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.
