Don’t have a set of sterling silver 2 dinner plates? Time to up your game, ladies!
If you do not have everything under control on the domestic front, you cannot be classified as a Sciura, the code word for Milan’s most elite housewives. And since I don’t, I am not. But over the last decade I have been staring in wide wonder at this city’s A-list hostesses as they churn out impeccable evenings for four or fifty, mesmerized by their effortless productions.
Discovering the Sciure was a revelation for someone like me, who arrived to Italy domestically challenged. I could not make a single pasta. Not even the easy one with olive oil, Parmesan cheese and black pepper that all five-year-old Italian kids can prepare while blindfolded. So the Sciure became a beacon on my hopeful journey towards an education in High Tastehood. They became my guiding light, my seventh chakra of domestic visualization. I sniffed them out, hunted them down, stared at them in Prada stores (they all wear Prada) or at the five-star roasted chicken shop, their only accepted form of take-out food. They are a difficult breed to track down. They shun the limelight and hate publicity. Their magic occurs behind the closed doors of their sumptuous homes. They are never in Milan on a weekend—there are too many vacation homes to tend to.
But slowly over the course of 13 years, I began to find them, one by one. I faithfully followed them into their kitchens, out the back door into the servants’ quarters, and around the house as they straightened the cashmere curtains, skillfully bossed around their staff, deftly manipulated their husbands, and beguiled their well-fed guests. All the while I was hoping to catch a few breadcrumbs of the precious information spilling out of them.
What I’ve learned over the last decade-plus is compiled in our Sciura Rule Book, where you’ll find how-to’s regarding exquisite home entertaining, perfecting aperitivo hour, good gifting, what to wear when, and much, much more.
A Sciura never sweats, schleps, or loses her cool. She never, ever lets anyone see the difficulty that goes into planning an event or dinner party. She smiles and stays relaxed, even if the electricity just blew out.
She doesn’t forget to buy anything at the supermarket and call her husband in a panic to pick it up for her. She plans ahead or relies on her staff.
She does not run back and forth from the kitchen 16 times during a dinner party. In fact, she does not stand in the kitchen for more than five minutes over the course of the entire evening. The only reason she will even step into the kitchen is to ensure— just once—that everything is being fluffed, finished and plated according to her well-plotted plans.
Sciure rarely use catering services unless they are preparing food for more than 20 people. Their existing staff (housekeeper, maid, butler, or all three) is a well-oiled squad that is more than capable of executing their mistresses’ wishes. They have mastered the nuances of every homegrown recipe, they know how drinks should be served, the way every pasta should be plated. The idea of a stranger in casa is a less than an ideal scenario. We are in Italy, after all, and everything should feel cozy and homegrown.
The Sciura’s staff—butler, cook, maid, whoever—wear a uniform, and yes, it is thoroughly coordinated and perfectly pressed. Ultimately, they are part of the performance for guests.
During a dinner party, the Sciura’s main objective is make sure her guests are well attended to and enjoying the evening. Her presence and undivided attention are central to this pursuit. If she is not enjoying herself, her guests will suffer. Being selfish is central to the entire operation. Entertaining is a symphony, she is the magnificent conductor, and everyone—from staff to guests—starts banging out Beethoven-like waves of perfection.
That’s not to say a Sciura doesn’t yell on occasion. I’ve heard more than one grand Signora scream at the staff and start furiously waving her finger back and forth like a schoolteacher. But most Sciure simply bark sharply and loudly (it’s the Italian way) and then briskly return to normal with a dramatic whoosh of their brocade skirt out the kitchen door.
– J.J. Martin
