s unfortunate diarrhoea. “She said: ‘Why did you put that in there?’ I go, ‘It’s funny!'”
Tucci met Blunt through her sister, Emily, his co-star in The Devil Wears Prada. “We’re both sort of the same way, kind of romantic and then at the same time kind of cynical about it. Sometimes it’s like, ‘Why are you behaving that way? Why are you being so loving? What’s wrong with you?'” They married in 2012. Wedding guests included Colin Firth, Meryl Streep and Julianne Moore; his best man was Steve Buscemi.
The book is peppered with stories of celebrities like Cillian Murphy and Jamie Dornan popping round for dinner. I wonder how his children feel about fame. “Last year Matteo was like, ‘You’re famous.’ So I tried to tell him, there are so many different ways of being famous, like you can kill someone and be famous. I said, ‘If you end up being famous because you’ve worked hard and you’re good at what you do, that’s a good thing.’ I think that’s what I’ve done. People see you on a screen, larger than life, and that heightens everything. But it’s sort of silly. I mean, we don’t do anything. We just pretend to do things.” How seriously does he take the pretending? “I take it seriously, but I don’t beat myself up about it like I used to.” These days, “I find it easier to access emotion now. Part of it is technique, you know, but I’m just freer. I’m much freer now. I’m not trying to do anything. I’m just doing it.”
As he talks, five jade bracelets jangle on his wrists. Four were gifts from Blunt – his children’s names are engraved on tiny silver plates – but the first was from the director Paul Feig. “It’s meant to bring health – they gave it to me… But Felicity was adamantly against it.” He takes a long swig of beer. “Look, I’d also seen that alternative treatments don’t work. But, unfortunately, a lot of people try alternative treatments at the 11th hour. And so the alternative doctor gets this fucking corpse, basically. You get cancer, you do standard of care treatments. And then a lot of people die anyway. And what people will say is cancer is just too strong. Right? If you do alternative treatments and you die, they say, ‘See, those alternative treatments don’t work’. They never say that about the chemotherapy. Some alternative treatments do work for people. We don’t know enough about them. A lot of it’s bullshit. But we have to really look at the system and what’s really right for each individual patient. Each cancer is different, each person is different.”
How did the experience change him? “It made me tired. Like fundamentally tired. It aged me significantly.” Before we met he’d spent the morning doing stunt training for his spy action series Citadel. “But you catch yourself in the mirror and you’re like, ‘Oh God. What is that old man doing with a weapon?’ But they’ve got a great name for it now.” I’m ready. “Geri-action!”
If he could linger at one age (“A perfectly reasonable request”, he believes), Tucci says he’d take a decade of 40 – mature, experienced in love, loss, success and failure. “I hope I’ll live a long time. But when I’m 80, Felicity will be younger than I am now. Millie will only be 21. The little kids, they go, ‘You’re really old, aren’t you?’ I’m like hey, alright. But yeah, we talk about it. And it’s something I really worry about.” I remind him, of course, that he’s going to live forever. “Yes, because I made movies, that’s why.” After all his film roles, including Nora Ephron’s Julie & Julia, and The Lovely Bones (which earned him an Oscar nomination), as well as The Hunger Games series, it was a leap for him to play himself in Searching for Italy. What did the show do to him? “Well,” he says drily, “I only eat Chinese food now. People are like ‘Hey, you’re drinking, you’re eating, you’re having fun,’ but it’s hard!”
He details the gruelling schedules, the driving, the planning, the flying. After one particularly exhausting crawl through customs, the security officer who had been grinding him over water bottles in his luggage finally turned to him and asked which film she knew him from. He almost cracked a tooth, he says, he was clenching his jaw so hard. After the guard continued to question him, which show, which movie, he muttered, shaking with anger, “Probably The Devil Wears Prada!”, walking away as she squealed her delight. “But the logistics of the show are kind of killing. We’re shooting in 40C heat and Italians are so generous. And the poorer they are, the more generous they are. They’re like, ‘We made all this food for you. Why don’t you come and sit? Why don’t you come and see my grandfather in the thing?'” He’s started laying out specific rules – one pasta, one salad, one goodbye. It sounds like a happy sort of hell. What was the best thing he ate? “In the north of Italy I think it was a dumpling called a knödel.” Can he spell that for me? “No.” He smiles serenely.
I hope I’ll live a long time. But when I’m 80, Felicity will be younger than I am now
An extract: 27 April 2023
I awakened, not knowing what city I was in, and exercised as usual, but I ate practically nothing as I was rushed to two interviews in different parts of Manhattan. The first was a live show, The View, on which I had not appeared for years, but it was enjoyable. (How cool and smart is Whoopi Goldberg?)
The second was a longer taped interview with Willie Geist for his Sunday Today show. I had not met him prior to this, but coincidentally he bought my house in Westchester when I moved to London over 10 years ago. Willie and his wife purchased it as a weekend home, but it has since become their full-time residence. He showed me a picture of the kitchen, which he altered a bit over the years, and I was subsumed by memories of my life in that place.
My late wife, Kate, and I bought it together and raised our children there for five years until her death in 2009. We renovated and added a new master bedroom and playroom, and turned a small barn into two proper stables for her horse and an annoying pony. We planted dozens of pine trees to shelter us from the road; cleared land for two small paddocks; planted three apple trees, one for each of our children, and some river birches; and renovated the pool and patio area.
Most important, we created a huge kitchen/dining/sitting area, which opened on to the patio, where we built an outdoor kitchen with a wood-burning pizza oven. It was the most wonderful combination of indoor and outdoor cooking spaces, in which we hosted so many parties, dinners, and holidays all the year round.
It is the house from which I watched my children leave for their very first days of school, the house where we learned of their mother’s illness, the house in which she passed away, and the house that overlooks the magnolia tree where some of her ashes are scattered.
It is the house
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