expeditions have taken them from the Yukon to Pakistan to Bolivia.
“As a boy, I was always running away from school during hunting season,” Stefano says. “It was like a religion. My greatuncle would say, ‘Let’s go,’ and we’d take off into the hills. I would come back to school with pheasants and boar. Then the priests don’t mind so much that I was gone.”
The Riccis spend three weeks every summer in Tanzania.
“I hunt for a few hours, and then I spend the rest of the daydesigning my next collection. People think I’m crazy, working on my holiday, but it’s not working. For me, it is a joy. I’m able to focus, to have a clear view, away from the world of tailoring and fashion,” he says. “I always select a camp near a big river, in the middle of nowhere. We have a satellite phone—only for emergencies. It is a joy to be able to share my passion with my family, to be out there with all the persons I care about.
“This year, I am going after a prehistoric monster in Rukwa. A giant crocodile. Huge,” he says, and I have to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. “Filippo has the record, with five and a half meters, and I am going for six meters. You have to be silent when you hunt crocodile. You can’t let a twig snap. And you have to shoot them in the temple from a hundred and fifty meters. If you miss by just a little, you lose him.”
A waiter puts a plate of braised beef cheeks in an eggy sauce in front of me, and another refills my champagne glass, then Stefano’s. I ask Stefano what other toys he has.
“I collect vintage cars,” he replies, but won’t say how many when I ask. “I have … quite a few. They are mostly Aston Martins from the fifties. Every year, my wife and sons, we all drive in the Mille Miglia.”
I have read about this race; it’s a thousand-mile vintage-sports-car road rally from Brescia to Rome and back. Stefano is one of the sponsors.
“I’m driving this year with Burt Tansky—you know, from Neiman Marcus. It’s fantastic—millions of Italians line the streets. And we present the Stefano Ricci Gentleman Driver trophy to the team whose outfits best match their car. I sleep for three days when it is over.”
I ask him if he practices for the race.
“This Saturday I am taking my car for a test drive. We’lldrive it to the sea and back—a few hours. I am sorry to say you cannot come. It’s too dangerous. Those old cars have very little brake system. In the race, once in a while someone dies.”
A perfect cylinder of cream and mascarpone layered with chocolate wafers and topped with fresh raspberries is placed before me.
“Oh, I love that,” Filippo says, eyeing my dessert.
Stefano calls for the chef. When he appears, Stefano pumps his hand and speaks to him in effusive Italian, obviously complimenting him on the meal. Then a hotel employee appears with a long envelope and hands it to me. It is a train ticket for the 5 p.m. trip to Como, via Milan.
“Now you go see my silk. Then you know why Stefano Ricci is so expensive,” Stefano says with a sly smile.
According to Confucius, the story of silk begins in 2640 b.c., when a cocoon, most likely that of the native
Bombyx mandarina
moth, fell out of a mulberry tree into the teacup of a fourteen-year-old Chinese empress. When she fished it out of the hot liquid, the cocoon unraveled, revealing itself to be one long, shimmering filament. Her discovery led to an intensive study of the moth, and when its life cycle was understood the Chinese began to practice sericulture, the breeding of silkworms in captivity, in order to harvest raw silk. The story may be more myth than fact, but what is certain is that over the next thousand years of domestication the silk moth evolved into a species known as
Bombyx mori;
flightless, blind, and dependent on its captors, its only mission is to mate and lay hundreds of poppy-seed-size eggs.
The life of a silkworm is at once pedestrian and profound. When the eggs hatch,
“As a boy, I was always running away from school during hunting season,” Stefano says. “It was like a religion. My greatuncle would say, ‘Let’s go,’ and we’d take off into the hills. I would come back to school with pheasants and boar. Then the priests don’t mind so much that I was gone.”
The Riccis spend three weeks every summer in Tanzania.
“I hunt for a few hours, and then I spend the rest of the daydesigning my next collection. People think I’m crazy, working on my holiday, but it’s not working. For me, it is a joy. I’m able to focus, to have a clear view, away from the world of tailoring and fashion,” he says. “I always select a camp near a big river, in the middle of nowhere. We have a satellite phone—only for emergencies. It is a joy to be able to share my passion with my family, to be out there with all the persons I care about.
“This year, I am going after a prehistoric monster in Rukwa. A giant crocodile. Huge,” he says, and I have to suppress the urge to laugh out loud. “Filippo has the record, with five and a half meters, and I am going for six meters. You have to be silent when you hunt crocodile. You can’t let a twig snap. And you have to shoot them in the temple from a hundred and fifty meters. If you miss by just a little, you lose him.”
A waiter puts a plate of braised beef cheeks in an eggy sauce in front of me, and another refills my champagne glass, then Stefano’s. I ask Stefano what other toys he has.
“I collect vintage cars,” he replies, but won’t say how many when I ask. “I have … quite a few. They are mostly Aston Martins from the fifties. Every year, my wife and sons, we all drive in the Mille Miglia.”
I have read about this race; it’s a thousand-mile vintage-sports-car road rally from Brescia to Rome and back. Stefano is one of the sponsors.
“I’m driving this year with Burt Tansky—you know, from Neiman Marcus. It’s fantastic—millions of Italians line the streets. And we present the Stefano Ricci Gentleman Driver trophy to the team whose outfits best match their car. I sleep for three days when it is over.”
I ask him if he practices for the race.
“This Saturday I am taking my car for a test drive. We’lldrive it to the sea and back—a few hours. I am sorry to say you cannot come. It’s too dangerous. Those old cars have very little brake system. In the race, once in a while someone dies.”
A perfect cylinder of cream and mascarpone layered with chocolate wafers and topped with fresh raspberries is placed before me.
“Oh, I love that,” Filippo says, eyeing my dessert.
Stefano calls for the chef. When he appears, Stefano pumps his hand and speaks to him in effusive Italian, obviously complimenting him on the meal. Then a hotel employee appears with a long envelope and hands it to me. It is a train ticket for the 5 p.m. trip to Como, via Milan.
“Now you go see my silk. Then you know why Stefano Ricci is so expensive,” Stefano says with a sly smile.
According to Confucius, the story of silk begins in 2640 b.c., when a cocoon, most likely that of the native
Bombyx mandarina
moth, fell out of a mulberry tree into the teacup of a fourteen-year-old Chinese empress. When she fished it out of the hot liquid, the cocoon unraveled, revealing itself to be one long, shimmering filament. Her discovery led to an intensive study of the moth, and when its life cycle was understood the Chinese began to practice sericulture, the breeding of silkworms in captivity, in order to harvest raw silk. The story may be more myth than fact, but what is certain is that over the next thousand years of domestication the silk moth evolved into a species known as
Bombyx mori;
flightless, blind, and dependent on its captors, its only mission is to mate and lay hundreds of poppy-seed-size eggs.
The life of a silkworm is at once pedestrian and profound. When the eggs hatch,
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