I still remember the meal that turned me on to good food. I was 14 and in France with the scouts. There was a welcome dinner for the Irish scouts and we had roasted chicken legs with a white wine and tarragon cream sauce and pilaff rice. I took one mouthful of that chicken with its flavours and textures which were so strange to me at that time and I was hooked. Most of the boys wouldn't eat theirs so I helped and needless to say I was like a little whale in the sleeping bag that night. I went on to become a chef at 17, having somewhat neglected my education in the pursuit of girls and beer and ended up in England working for the tempestuous Nico Ladenis in his two-star Michelin restaurant Chez Nico which was situated on Queenstown Road in Battersea.
He expected a lot but he was very good to us, paid us well, encouraged and expected us to spend a large percentage of our wages on eating out in good restaurants for the purpose of education. After my first month working there he said to me "Hey Oirish, where are you eating this weekend? You should try Hilaire, book it". This was not a man to be argued with, so that afternoon I made my first restaurant reservation. Table for two, 8 p.m., Saturday night in the name of Flynn (we were very lucky to have Saturday nights off back then - "I'm not opening Saturday nights," Nico used to say, "too many bloody well-done steaks".)
I had another problem, having confidently made the reservation for two, I had to find a woman. Thankfully someone took pity on me after numerous phonecalls and desperate pleas. Next, having checked my wardrobe which happened to be in my rucksack in the corner of the room, I discovered that I was seriously lacking in posh restaurant attire.
I decided to buy myself a new suit - my old one being the one I wore for my confirmation. So I took the 137 from Clapham Common to Sloane Square and trawled the King's Road for the outfit that would make me a man and transform my life. It cost £38 in a market beside the Chelsea Potters pub - black and white check, padded shoulders, drainpipe trousers and when you rubbed it woolly bits came off! In restrospect, Duran Duran wouldn't have worn it for fear of it being too garish. Saturday night finally came. It had been a hard week. Being the youngest in a tough two-Michelin starred kitchen was no picnic so the weekends were for serious revelry and as much debauchery as possible. Forget about work until next week.
I had bought a bright red narrow-as-arazor tie to go with my suit but not wanting to overdo it I decided on a plain white shirt and sober black shoes. I met my date outside South Ken tube station and we walked up Old Brompton Road, not sure where I was going. We eventually found it. By now I was trembling. There was a lump in my throat and wanting to obey the rules of etiquette I let my date go first, but my nerves had turned to panic and I almost pushed her through the door. I croaked my name to the very polite waiter who seated us by the window. I felt like a goldfish.
Suddenly I heard a voice booming across a packed restaurant. "Hey Oirish, you made it". I turned around and to my horror there was Nico and his family at the other side of the restaurant. I gave a weak smile over to him and muttered to my date "Jesus, he's here!" When the waiter came along I felt like ordering a valium sandwich! Instead we studied the menu and talked about what we would choose. The menu was fine, at least it was printed in English (most high-class restaurant menus at the time were in French) but when it came to the wine list I was flummoxed. It may as well have been hieroglyphics. Then I saw one I recognised - Sancerre. I had heard about that somewhere. So I ordered, the waiter poured, I gulped.
I still remember what I had to eat that night. Pan-fried foie gras with glazed apples. Duck breast with cassis, followed by tarte tatin. I'm cursed with an appalling memory for names and faces but I can remember every restaurant I have been to and what I had to eat. We were on desserts when Nico and his family were leaving. He leaned over us with a rare beaming smile and boomed "you liked that Oirish, didn't you? Don't be hungover on Monday." With that he left and we could relax over a glass of Sauternes at the waiter's recommendation and I figured I was now broke. I beckoned the waiter to ask for the bill only to be told that Mr Ladenis had taken care of it.
A man of many surprises, he was just glad that I had chosen to spend my Saturday night educating my palate. So, having left the restaurant unexpectedly flush with money, I hailed a taxi (flash) and hit the Mean Fiddler in Harlseden. Sunday, as far as my tastebuds were concerned I may as well have spent Saturday night licking sandpaper. I think my love affair with restaurants started that evening and I never cease to be fascinated by good ones and irritated by bad ones. The chef in Hilaire that evening was Simon Hopkinson. Soon after that he joined forces with Sir Terence Conran to open Bibendum in the old Michelin building in Brompton Cross. Bibendum was the first of the Conran empire of restaurants. Simon Hopkinson doesn't cook there any more, but he is still part owner. He is now a highly respected food writer and hero of mine. His first book, Roast Chicken and Other Stories is one of my favourite cook books. It is a beautiful book that radiates a love of food with simple recipes. One of my favourite recipes from it is Crab Tart.
1 small tin of Italian plum tomatoes, chopped
2 garlic cloves, peeled and chopped
1 bay leaf, 1 small thyme sprig
Salt and pepper
20.5 cm/8 inch cooked pastry case
300 ml/1/2 pint cream
1/2 teaspoon saffron threads
4 egg yolks
White meat and a little brown from a 2 lb cooked crab
Preheat the oven to 180/Gas mark 4.
Put the tomatoes, garlic, herbs and seasoning in a saucepan and reduce to a thickish sauce. Cool, remove the herbs and spread the sauce in the bottom of the pastry case. Warm together three tablespoons of the cream with the saffron and allow to steep for a few minutes. Beat together the egg yolks and the rest of the cream and add the saffron cream. Season. Loosely fold the crab into the custard and carefully pour into the tart case. Bake in the oven for 30-40 minutes or until set and pale golden brown. Serve warm.