Secret Diary of a Part-time Clown
Conversation as performance, salty dinners and drive-by shootings
I love dinner parties, but I’ve also recently come to think of the concept of a group gathering with a random selection of people (some of whom are close friends, some of whom are people who have introduced themselves to me seven times already) as a frankly exhausting experience.
This is partly due to the fact that, regardless of whether I’m the host or the guest, I am never allowed to take a passive role in the event: I don’t attend parties, I perform in them. I don’t get invited, I get booked.
Speak to my agent, Linda, je suis très fatiguée.
What a normal person would see in these situations is a group of mismatched individuals coming together for an evening of politely smiling at each other’s bad jokes, exchanging second-hand gossip about the sister of the cousin of a friend we have in common but whom neither of us have spoken to since 2016.
What I see, however, is something completely different. The dinner table is a stage, the guests are the audience and la vida es un carnaval. I adjust my cravat and prepare myself to fulfil my fate as the last true showman of our generation. It’s showbiz, baby!
Except it isn’t.
Either way, this has often worked to my advantage: people can rely on me to carry the weight of a potentially uncomfortable social situation and rip the awkwardness out of it.
I have come to believe that that’s main reason I get invited to parties: if a social situation is not going well, just push the Valerio button and you’re guaranteed 45 minutes of distraction, which will then turn into a talking point later that night when people are outside waiting for their Ubers, politely wondering what the deal is with the loud Italian guy who never shuts up.
The downside of this, however, is the fact that a certain type of stranger (particularly one who is unaware of the role I am made to play in the dynamics of my social circle) might feel put off by my clownish attitude, perhaps dismissing me as a self-centred and insecure man who believes the world revolves around him. This is largely (but not wholly) incorrect.
I have managed to retain a couple of ounces of self-awareness, and I refuse to be the adult equivalent of the friend of the birthday girl who stands next to the cake when people are singing the song and blows out the candles before she has a chance to do it herself.
It’s the curse of the extrovert: the lines of normal social interaction and performance have become so blurred I’ve stopped seeing them, and I often end up performing without realising I’m doing it.
If I don’t do it, those who know me well (but not too well) will start wondering if there’s something wrong with me. Those who know me very well, on the other hand, know that I am, indeed, not always a circus act - and will be the first to notice the artificiality of my performance and therefore perceive me as disingenuous or fake.
I can’t win, but I also can’t stop. Once the eyeballs are on me - I feel a compelling, all-consuming need to keep them there. Silence is not an option: I can’t stand it - and I don’t believe in it. I’m what you would call a silence-denier.
I’ve calmed down a fair bit in the past year or so, and I am now making a conscious effort to go to parties to enjoy them, and that means having to leave the microphone and tap dancing shoes at home. But at the end of the day, I can’t escape who I am: a prolific clown, without the makeup skills.
IN THE KITCHEN
Trofie with Fresh Pesto
Something terrible happened the other day. I had guests over for dinner, and for the first time in a long, long time… I flopped.
I messed up my main. And to make things worse: my main was… pasta, the one thing an Italian is expected to do successfully.
See, I’m not trying to make excuses… but I bought a different brand of salt which turned out to be very salty, and I’d had a fair amount of Prosecco before cooking, and the rest is history. My guests were, Italian, too - and my reputation is permanently stained (with very salty pesto sauce).
So I made it again, determined to not repeat the same mistake, and my friends gave it a 10/10. You’ll never buy pesto in a jar ever again:
In a small food processor, blend 50g of fresh Basil, 70g of extra virgin olive oil, 30g of pine nuts, 80g of grated Pecorino Roman (or Parmesan, or a mixture of both) and half a clove of garlic.
Cook 400g of trofie (but any shape of pasta will do) following the instructions for the package, and for the love of God, don’t use half a box of the saltiest salt on Jesus’s green land - a small handful will do. Reserve a cup of cooking water.
Drain the pasta, mix in the fresh pesto and add a little cooking water if it’s looking dry - serve immediately, and watch your blood pressure!
WHAT I WATCHED
The Morning Show
Season 2 is officially out - and my Apple TV subscription expires next week, so I made the most of it. It’s full of drama, intrigue and non-consensual sex (so it might be triggering for some). But if you enjoy powerful women shouting and taking over the patriarchy, then I suggest you give it a try.
The Many Saint of Newark
The Sopranos are enjoying a renaissance with those of us who were too young to watch it the first time round - so a prequel movie (starring the actual son of the O.G James Gandolfini) was inevitable. I have not watched the series but I thoroughly enjoyed the 1960s Italian-American aesthetic. If you’re a fan of big hair and drive-by shootings, this will not disappoint.
VAL’S JUKEBOX
A boppy song from with a distinctively early noughties sound (Michelle Branch, anybody?). Now you act like I’m nobody, but you still want to go down me. The nerve!
A fresh hit by Colombian-Canadian singer Tei Shi. The end of love may feel like the end of the world - but the apocalypse never sounded so good.