JAMIE OLIVER
Jamie Oliver, widely known as the Naked Chef, is one of the UK's best-loved culinary personalities. He has written six best-selling cookbooks, which have been published worldwide and translated into twenty-three languages. Before striking out on his own, Jamie worked at London's Neal Street Restaurant and the River Cafe. In November 2002, he opened the restaurant Fifteen, also in London, to train disadvantaged youths in the kitchen arts. Two more Fifteen restaurants have since opened in Amsterdam and Cornwall. In 2000, Jamie married his childhood sweetheart, Jools. They have two daughters.
FRY, YOU BASTARD.”
These three words were the first I remember hearing from a restaurant kitchen, and they made such an impression on me. They shaped my view of the mostly abnormal people attracted to the strange, punishing, and freewheeling world of professional cooking!
At the time my family lived in a flat over my parents' pub in a 450-year-old building. I was six years old when the words travelled up from the kitchen through the paper-thin floors into our living room.
"Fry, you bastard."
I could tell from the strange intonation—a sort of half-conscious mumbling—that they were coming from a tall boy—let's call him Gerry—who worked in the place and who I saw coming and going nearly every day of my young life.
But, though I knew whose voice I was hearing, I had no idea what he was referring to.
I was also puzzled by the strange little buzzing sound, short but unmistakably electric, that followed the words.
What is that? I wondered each time he spoke, my curiosity growing almost unbearable.
Again, it came: "Fry, you bastard." Followed by that zippy little buzz.
I couldn't take it any more. I had to know what Gerry was up to.
I ran down the stairs into the pub. As it was very early in the morning, there was nobody around. On tiptoes, I made my way to the kitchen, pushed open the doors, and looked inside.
There was Gerry, standing at a work station, busy peeling and marinading a load of prawns. But he was obviously getting a bit bored and every so often, instead of adding a newly peeled prawn to the bowl of marinade, he'd hold it up and say to it, "Fry, you bastard," then flick it across the room into the fly killer—one of those caged, electrified neon bars that zaps insects dead on contact.
As the shellfish hit the glowing tube, it made the buzzing sound I'd been hearing all morning. On the floor was a pile of blackened prawns. I learnt something that day that I would come to fully appreciate as I began my life in this profession: that you get some real characters in a professional kitchen! My education in the kitchen began early. By the age of seven I was working in the pub, and the other guys taught me all about the practical jokes that were to become part and parcel of my life in the kitchen. Like the night we took poor Gerry's leather jacket, soaked it in water, hung it in the freezer, then returned it to the coat rack, so that when he went to put it on at the end of the evening, after working hard for more than twelve hours and ready to go home, it was rock hard and as cold as ice.
I learnt to dish out practical jokes, and I learnt to take them as well. Because I was quite small, I often found myself locked in the freezer or tossed into the fish sink with all the stinking bits. Nice!
Before long, I took this as a fact of life. And I'll tell you a secret: I loved it. Almost as much as the food itself, I loved the guys who played these jokes on me and made me feel part of their team.
I've never been disappointed. No matter where I've worked, there's always been lots of fun, harmless teasing and practical jokes.
When I started college in London, I did some work experience in a hotel. Everyone in that kitchen was stark raving mad, from the ex-military head chef to the line cook who came to work decked out as a teddy boy in platform shoes, a long blue felt jacket, and a huge belt buckle. He blasted music from the portable radio at his station and performed every task, even peeling little vegetables, with an enormous chef's knife. Now, thats rock and roll!
This is where I learnt that pranks didn't have to be confined to the kitchen. Havoc could be caused by preying on the waiting staff who, let's face it, were more civilised, and therefore easier pickings for the likes of us kitchen blokes than we were for each other.
There was a female manager in that hotel restaurant who was the constant target of the teddy boy. Every afternoon at about the same time, she'd come into the kitchen to borrow the wine-cellar key from him. One day, in preparation for this ritual, he warmed two kidneys on a steel hotel plate. When he heard her coming down the stairs at the usual time, he got me to drop the kidneys into his trouser pocket.
He then hoisted up two prep trays loaded with food and turned round just as the manager made it to the foot of the stairs.
"May I have the key, please," she said.
"Of course," he replied, indicating that she should get the key from his pocket.
She stuck her hand in and made a horrified face, clearly thinking that he had a hole in his pocket and that instead of the key she had got herself a handful of warm bollocks! Thankfully she saw the funny side of it after she'd got over the shock.
Now, you might think this is unacceptable behaviour, and you're right, of course. But it was harmless, and we'd all be great friends afterwards.
Lest you think it's all fun and games, there are times when these schoolboy pranks are employed for a very good reason.
I have a pet peeve. I can't stand it when people nick food from my station. So when other chefs take this liberty, I always get my revenge!
Like the Aussie who worked with me in an Italian restaurant. I was the pastry chef and he was always grabbing my biscuits as he passed by, or taking a spoon out of his pocket and dipping it, repeatedly, into my sauces and ice creams.
This really annoyed me.
Well, the kitchen had a box of seriously hot Sicilian bell peppers that were fruity and delicious, but also quite lethal in large quantities. I helped myself to some and pureed them so they looked like a berry sauce. I layered this into a glass with some ice cream and asked the Aussie if he'd like to try our new "Tuscan parfait."
