The White way to wine and
The godfather of modern cooking has showered praise on Auckland restaurants, saying one eatery served him the best fried chicken he’s ever eaten. Harrison Christian reports.
Marco Pierre White is a formidable man. In the food scene, he’s a god. White was the first chef to become an object of public fascination, a personality, a cult figure. On the cover of his 1990 memoir White Heat, the skinny man from Leeds with curly hair looked more like a rock star than a cook. The old archetype of the portly chef in a tall white hat was finished.
White wasn’t jolly, he was fearsome. He was known for personally removing customers from his restaurant if he took exception to their comments, whipping the tablecloth off their table in the process. The masses began to appreciate fine dining as an art form born out of sweat, tears and tortured genius, and they wanted more.
White paved the way for all the celebrity chefs who followed. He personally trained Gordon Ramsay, the swearing Brit who once threatened to give the late Sir Paul Holmes a ‘‘lumping’’. Ramsay – who has travelled the world with TV crews, saying ‘‘wow, wow, wow’’ and ‘‘what a shame,’’ with each bite of a sub-par hotel meal – is a brilliant chef in his own right, but his on-screen antics are clearly derived from his former mentor. White once left a young Ramsay crouched in the corner of the kitchen, his face in his hands, sobbing.
But White didn’t invent the character of the enfant terrible, either. He just showed it to the world. When he began his training at the Hotel St George in Harrogate, chefs were hard men on a militant production line. In an interview at the Oxford Union Society, he describes his early life on a council estate. He has the grizzled face of a man from humble beginnings; the unruly hair and neck scarf of a savant.
In his speech, White explains how his father instructed him to dress in his Sunday best and knock on the doors of hotels in Harrogate in search of an apprenticeship. The chef behind the first door he knocked on gave him a job. Did he learn much about food at the Hotel St George? No, not really. But did he learn how to absorb pressure, how to pick up the towel, how to hide his tears? ‘‘The truth is, had it not been for that man – who was not a nice man – I would never have realised my dreams,’’ he reflects.
White once had to walk the streets of London for a night because he missed the last coach home. In the morning he knocked on the door of French restaurant Le Gavroche, tired and hungry, and asked for a job. The boss recalled the finest meal he’d ever eaten in Britain was at the restaurant where White was then working, the Box Tree, and on the strength of that meal, he was hired.
‘‘Success is born out of luck. It’s awareness of mind that takes advantage of that opportunity.’’
I’ve watched White’s Oxford Union Society interview many times. I’ve also watched his cooking shows. He is compelling because behind the bravado his method is unpretentious. He acknowledges that if you’re working with the best fare on offer, you don’t have to do much to it. ‘‘This dish is very simple,’’ he always seems to be saying.
‘‘The more you do to food, the more you take away from food,’’ he says over the phone from the waterfront at the Taste of Auckland festival. ‘‘I’m a very simple eater. I love an omelette. Even a ham sandwich with English mustard – lovely.’’
White was the first British chef to earn three Michelin stars – and to turn them in. He retired from the kitchen 20 years ago. This week he’s been doing cooking demos, signing books and dining with Auckland guests at $3500 for a table.
The 57-year-old believes the middle market is the big opportunity for restaurants, hence why Auckland is in the throes of a ‘‘food revolution’’. He says our city’s eateries have the formula nailed: a good dining environment, friendly service and delicious food at a reasonable price. ‘‘I haven’t got the patience to sit down for 12 courses. I don’t want dinner with the waiter,’’ he explains. ‘‘Give me a fabulous main, a bit of cheese and red wine. That is the future of restaurants and that’s what Auckland does. Al Brown’s a master of it. Mark [Wallbank] at Woodpecker Hill is a master of it.’’
The number one restaurant in Auckland for White is Nanam, the Filipino eatery in Takapuna. He’s full of praise for owner Jessabel Granada. ‘‘The beef wrap was just sensational. I could see why it’s so delicious, because of the amount of emotion and love she puts into her cooking.’’
White once did a nine-month stint as a vegan, giving up coffee and booze as well. He describes the transformation he experienced on a meat-free diet: first it left him weak and subdued, then it led to better sleep, more energy, weight loss and an improved sense of smell. But his sojourn as a vegan wasn’t to last. He has taken full advantage of New Zealand’s spring lamb season and ate ‘‘the greatest fried chicken wings I’ve ever had in my life’’ at Culprit in central Auckland.
What enthralled him about the fried chicken
She is throwing away everything. By ‘‘she’’ I don’t mean my 18-month-old daughter who keeps hiding my phone in the rubbish bin.
I mean my fully-grown 32-year-old wife.
She is throwing away EVERYTHING.
We have recently bought our first home and will be moving midDecember (yes, terrible time, I know).
While I’ve been busy downstairs in my home office working on rushed end-of-year projects, all I can hear upstairs is scurrying little feet excitedly skipping to and from every corner of the house.
I go upstairs for a quick cuppa and another bag of rubbish is ready to go. ‘‘What’s in there?’’
‘‘Oh, nothing,’’ she replies. Nothing!?
After a quick geez I soon find out her definition of the word ‘‘nothing’’ is well off the mark.
That free bag I got at the boat show two years ago is not ‘‘nothing’’.
That old car magazine from 2007 is not ‘‘nothing’’. That pair of my favourite holey undies are not ‘‘nothing’’! Yes, I’m a closet hoarder.
No, I do not collect closets. I mean I quietly like to hold on to things I probably should have let go of by now, like random printed T-shirts that will never fit me, or receipts from our OE 12 years ago that I’d promised to get made into a cool poster.
Wacky hats, odd socks, random school newsletters and my wisdom teeth. Yes. I have my wisdom teeth in a jar. I’m not really sure why. Please help.
To me, all these ‘‘nothing’’ items are memories. Throw them away and you risk losing that moment forever. Throw away my nothings and you’ll leave me with nothing at all.
My wife is currently the memory murderer. Sent back in time from our overcrowded new home to destroy all the things I said I needed, but ended up never needing at all.
I’m a confused Sarah Connor and really don’t know if I should trust this time capsule terminator. Does she have my best interests at heart or is she having another crazed Marie Kondo moment?
Today I hosted a mini intervention. I pleaded my case that if she comes across any of my stuff that she is 50/50 on, just know that I’m 90/10 and she should run it past me.
She smirked like an evil robot and carried on with her mission. I’m afraid. Very afraid.
What happens once we move home and I need that letter from that thing from that time that I can’t remember?
What happens when the water pipe leaks and I need that old roll of thread tape that only had 4cm of thread tape left?
What happens when all my undies are wet in the washing machine and I can’t find my favourite holey backup pair? Do I just go undie-less? So many questions.
Maybe it is for the best, my wife starting the packing without me. Maybe it’s for the greater good, the fact your heartless wife just sweeps all your life’s possessions into a kerbside rubbish bag.
I feel that this column is part of my healing process. Venting if you will. And with that I’ll try and end on a mature note.
Maybe it’s easier to let go if you don’t know you’re letting go at all.
Nah bugger that, I’m off to chase down the rubbish truck.
Yes. I have my wisdom teeth in a jar. I’m not really sure why. Please help.