A control-freaky Italian student housemate of mine put much effort into his rarely successful evenings of wooing. Clothed in Armani lounge gear, in a fog of Old Spice, he would create his glory dishes of smooth-as-Barry-White risotto served with a crisp green salad.
It was the morning after that excited me most. Usually in a haze of thwarted amour, he would transform his misfired risottos into the most stunning rubble and squeak cakes. ‘It’s what my mamma taught me,’ he flounced – i