The Daily Telegraph - Saturday - Saturday
FERGUS HENDERSON 56, Chef
What would your younger self make of your life today?
The first thing I ever cooked was îles flottantes: islands of little white meringue, bobbing in custard. It might seem like a strange thing for a young lad to cook, but that’s what I did. I would have been about six. That’s stuck with me.
As a boy I used to do a strange thing with my head, turning to the left if I was trying to make a serious observation. I think I was quite shy. I still am in a way, but I love being sociable.
My parents, my sister and I started out living in Chelsea, then we went to Regent’s Park and ended up in Covent Garden. I only moved from there a few years ago with my own family.
My parents have a lot to answer for with my cheffing. My father was a great eater. And my mum was a good cook. I grew up in the Seventies and would come downstairs in the morning to the smell of cigars, carrots and half-eaten crème caramel. It all seemed very desirable. I didn’t want to miss out on all that good stuff.
I remember Marcella Hazan’s books in the kitchen at home: The Classic Italian Cook Book – The Art of Italian Cooking and the Italian Art of Eating. That changed everything. Tomato pasta became a staple diet. It’s never been off my menu since.
As a family it was the white tablecloth that kept us all together. My folks used to go off to the country loads and fill the house with people and feed them, which is another clue as to why I became a cook.
I went through the usual stages of wanting to be a farmer and a fireman, but I kept returning to food. My parents were architects, and I studied at the Architectural Association. I had a passion for it, although interestingly it’s the one thing I could never talk to my father about. We had very different styles and it would have been disastrous.
I still see myself as an architect who was distracted by the kitchen. I just happened to be more interested in food than anything else; I was led by my tummy. When I told my father I was quitting architecture, he said, “If you’re going to be a chef, be a good one.” I think I’ve turned out OK.
In 1993, when I was 25, I opened The French House in Soho with Margot [Henderson’s wife, later co-founder of Rochelle Canteen]. I had a pop-up in a club in Covent Garden, and Margot came along one night. At the time I had a kitchen porter who was rather grand and living on his inheritance. He had been working for Margot and he introduced her to me. It was very heady, which was good. And I still feel like that today.
We went to Paris on our honeymoon, and at the end of the day Margot fell asleep which meant I had to share my wedding night with a pig’s trotter and a bottle of Cote de Grisey. It was quite a bonding experience. I’ve had a soft spot for trotter ever since. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s a long time ago. I was 28, or something like that. That was a bit of a blow. In 2005 I had deep brain stimulation [electrodes attached to the brain send electrical signals to areas responsible for body movement], and it was a miracle. I no longer flail, though I am too slow for the kitchen. But you’ve got to try to keep your spirits up.
The success of St John [Henderson’s restaurants in Smithfield and Spitalfields] is very gratifying. It’s a giddy thought that I have managed to influence young chefs, many of whom I admire.
There are lots of things I still want to do. I want to travel more, and perhaps write another book. You can tell from the size of my tummy that I still tuck in. I was quite slim as a young man. If my younger self could see me now he might say: “Gosh, you’re chubby.”
People say my son looks like me, which I feel very bad about. I’m very close with my children [Hector, Owen and Frances]; they are an absolute joy. I drive them mad, but that’s all part and parcel of family life, isn’t it?
The Book of St John by Fergus Henderson and Trevor Gulliver (Ebury Publishing, £30) is available from books.telegraph.co.uk