Angus Colwell has narrated this article for you to listen to.
Pierre White, Marco. Chef. Michelin stars: five (all handed back). Wives: three (all handed back). Restaurants owned: number unclear. Hours in a cell: 14. Party: Reform. Brands promoted: Knorr stockpots, Lidl, P&O Cruises. Protégé: Gordon Ramsay. YouTube views: hundreds of millions. Current residence: the countryside, somewhere near Bath, far far away from anyone who tries to talk to him.
The obituaries will all call Marco Pierre White a ‘rock star’, and they will be correct. In the 1980s, he was all shaggy verve and sweat and ash. He ‘changed the game’ – as they all say – not so much through his cooking, but through his good looks. He had no real signature dishes, other than rehashing Pierre Koffman’s stuffed pig’s trotter, or the oyster that he filled with tagliatelle and caviar. He was the last gasp of something that had passed, the white tablecloth, French-obsessed cooking of the 1980s. Across the city, chefs like Fergus Henderson at offal bastion St John were quietly changing our eating habits.
What he showed was that no profession was immune from celebrity. Previously, chefs were disgusting, drunken, hidden-away things. Marco Pierre White, in his late twenties, with his sharp cheekbones and his shock of hair, is the man I wish I could look like most. Meat cleaver in hand, cigarette in mouth, junior chefs in terror.
And there’s something of the aged rock star about him now. He’s kept his hair, as they all seem to. He’s put on weight, but somehow with dignity: he moves with authority and purpose, like a cargo ship.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in