Clarissa Dickson Wright obituary
She was not on the list.
Clarissa Dickson Wright, who has died aged 66 in Edinburgh's Royal Infirmary, took the world of television food and drink by storm when she was paired up with Jennifer Paterson in the BBC series Two Fat Ladies (1996-99). The presenters' eccentricity, their love of cream and meat and very rich food, the unscripted whimsy of their on-screen exchanges and, of course, their physical presence and demeanour made them unforgettable – as if two women of a certain age perambulating Britain in an uncertainly piloted motorcycle combination was not already enough to fix them in our memory.
Born in London, Clarissa was the youngest daughter of Arthur Dickson Wright, a prominent surgeon, and Molly (nee Bath). Both parents were of Scottish descent, although her mother's immediate forebears had connections with Singapore and Australia. Clarissa was brought up as a Roman Catholic, and remained one, albeit sometimes truculently. Educated at the Sacred Heart Convent in Hove, East Sussex, she studied law at University College London, being at the time the youngest woman – at the age of 21 – ever to be called to the bar. Had she done as she was told, she would have studied medicine at Oxford.
By her own account, her childhood was not happy. Within the family her father was autocratic and violent, and often drunk. Her siblings were much older, so she bore the brunt of his displeasure alone, save for her mother, whom she adored, and whose early death in 1975 precipitated Clarissa's own descent into alcoholism. She hauled herself out of that pit by the end of the 1980s (thanks to the Promis recovery centre near Canterbury, Kent).
Her drinking had put paid to a legal career, but she refashioned her identity as a good and knowledgeable cook at Books for Cooks in Notting Hill, central London. There she alternately terrified and charmed keen cooks and bibliophiles from behind her desk. Terrified: because she knew more than most of them and looked quite fierce (and had little sufferance for fools); charmed: because she had lashings of wit and told a good story. That venture came to an untidy end and she popped up next with her own shop in Edinburgh, the Cook's Bookshop: it lasted until she declared herself bankrupt in 2004.
Although I had seen Clarissa on television in the laste 1980s extolling the culinary virtues of that proto-artichoke the cardoon (whose torch she continued to bear until the very end), it was only in 1994 that the television producer Pat Llewellyn had the idea of creating the dreamteam of Clarissa and the characterful cook at the Spectator magazine – and motorcyclist – Jennifer Paterson.
They were acquaintances, but not particularly close friends. The Two Fat Ladies series on BBC2 was inspired. They took to the medium with little coaching and needed little scriptwriting. They simply reacted to whatever situation – boy scouts' camp, aristocratic shooting lodge, Brazilian embassy – the producers put them into.
Paterson's death (she was two decades older than Clarissa) in 1999 put a sudden end to their joint trajectory. Clarissa's television career continued, now embracing more of country life and its blessings.
Her new role was set in aspic in the series she made with Sir John Scott, a hill farmer, called Clarissa and the Countryman (2000-03): roughing it with the plus-four set with some discussion of the plight of rural Britain, the farming industry, the local food producer and the happy huntsman in the mix. She became a pin-up girl for the Countryside Alliance, the pro-hunting lobby and the students of Aberdeen University, where she was the first woman lord rector (1999-2005).
Clarissa wrote her autobiography, Spilling the Beans, in 2007 and produced several food books including A Sunday Roast (2002), The Game Cookbook (2004) and the prizewinning A History of English Food (2011). We used to share bookstalls at a regular summer conference of foodsters in Oxford and my wife always maintained that the skirt she was wearing this year was exactly the one she wore twelve months prior (same stains, same creases). For two days she would regale us with anecdotes, each more hair-raising, each more mordant – sometimes to be repeated the next year, sometimes not. Her style was inimitable and actually you didn't mind the odd repeat.
She is survived by two sisters.
Mary Contini writes: Clarissa came into our shop, Valvona & Crolla, more than 20 years ago, a bedraggled figure, eccentric and very, very posh. I had heard of her from her tenure at Books for Cooks in London: her reputation had preceded her. She had just moved to Edinburgh to open the Cook's Bookshop in the Grassmarket and was checking us out.
Her venture was a huge success, becoming a haunt for chefs, tourists and food writers, welcomed by Clarissa sitting in front of a glowing wood fire, drinking tea and holding court. She also opened a cafe at Lennoxlove House, Haddington, the seat of the Duke of Hamilton.
Meeting her led instantly to an enduring friendship. In our caffè bar she held court, too, always on table seven, usually with an entourage of authors, food producers, family and celebrities.
A constant critic of our efforts to provide good artisan local food and produce, she introduced us to suppliers and complimented us with abundance and generosity – but if we made a mistake or changed a recipe in a way she did not like, boy did she tell us.
She loved her food highly seasoned, and our chefs knew when she was in to be on their guard: a bowl of chilli oil was prepared and extra salt put on the table. Simple dishes such as grilled meats or fish she had no time for: "I can cook that myself at home."
What she did favour were highly flavoured seasonal Italian dishes like Roman puntarelle with salsa acciughe, a bitter vegetable served with an ancient anchovy sauce, or scarola, bitter greens cooked with garlic, chilli, black olives and anchovies.
Her favourite passion was fresh white truffles, which were served to her the same way every time: with homemade taglierini pasta, lots of Italian butter and black pepper.
She was a great fun girl, loyally following the Italian music shows of my husband, Philip Contini, and was happiest when she had her special song, Fravula Fra, dedicated to her in the tiny theatre in the back of our caffè, where she sat always at the back of three rows of tightly packed chairs, laughing and cheering as he sang in Italian: "I love your sweet cherry lips – but please don't eat the garlicky baccalà!" He always translated this tale of flirting and salt cod before the song: she adored it, and the rest of the audience shared in her delight.
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