Although a dinner with Meryl Streep at an out-of-the-way French bistro – where the house specialty was a monstrous sausage of pig intestine – seems to be the most regaled memory from Stanley Tucci’s memoir, there is a lot more to Taste: My Life Through Food than that anecdote. Through the hilarious dramatisation of his mother tussling with her mother over the acceptance or non-acceptance of well-intentioned foodie gifts, memories of beloved first wife Kate and her determination to master her mother-in-law Joanie’s much-revered lasagna Bolognese, and respect for his dear, slender, current wife Felicity’s ability to devour the contents of the cheese cart after consuming multiple courses (as well as most of his own final course) at their favourite London restaurant, it is clear that this is a man who really loves women who love food. He is also a man for whom food is nothing more than everything. We learn how a slab of homemade bread slathered with butter takes already delicious corn on the cob to a new realm. We learn where Aldo, a restaurant owner in Rome, serves the very best carbonara in the city of carbonaras, and should you make Tucci’s negroni he assures you “the sun is now in your stomach”. Although you may need to be a Tucci devotee to get to the end of this book, as you approach the twist recounting his experience with tongue cancer and his fear of losing his all-important sense of taste, it will make you love him even more. Thank you for the glorious read Stanley; I feel really well-fed. And I had forgotten all about the irreverent fabulousness that was Keith Floyd. YouTube here I come. KELLI BRETT