For an archive of Gordon Ramsay's recipes, see www.timesonline.co.uk/ramsay
Mornings in Gordon Ramsay’s large south London home are clearly something of
a hurdle. There are the four Ramsay children to get off to school, never
mind the procession of e-mails, international calls and deals which it would
appear take place before the famous chef has even sat down for breakfast.
Eventually Ramsay strides into the living room where I have been positioned
to await his presence.
He is proudly carrying a mug of coffee. On one side are emblazoned the words
“F*** off”, on the other is a photograph of Ramsay giving a one-finger
salute. The profanity of this piece of crockery is quite at odds with the
room, furnished with beautiful leather chairs, fur cushions and arty black
and white photographs.
Of course, this discrepancy is Ramsay all over. The master of London’s only
three-Michelin-star restaurant (Restaurant Gordon Ramsay on Royal Hospital
Road in Chelsea), television star and cookbook guru is as famous for his
foul language as he is for his impossibly elegant culinary creations. More
so, probably.
After all, he has been swearing in the living rooms of the nation for a good
few years, courtesy of his combative culinary programmes Kitchen Nightmares,
the F Word and, of course, Hell’s Kitchen, which he pioneered and took to
America.
These programmes saw Ramsay, immaculate in his chef’s whites, raving and
berating Clist celebs and hapless restaurateurs alike for daring to produce
sub-standard food under his nose. The audiences on both sides of the
Atlantic laughed a lot and lapped up series after series.
In the flesh the Ramsay visage is a bit less craggy, but the spicy integrity
of his vocabulary is bracing. His latest volume of biography, Playing with
Fire, is more a window into the world of rapid-fire swearing than the world
of culinary management. The book’s profanities start after only five words.
Ramsay takes a sip from “F*** off”: “It’s kitchen language. It’s the nature of
the beast. I don’t get off on it. I get really frustrated when I’m the only
chef that admits to swearing, because everyone does it. When the s*** hits
the fan, let it hit the fan. If it’s sh***, it’s s***.”
He is amused that prep-school boys on the school bus have decided to educate
one of the junior Ramsays, 7, who travels on it each morning, in the family
style of parlance. “The big boys take him to the back of the bus and teach
him new words,” says Ramsay fondly. “Yesterday he came back with ‘w***’.
He’ll come back today with another word.” He pauses. “I think it’s
character-building.”
Ramsay knows a bit about character-building. Born in Glasgow 40 years ago but
raised in England, he had to abandon his football career with Rangers in
1985 due to a knee injury and signed up to catering college on the advice of
his mother. His father thought prancing around in a kitchen was a bit of a
nancy-type thing to do, which might account for Ramsay’s macho belligerence.
“Nothing came on a f****** spoon for me,” he says. “Everything has been
built on the coalface.”
However, his empire seems to have become a bit rickety of late. He’s on every
television ad and billboard but it hasn’t been a great month. His restaurant
on Royal Hospital Road lost the top spot in the Good Food Guide (to Heston
Blumenthal’s Fat Duck) and also the top spot in the Zagat restaurant guide
(to Bruce Poole’s Chez Bruce), and his celebrated tenure within the
Connaught hotel came to an (amicable) end. “The last three weeks have been
the shittiest in terms of negative press,” Ramsay agrees.
The general consensus is that Ramsay has gone slightly off the boil because he
has spread himself too thinly. Naturally, he will have none of this. “I’m
cooking at Royal Hospital Road tonight!” he splutters. “And I was there last
lunchtime! If anyone thought I was spreading myself too thin, go and eat at
Royal Hospital Road. It’s London’s only three-star and has been for five
years! I got my nuts kicked in New York by The New York Times. But the place
[Gordon Ramsay at The London] is fully booked for two months! I’m judged as
a persona over the quality of what I produce, and that’s my downfall.”
Maybe the problem with Ramsay is that he has insisted too strongly on his
persona going along with the produce. “I’m not crying about whether I sold
myself out. Do you stop supporting Man U because Wayne Rooney appears in an
advert? No. Spreading myself too thin? Come and eat the food and shut up!”
Such prodding will probably only have the effect of making Ramsay work even
harder and go even more global than before. Work is Ramsay’s mantra. Work,
and then work some more. And if this doesn’t solve anything, work a bit
harder. Ramsay never wearies of promoting toil and sleepless nights. “God
forbid, if I lose my third Michelin star in January I’m not going to sit
there and cry over spilt milk. I’m going to win it back,” he says. Long
hours in the kitchen have put ironed-in creases on his face, but have also
brought him an estimated fortune of £67m.