"I'd love to!" he exclaimed and grabbed a large spoon.
He scooped up a huge mouthful of the topping and crammed it into his mouth. Beads of sweat instantly appeared on his forehead as he swallowed some. He managed to spit out about half the stuff, then looked at me with red eyes. "You bastard," he shouted at me. "I lived in Asia for years and I can take that spicy . . ." As the chilli took hold, he trailed off and began gasping for air, leaning on the counter of my station.
All the other chefs stopped working and came over to watch.
A minute or two went by and then he collapsed on the floor and began shaking. His face was numb and he literally could not stand back up.
I spent the evening performing his kitchen duties and mine, all the while nursing him back to health by making him gargle milk and helping him to pull strips of skin out of his mouth. He was fine by the end of the night and I apologised, because I truly never meant to hurt him. But I wasn't really all that sorry. I guess we both learnt a lesson—and he never nicked any of my food again.
Over the years I have come to realise that not everyone appreciates the fun and games of the kitchen, though . . . And the thing I enjoy doing the most—moonies—are often the least appreciated by those who don't share the chefs' sense of humour.
Like the waitress at the River Cafe who was studying photography. In our very trusting environment at the restaurant, nobody locked his or her locker.
Big mistake.
One day, while this waitress was on the service floor, we took her camera and snapped sixteen photos of the lot of us doing moonies—real rugby-player-after-game stuff. Needless to say, when she took the film to her very proper, very professional lab, the technicians were amused, but she was not.
But the person I offended the most was a Portuguese clean-up man who I'll call Arturo. He was a nervous sort, not unlike Manuel, the chara
cter from the TV show Fawlty Towers. My mentor, Gennaro, and I were working together at this restaurant—he was the pasta man and I was the pastry chef. And while we loved to cook, nothing made us happier than making Arturo jump.
Gennaro used to do this by dropping a stack of steel trays when Arturo's back was turned. They would clatter really loudly and Arturo would leap in the air, his nerves completely on edge.
My approach was a bit more crude. At the end of the night, Arturo had to pull all the industrial refrigerators out from the wall in order to mop behind them. The units formed little corridors where I loved to taunt him. I'd stand at the end of a refrigerator-corridor, drop my trousers, bend over, slap my backside, and yell, "Hey, Arturo, kiss my arse."
Arturo would try to kick me as I took off, running and laughing.
One day, he was mopping up and Gennaro said, "Go on, give him a moonie."
As ever, I couldn't resist. I turned round and dropped my trousers. "Hey, Arturo, kiss my arse," I said, slapping my bare bottom.
This time, he was ready. Rather than trying to kick me, he managed to smack me with the wet mop . . . right where it hurts . . . And, believe me, it hurt like hell! I learnt my lesson and never pulled a moonie ever again. Lots of other stuff, yes, but never another moonie!
Acknowledgments
First and foremost, we thank the chefs, for your time, stories, and honesty. Obviously, without you, there'd be no book.
Thank you to Karen Rinaldi, for judiciously entertaining all possibilities; Panio Gianopoulos, for your smart editing, quick turnarounds, and good advice at every step of the way; Eleanor Jackson, David Forrer, and Alexis Hurley, for your excellent cheer and relentless dedication to getting it all right; and, for your invaluable assistance and support, Lindsay Autry, Phillip Baltz, Jennifer Baum, Dan Bignold, Thomas Blythe, Bob Bookman, Tony Bourdain, Juli at El Bulli, John Carlin, Rachael Carron, Samantha Clark, Mel Davis, Catherine Drayton, Scott Feldman, Rea Francis, Richard Green, Dan Halpern, Irene Hamburger, Gabrielle Hamilton, Susan Kamil, Chantal Keller, Sean Knight, Bill Knott, Pam Krauss, Lizzie Kremer, Shelley Lance, Mark Lawless, Carol Macarthur, Ellen Malloy, Gary Morris, Stephen Morrison, Aline Oshima, Anna Elena Pedron, Amy Pennington, Liz Ravage, Leah Ross, Felicity Rubinstein, Chiki Sarkar, Lori Silverbush, Belinda Smith, Lee Tulloch, Zoe Waldie, Christa Weaving, Araminta Whitley, Kimberly Yorio, and Laura Yorke.
—K.W. and A.F.
Personal thanks to my mother, who encouraged me to try everything; my father, who finds the bright side of every catastrophe; Harry Ptak, for always being there to help; Andrew Friedman, for making this collaboration such a pleasure; my colleagues at Inkwell, for their abundance of faith; and Mhelicia Sarmiento, for helping to get my family to the table every night.
—K.W.
My heartfelt thanks to Kimberly Witherspoon, for coming up with a great idea and inviting me along on the adventure. This was a terrific partnership and a lot of fun. And to Colin Dickerman, for remembering me from way back when; David Black, for your constant counsel and friendship; Caitlin Friedman, for making life easy and miraculously fun, even during the home stretch; and Declan and Taylor: you two couldn't have picked a better time to start sleeping through the night.
—A.F.
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