What does the aristocracy eat?
The same as everyone else.
How so? Take this description of an Easter feast from 1942 provided by Lampedusa and quoted by Bogusław Deptuła, a friend of the author, in the book “Literature from the Kitchen.” “Served: lasagna, lobster pastries, breaded cutlets with potatoes, peas and ham, a delicious cake based on Escoffier’s recipe: puff pastry, cream, and candied cherries. And later, a tender and delicious steak two fingers thick, exquisite cakes, a piece of fresh tuna ‘as big as a car tire’.” A lavish spread! But that was almost 100 years ago. People don’t eat like that anymore. It’s a myth that our tables are laden with unbelievable, super-expensive, and unattainable products. Perhaps only those who want to prove they’re rich—the nouveau riche—need to eat that foie gras and wash it down with champagne. Let me tell you: now the trend is toward authentic, humble food. The kind where you know exactly which village it comes from. For example, traditional Tuscan country cuisine—that’s what’s in style.
What was the most lavish party you’ve ever attended?
It was in one of two Baroque palaces in Florence. The first—Palazzo Capponi all’Annunziata—belonged to another branch of my family; it was sold in the early 20th century and divided into smaller apartments. The second is the famous Palazzo Corsini, located right on the Arno River between Ponte Santa Trinita and Ponte alla Carraia. It is a grand building constructed in the style of a Roman palace in the second half of the 17th century. The Corsinis were very wealthy and influential, and in the first half of the 18th century, one of the family members, Cardinal Lorenzo Corsini, became pope. The palace houses an incredible collection of paintings and sculptures—it is open to the public. But the piano nobile [the main floor with the living quarters—ed.] had long been neglected. Until a close friend of mine inherited it and decided it needed to be put to use somehow. Today she rents it out for various occasions: weddings, receptions, parties, but also, for example, for an antiques fair. A year ago, we were there for her son’s wedding. It was unbelievable! Because there’s no electricity in the piano nobile. At its highest point, the room is 12 meters high! Incredible! There’s no electricity, but there is a huge, beautiful wooden chandelier that you lower and fill with candles. In their light, the interior and the paintings hanging on the walls look magnificent. There were a lot of guests…
How many is “a lot”?
About 700 people.
It’s a crowd!
Yes, they barely all fit in the piano nobile, but luckily it didn’t last too long. In our Italian families, there’s a custom where antipasti are served first during the standing part of the reception, the cocktail hour. You can chat and greet each other. Then everyone sits down briefly at the table to eat the first and second courses, or sometimes just the second course and the wedding cake. Because feasting at the table, when there are more people, requires incredible efficiency and logistics. It was winter, so one of the dishes served was boeuf en cuillère, or slow-cooked, tender beef. Delicious! Everything was simple, yet very elegant and perfectly prepared. And despite the large number of guests, it was served quickly. We tried to organize our daughter’s wedding in a similar way. The civil ceremony was in Poland, and the church ceremony in Italy. Here, we held the reception at the Fortress with Agnieszka and Marcin Kręglicki. My daughter, son-in-law, and I were in complete agreement on one thing—no catering warmers! We had beautifully prepared cold buffets and cooking counters.
So, like cooking stations?
That’s right. The kids didn’t want cut flowers on the tables either, so Agnieszka made some wonderful decorations out of fruits and vegetables. I remember the stunning triumph of kohlrabi on one table [laughter]. Herb pots! And in the center of the table stood soup tureens with salad arrangements. It looked lovely. In Italy, however, it was a very hot day, so I knew I couldn’t keep people at the table for too long. The first course was served in the garden, and once we were seated, they served a wonderful timballo di maccheroni—very thin tagliolini in pesto combined with eggplant. Then there was gran pezzo, which is a whole ribeye steak roasted on the bone with potatoes. And to finish, there was a wedding cake.
Listening to you, I think you enjoy hosting parties.
Very much so! We sometimes have as many as 30 people for Christmas Eve dinner. I love my table; I love setting it. I have various tableware and napkins from my Greek grandmother. It’s nice to use them.
What makes for a successful dinner party?
A formal dinner shouldn’t last longer than an hour and fifteen minutes. I’m talking about the part spent at the table. If the courses aren’t served efficiently and the breaks between them are long, it’s enough to drive you crazy. I agree—I can’t stand it!