And he is proud of his behaviour. There is nothing that infuriates him more
than when peers such as the dapper Raymond Blanc, owner of Le Manoir aux
Quat’Saisons, speak out about their dislike of effing and blinding. “I don’t
want to bang on about Raymond Blanc but that guy is full of s***,” says
Ramsay, energetically. “When Raymond was carving out his reputation at the
Manoir, he was a talented, full-on compulsive, swearing, tough chef, in his
kitchen. Now he is in his late fifties, he starts to philosophise. Which is
bullshit! F*** off, you French twat. Where were you 20 years ago? Beating
the s*** out of the English and throwing pans at Marco Pierre White [a
Raymond Blanc pupil and Ramsay’s former boss and nemesis].”
I ask Ramsay whether he has watched Blanc’s recent television series. “The
minute they subtitle it and I can understand what the f*** he is saying,
I’ll watch it,” growls Ramsay. “Plus, I think they need a hand with the
viewing figures.” Ouch.
Ramsay is very competitive. In his book, he writes about the need to beat
Jamie Oliver’s book sales. Clearly, running London’s only three-star, etc,
etc, plus the New York operation, not to mention the multi-million-pound
empire, Gordon Ramsay Holdings, with its 1,300 members of staff, is not
enough. He also needs to take on the Cheeky Chappie himself.
“Jamie Oliver is a noose around my neck,” Ramsay says. “He sold 40,000 copies
of his book last week!” Naturally, there is a new Ramsay cookbook on its
way, which its author immodestly hopes will knock Oliver off the bestseller
list. “Haven’t you heard of Recipes from a Three Star Chef? It’s beautiful.
F****** hell,” he says, pleasantly.
But though he grumbles about them, he likes having rivals. “We all need
targets. Jamie Oliver is a phenomenon . . . to make every parent feel guilty
about what their children are eating. Jamie Oliver inspires me with what he
has done. With his publishing arm.” Miaowww.
How about that other hot TV chef, Nigella? Is there a sexy Gordon in the
kitchen awaiting us all? “Nigella? A target? You are joking, aren’t you?”
says the grand chef, grandly. Then he collapses with laughter. “I would just
love to ask Nigella whether I could look at her boobs. Without touching
them. Because they are the most amazing breasts,” he says, quickly adding,
“My wife agrees with me,” in case I got the wrong idea. “But as a chef? You
can’t get inspiration for cooking from that! Sexy cooking? What, me standing
there with my fingers in my mouth?” I think we’ll move swiftly on.
Where Ramsay does have the edge on his rivals is in his capacity for
team-building which is the key to his success. When he walked from
Aubergine, his first, celebrated restaurant in London, so did all 46 of the
staff, to set up on Royal Hospital Road. Ramsay’s brainwave was that he
should train up not future rivals, but future partners. As he puts it, he
creates “Mini-mes”.
His protégés are now in charge of their own restaurants under the Gordon
Ramsay umbrella. Pétrus, Gordon Ramsay at Claridge’s, and Maze are all run
by Mini-mes. His most famous Mini-me, Angela Hartnett, has just left the
Connaught and will be opening her own restaurant in Mayfair, within the
Gordon Ramsay Holdings group, naturally. “Every angle in my business; my
restaurants, my TV shows, the editorial and publishing, is covered with a
Mini-me. It’s phenomenal,” says Ramsay. “That’s why I’m comfortable going
forward at this rate.”
He suggests that what has stopped his rivals from becoming as successful as he
is, is a failure to invest in talent similarly. “You can’t give me six names
from other top chefs who are also their subsidiaries, partners, shareholders
or independent restaurateurs.”
Of course, some of us dim journalists still don’t get it. “Some silly cow in
Japan turned round and said, ‘Yeah well if he’s such a hands-on chef, who
does the cooking?’,” says Ramsay witheringly. “She was wearing a fantastic
pin-striped $1,000 suit. I said to her, ‘Who made your suit?’. She said,
‘Armani’. So I said, ‘Did you ask whether f****** Giorgio Armani had
stitched it?’ Of course not! Too many people are focusing on me,” he
concludes.
So what is next? By spring 2008, he hopes to be the toast of the city of
cuisine herself with a restaurant in Paris serving mainly British produce.
“Paris is a big one for me,” he admits. “We are opening a 40-seat restaurant
at the Trianon Palace hotel just outside Versailles.”
His rationale? First, to achieve three Michelin stars simultaneously in New
York, London and Paris. Second, an intriguing culinary patriotism. “I’ve had
a bellyfull of the French coming over and telling us how s*** our food is.
We should f****** shout from the rooftops, with our hand-dived scallops from
the west coast of Scotland, and our venison from Balmoral, our wonderful
Aberdeen Angus steak, and our f****** mussels and oysters from beds in South
Ireland. Why not?”
Gordon Ramsay’s Playing with Fire is published tomorrow by HarperCollins,
£18.99
