Love, Vito

I’ll admit, I approached *Love, Vito* skeptical of yet another dancer-turned-author cashing in on their 15 minutes. But Coppola disarms you immediately—not with glamour, but with the kind of unvarnished nostalgia that makes you *smell* the wood-fired oven in his nonna’s kitchen. The narration is a double-edged knife: the performer’s accent work (especially the Italian phrases) is so vivid it feels like eavesdropping on a family dinner, but the pacing stumbles in the first hour, as if the narrator’s still finding their footing between Vito’s reflective moments and his *Strictly* anecdotes. Once it hits its stride, though, the audiobook becomes a masterclass in sensory storytelling. I’ll never forget the chapter where Vito describes his first London Christmas—lonely, broke, and salvaged by a batch of hand-rolled cavatelli—that’s the kind of detail that lingers like a good wine stain. My quibbles? The *Strictly* sections, while fun, sometimes feel bolted on, as if the publisher demanded more “sparkle.” And the production’s sound levels occasionally dip during the recipe interludes, forcing me to crank the volume. But these are minor grips. What *Love, Vito* does brilliantly is make you *hungry*—not just for food, but for the kind of life where meals are memories and success is measured in shared plates. If you’ve ever wept over a ruined sauce or found solace in the rhythm of chopping onions, this one’s for you. Just keep a snack handy; you’ll need it.