What else?
I follow the rule that you don’t experiment when hosting a dinner party. If the dinner is to be formal and seated, it’s always better to stick to recipes you know and that turn out well. You can experiment with close family and good friends. I always let them know in advance if there are going to be experiments. And in other cases, it’s better to stick to simplicity, which equals elegance. Less is more. Always. And one more thing: it’s not worth trying to recreate restaurant food at home. I think it feels artificial.
Why?
Because what works in a restaurant doesn’t necessarily taste good at home. Caterers often serve those fancy little things in the middle of the plate with some sauce around them. That’s not home cooking. Platters—absolutely. Anyway, I don’t like ready-made dishes placed in front of guests at parties at all. It’s better when waiters serve platters and each guest serves themselves—that’s exactly how it was at both weddings I mentioned.
What do you serve most often these days?
I keep a little notebook where I jot down what my guests have already eaten here, so I don’t repeat the same dish. I love serving risotto; I like to cook with seasonal ingredients, so right now I’m using asparagus. My husband makes a wonderful roast beef. I also recently made a delicious melanzane alla parmigiana. And for dessert, a dried apricot flan. Based on a recipe from the memoir “Apricots on the Nile,” which I’ve been reading lately, and whose author—Colette Rossant—has roots just as multinational as mine.
And what about the outfit?
Well, that’s obvious to me. When I host a cocktail party, you don’t show up in jeans! And for a formal, seated dinner, you need to wear a dress—not a gown—without excessive cleavage. Certainly not the kind of outfit I wear to the market in the morning. I find these terms amusing—the ones now making their way over from American business slang, like “business casual.” I mean, what does that even mean? Dressing up for a cocktail party is a custom that’s fading away. Many people living in the city today go straight to a restaurant after work. They don’t change a thing, well, unless it’s a reception at the ambassador’s or some other equally formal occasion. And that’s exactly what puzzles me! Why do we dress up carefully for the ambassador, but not when going to other places? When I call and say, “Come on over, I’ve got a new shipment of mozzarella,” it’s clear that this isn’t a formal gathering. But when I call two weeks in advance, because they don’t send out boxes anymore—though in Italy that still happens. Why shouldn’t a guest dress appropriately?
And should you thank them after the party?
Yes.
How?
I think you can do it over the phone.
Or by text message?
I think that for our generation and the younger one—absolutely yes. However, it’s better to call the older generation. Etiquette, good manners—were these taught in your family home, or did you absorb them by osmosis? Certainly by osmosis as well. From childhood, we were accustomed to certain behaviors. I remember my great surprise when, one day at our table, two cultures collided: urban and rural. It was a harvest festival or a grape harvest celebration. My Italian nanny was serving at the table. She always served my mother first. And on that day, her husband, the estate manager, gave her a real scolding, saying that one starts with the head of the household—because that’s how it was in the countryside. I was very intrigued by this, and my father had to explain the difference to me. The history dates back to medieval times, when in bourgeois homes, regarding table manners, people began to adopt the customs and rules of courtly and chivalric culture, including showing respect to women. To this day, at formal gatherings, the woman sitting to the right of the host is served first, then the woman to his left, then the hostess, followed by the man sitting to the right of the hostess, and finally the host.
Phew, that’s complicated!
But it makes sense. The guest is the most important person in the house, and the hosts come last.
Where did the Capponi family live during your childhood?
In a house built in the early 15th century. Its courtyard is particularly valuable; it was likely designed by the Florentine architect Filippo Brunelleschi. It was and still is my family’s home. How many rooms were there? Oh, ma’am, they weren’t called rooms! The house was divided into apartments for different branches of the family. My parents lived on the piano nobile, but my mother hated it; for her, it was too dark and gloomy, so when I was six, we moved to the second floor, to a much sunnier part of the palace. That one was about 300 square meters; the one downstairs was 500—if you’re asking about square meters…
What did you have for breakfast?
I think the children sat separately until a certain age. The first breakfast was always English-style—corn flakes with warm milk, which was my nightmare. The flakes quickly became mushy and disgusting. It wasn’t until later that I discovered you could eat them with cold milk or yogurt. And then there was bread with butter and Marmite or peanut butter.
