We would drop into Cecchino the baker’s and buy his freshly baked michctta rolls. Then we would go to the salumeria and buy a hunk of mortadella di fegato (liver sausage). Then we would sit down on a big stone wall and my grandfather would pull out his hunting knife and slice up the sausage. A bite of sausage, a bite of bread - the flavours were fantastic. Whenever I think about that wall, I can still taste that mortadella. I once took my kids there and showed them the wall, but I don’t think they were terribly impressed. To them, it was just a wall.
The big day of the week was always Tuesday, when my grandparents would close their restaurant and my grandmother would cook a big lunch for all the family and friends, usually about sixteen of us. It was such an event. If my grandmother wanted to cook rabbit, for instance, my grandfather would bring her the rabbits, she would pick out the one she wanted, and he would kill it, skin it and prepare it for cooking, right there in front of us. It wasn’t anything horrible, just a natural thing to do.
These days, children don’t have that sense of death being a part of life. I once brought home a live crab and cooked it with spaghetti for dinner. When the kids sat down at the table and looked at the crab in the pasta, they both turned and stared at me. ‘You’re an assassin!’ they yelled.
I can’t imagine what would happen if I brought home a rabbit.On Italian food
I am naturally drawn to Italian things. I drive a Ferrari (that’s when my mate, Vinnie Jones, hasn’t commandeered it), I wear Italian clothes and I love Italian furniture. If I go more than a few days without pasta, I start getting withdrawal symptoms. Giorgio, of course, rides about on English-built motorbikes and puts on English manners but says things like ‘pero’ and ‘allora’ and ‘andiamo’ all the time. I’m a would-be Italian but I talk like a Cockney geezer.
For me, it’s the simple things Italians do best: like an honest plate of spaghetti, a good loaf of crusty country bread just pulled out of a wood-fired oven, or a magnificent new-season white truffle from Alba shaved over a freshly made risotto. That’s real food, and real flavour.
But it’s not just the flavours, it’s the way they’re put together. I am knocked out by the theatrical way in which the Italians stage-manage everything they do.
I’ve always felt envious of Italians. What you can never take away from them - whether you’re talking Italian footballers or Italian chefs - is their unfailing sense of style. Let’s face it, they look better than us. Even if they lose a game ten-nil, the Italian football squad still look better, move better and hold themselves better than the winners.
Being Italian, Giorgio has been born with a passion for food already in his veins. Being English, I had to find this passion for myself. It’s the difference between a highly trained chef and a self-taught cook. My passion is self-taught.
On English food
My mum was a very good but very English cook. The most exotic thing she ever made was pavlova. There was no such thing as Caesar salad or rocket salad or Tuscan bread salad for her. In our house, salad was usually some tomato and lettuce and not much more. I guess that explains this inbred craving I have for salad cream.
I was brought up on comfort food, like shepherd’s pie, eggs and bacon, and steak and kidney pudding. I also inherited my father’s love of Scotch eggs, pork pies, and pickles such as gherkins and pickled onions. I remember when I was five or six, I picked up a pickled onion from my dad’s plate and popped it into my mouth. That sharp, tongue-curling hit of vinegar was such a shock, yet such a pleasure.
Ironically, we never had fish in our house. My father was allergic to seafood, which didn’t help. So my first real experience of fish was at the school canteen, when they served up glowing yellow, artificially dyed smoked haddock in tinned tomato sauce. I remember standing there feeling like Oliver Twist in reverse: ‘Please sir, I don’t want any more.’ It was horrible of course and, to add insult to injury, I got a bone stuck in my throat. It’s a wonder I ever became so passionate about fish.
The turning point was discovering fish and chips. What a great dish. Suddenly the world seemed a sensible place once again.
When I was growing up, meals were just fuel stops. It was stop, fill up the tank, and you’re off, without having to think too much about what you’ve just put in your gob. Things have changed enormously in Britain since then.
There is some pretty remarkable food in this country. For my money, British produce is the best in the world but we rarely do it justice. English apples are sensational. Our oysters, our venison, our wild fish and our cheeses are all bloody brilliant.
Show me a perfectly cooked standing rib of beef with fresh horseradish sauce and roasted English onions, a new season’s grouse straight from the oven, a wheel of carefully aged farmhouse Cheddar, and some magnificent wild Scottish salmon poached in a simple courtbouillon, and I’ll show you why we haven’t got a thing to be ashamed of.
I love English food - chicken tikka masala, hummous and spaghetti bolognese. You can’t get more English than that.
When I worked at the Savoy, I started to appreciate English food. I soon discovered steak and kidney pudding, which taught me how good food in this country could be. The kidneys and steak would be cooked slowly and then left overnight to build up flavour and character. Then they were put in a big bowl and covered in a mixture of flour and fat from the kidney, and the whole thing would be steamed for about two hours. When it was finished, you could push your fork in through the pudding and the steam would rush up into your face while the aroma wrapped itself around you. For something that wasn’t Italian, it was amazing.
I also love Yorkshire puddings, and the great British Sunday roast, and those marvellous bread and butter puddings. But not all English flavours are so thrilling. I remember very well the first time I ever tasted Marmite. It was also the last time I ever tasted Marmite. And I can’t stand English-Italian food – chicken surprise and spaghetti bolognese. It’s terrible.
It took me four years to discover the one true pièce de résistance of English cooking. When I was at the Savoy, I was taken to Smithfield meat market early one morning and experienced my first full English breakfast. It was all there: the salty, thick-cut bacon, the just-runny egg, the kidneys, the fruity black pudding, the greasy sausage, the baked beans, the thin, buttered toast. I loved it. Suddenly I started to understand the English.
Recipes
Italy v. England
Parsnip and smoked haddock soup Tortellini in brodo Prawn and langoustine cocktail Insalata di fagiolini con cipolle rosse arrostite Salad of cauliflower, ham hock and Stilton Carpaccio di manzo Steak and kidney pudding Insalata di spinaci e ricotta salata Slow-roasted belly pork with apple sauce and baked cabbage
Pappardelle ai fegatini di pollo, salvia e tartufo nero
Salt beef with carrots and mustard dumplings
Coniglio al forno con prosciutto crudo e polenta
Spezzatino di pollo al limone con carciofi
Rhubarb bread and butter pudding
Tiramisu
