A lunch in the life of Mary McCartney
The photographer and Fab Four progeny drops in to cook lunch for Cosmo Landesman and talk burgers, Beatles and blended families
I’m sitting alone in my kitchen waiting for Mary McCartney, 54 – the first-born daughter of Paul and Linda McCartney – to arrive and cook me lunch. It’s not every day that a bona fide member of rock royalty pops by to do this, but McCartney has a new book called Feeding Creativity to promote. In it, she visits a galaxy of A-list actors, artists, pop stars, models, friends and family and gives them one of her special vegetarian dishes and takes their picture. And now it’s my turn.
I confess I’m a little anxious. She’ll probably turn up late – famous people always do – and without an apology. She and her entourage of sycophants will march into my small, grimy kitchen which currently whiffs of drains and react with bug-eyed disbelief.
And when she discovers that no, I don’t have an R402 food processor, a collection of Sakuto knives or a Mauviel nonstick frying pan – I don’t even have a garlic crusher – she will declare with haughty indignation, ‘I can’t possibly cook under these conditions!’ and flounce out. And I will follow her down to her limo and cry out, ‘I’m off to McDonald’s for my lunch, you privileged-nepo-babyvegetarian-fascist!’ – or something like that.
But my doorbell rings exactly on time. It’s McCartney. On her own, with nothing more than a shoulder bag and a big warm smile. She is wearing Nudie jeans and a blue sweatshirt. She has Stella McCartney high-top trainers on her feet, Linda McCartney veggie burgers in her bag – and probably an old hit by Wings in her head.
McCartney follows me up the stairs and bounces into my kitchen. ‘I love poking around people’s kitchens,’ she tells me, and starts rummaging in my cupboards, cutlery drawers and fridge. If she is horrified by what she sees, she hides it well. And no, she doesn’t faint when she sees the state of my frying pans. However, she does spot an ancient bottle of cheap vegetable oil by the stove that looks like a large forgotten urine sample and asks nervously, ‘Is this the only oil you have?’
‘Whose home had you peeped around before mine?’ I ask.
‘Let me think,’ says McCartney, sleeves rolled up, grabbing a chopping board and a knife. ‘Judi Dench’s home in Surrey.’ By which she means Judi’s €9 million-periodfarmhouse-with-sprawling-gardens-and-aswimming-pool home in Surrey.
And before Judi there were pancakes with Cameron Diaz in Los Angeles, brownies with Star Wars creator George Lucas on his ranch in California, creamy green pasta with Dad (Paul) and Ringo, cream of tomato soup with Cate Blanchett on a film set and now she’s preparing speedy veggie bolognese – adapted from a recipe by Foo Fighters front man Dave Grohl – for me in my gaff. Do you see why I was nervous before she arrived?
McCartney is a chatterbox, driven by curiosity and nerves. She bombards me