Not at all Italian.
Because we’re a multinational family. My mother’s father was an Italian diplomat, the Consul General in Nice, then head of the missions in Dublin and Oslo, and my grandmother was a Greek woman of British descent who spoke five languages. My mother didn’t learn Italian until she was 13. We spoke English at home. My great-grandmother, my father’s mother, was Scottish, from a family whose roots date back to the 10th century.
So that’s where the corn flakes came from?
I suffered so much because of them! Once, a teacher at school asked, “Kids, what do you eat for breakfast?” And I knew right away it was going to be bad! When it was my turn, I told her the truth, and she said, “Sit down, you’re lying! You always want to be different!” But I just was different. With this family whose roots span so many countries.
And which of the grandmothers in your story drilled the staff so strictly to serve steak properly?
Strictly? I’d say maniacally! That was Kate—my Greek grandmother, the diplomat’s wife. She was a charming woman, but with a terrible temper. When it came to cooking and hosting parties, she was obsessed. She tested the cooks by having them prepare steak and omelets.
How were they supposed to be cooked?
Perfectly, to a T! The steaks slightly rare. And the omelets—fluffy, delicately undercooked in the middle, or baveuse! Yes, that’s the highest level of skill. When Flavia [Tessa’s second daughter—ed.] was at Le Cordon Bleu, she realized that making a good omelet isn’t such a simple matter. You have to work at it.
How do you make an omelet?
Like a traditional Italian frittata—lots of eggs and even more fillings inside. For example, sautéed zucchini and onions. They turn out like cold cakes. It’s delicious in the summer!
Are there any dishes from your family home that have been forgotten, that you miss?
When Marcella, my Italian nanny, retired, all the know-how of great cooking went with her. I miss her meat sauce for pasta. It was made with hare and had a dark chocolate color. It smelled and tasted amazing.
Were children allowed in the kitchen?
Not really, with my English nanny Margaret. Unless we snuck in. I remember climbing onto chairs to see what was bubbling in those pots. And that Marcella would secretly give us various treats. Because we weren’t allowed to eat between meals, and certainly nothing unhealthy. But later, when I was a teenager, it wasn’t a problem anymore.
Wasn’t it considered improper?
We weren’t allowed in the kitchen because our parents didn’t want us to get in the way of the people working there. They were also afraid we’d burn ourselves. Besides, when my brother was two, he spilled a small pot of hot water on himself. So our parents were cautious. But my mother firmly believed that you had to know how to cook. My grandmother didn’t cook, but she knew exactly how to ensure good food. Thanks to that, she could direct others. All it took was a glance at the platter placed on the table, and she already knew whether it was good or needed to be sent back. This stemmed from her vast knowledge of the culinary arts, and of course, her perfectionism. So it wasn’t frowned upon—after all, she had devoted her entire life to the kitchen, and now Flavia is following in her footsteps. Not at all. In my generation, everyone cooked. Perhaps for my grandmother’s generation, the fact that Flavia is a chef would have been unacceptable. But today, a chef is considered an artist or at least a master craftsman. In my home, we didn’t do something just because it was inelegant, unrefined, or because it wasn’t proper. Because what does that even mean? To whom was it improper? Why? Our parents always explained to us: you have to do this or that because it’s a sign of respect for others. I know these are probably just codes, but as long as they exist, we have to learn them and use them.
But some customs are dying out, fading away; it turns out we no longer need them.
Of course. “To change for dinner” no longer means putting on a tuxedo or a long gown, but we still change our clothes and freshen up for dinner. Of course, today in our Florentine home we eat dinner in the kitchen, because no one feels like setting the table in the dining room, but that spirit remains, that idea that one knows how to behave—or not to behave.
Noblesse oblige—nobility obliges. How do you interpret that phrase today?
For me, it’s a conscious respect for tradition and history. A very important statement. And it’s absolutely not about showing off. As my father says: “My name is my title.” Meaning titles don’t matter; what matters are the names that have gone down in history, the people who have achieved something. What good is a title if one’s family isn’t known or hasn’t achieved anything? Take the Ricasoli family, for example—they hold only the title of baron—yet they are so prominently present in Italian history. And what historical figures they have given us! What is important about my family? That we have been present in Florence since at least the 12th century, and that many of its members have done a great deal for this city and for Italy.
