Actually I'm half Italian, a quarter Persian, a pinch of Sephardie and the rest is English-Irish, the genetic equivalent of a Molotov cocktail. Over four beliefs and cultures under one skin, an emotional suicide bomber, neither fish nor fowl.
I moved with my family to London in 1971 and my father opened a restaurant. The unfamiliar surroundings of our new home drove him to busman's weekends there, which he spent cooking. When I was not reading Jackie or dancing in front of the mirror to Showaddywaddy, I was his assistant. I remember gingerly pouring a steady stream of extra virgin olive oil on to a single yolk. We did not use mustard to mediate this unlikely match; snot-green mayonnaise was seasoned at the end, by me. Making mayonnaise is about a moment. It's about not giving away to much too soon. It's about recognizing that moment when things go wrong but are still redeemable. It's about knowing that you pushed things that little bit too far and dealing with the mess. It's about cutting your losses and making a thoroughly clean start. Eggs: If you can't beat 'em, chuck 'em.