So there’s no government support?
There used to be, but Italy is in a crisis now. The art collection, the palace, and the country estate—we maintain them all on our own. It’s a never-ending story. And then there’s the possibility of a drought that could destroy the harvest in the countryside or at the vineyard.
A year ago, the entire street in front of our palace collapsed because of a water main break. Most families who own such estates have no cash flow! We all live quite modestly to maintain what we have. The temptation to sell it all up comes up from time to time. Because what do we need all this for? They’re just things, and we can’t take them to the grave. But here the word “tradition” comes back. We aren’t the owners of all this, merely its custodians.
Do your children understand that?
I think so, especially since they have a similarly extensive family history on their father’s side as well. Though Poland’s history is more tragic. Here, their heritage is preserved in the written word, in family histories and mementos.
So we’ve reached the moment when representatives of the two families, the Capponis and the Borawskis, met in Florence in 1983. What was that like?
Kuba was there on a scholarship. We met at the state archives.
What a romantic place for a rendezvous.
Lots of dust [laughter]! What can I say? We’ve been together for 34 years, married for 32.
You’ve already told me a lot about this romantic story, but I’m particularly moved by the moment when you’re riding that empty train from Florence through Vienna on your way to Warsaw.
It went like this: “The whole car was empty; I was all alone, I swear—not a soul in sight all the way to the Polish border until six in the morning. I sat alone in a dark compartment, listening to Dire Straits on my Walkman—‘Sultans of Swing,’ ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ and ‘Local Hero.’ And Addinsell’s Warsaw Concerto for piano and orchestra. And Mozart’s Concerto for Horn and Orchestra, because it calmed me down. I was carrying a bottle of olive oil and a pair of shoes for someone. I was 120 percent in love.”*
You were 24 years old. Your family and friends weren’t thrilled.
I don’t regret it. I’d do the same thing again. People talk about courage. No… I was in love with Cuba; I couldn’t imagine life without it. My parents’ reaction was brilliant: “Go, see, check it out.” There was only one condition—that I spend one winter in Poland before getting married. Very sensible advice. That winter was really hard for me. My peers, however, were completely against it, for reasons unknown to me.
Quite conservative, though your decision was absolutely a gamble.
I found out many years later that at our wedding in 1985, people gave us two years. “She’ll come back later,” they said. Well, they were wrong!
First impressions of Poland?
Well, I was definitely looking at everything through rose-colored glasses—everything seemed absolutely beautiful to me! I arrived during the golden Polish autumn. Then, in November,
things got a little worse. But we got through it.
Poland was in the midst of a crisis back then. Lines and empty shelves. You speak so beautifully about those gray products in the bars: gray lard, gray tartare, a gray egg in mayonnaise. That was the color palette of the Polish People’s Republic. How did a girl from sunny Florence cope with that?
We had a greengrocer’s on the corner where there was actually something. Especially soda water dispensers. We managed somehow. Endless lines, you’d stand there and stand there, and then right in front of you the goods would run out. Those were the times.
Poland was like a trip to Mars for you back then.
Oh, yes. I never took that train again. I always chose to fly from then on. It was a traumatic experience for me, though. How did you communicate with your family? Was there a phone? There was, but it was quite expensive, so we wrote letters. A network of friends who traveled quickly formed around me. If someone was going to Paris, I’d ask them to take a letter and send it from there to Florence.
And what did you ask them to bring most often?
Diapers!
Seriously? I thought it would be something to eat—some truffles, lobster, maybe caviar?
Ms. Monika, I’ve eaten lobster maybe three times in my life—fresh, in Greece. And I assure you that those diapers, in which the children slept through the night, were better than all the truffles and caviar!
* Excerpt from the interview “Confrontation with Gray Bacon,” Maciej Stasiński,
“Wysokie Obcasy,” 2009
Tessa Capponi-Borawska
– an Italian aristocrat born in Florence. She has lived in Poland for over 30 years. She lectures to students on Italian history and writes about Italian cuisine—she is the author of the books *Tuscan Diary* and *My Kitchen*
Interviewed by: Monika Brzywczy, photos: Wunsche&Samsel
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