Humble Pie

by Gordon Ramsay

  That evening, I cooked my heart out. Then Tana had a New Year’s Eve party, to which I was invited. And there was Tim, telling me how his future father-in-law, Chris Hutcheson, Tana’s dad, was going to set him up in a restaurant. Meanwhile, I’m in business with a bunch of Italians I’m not quite sure of.

  About three months later, I heard that Chris had sent Tim off to New York for work experience with a famous American chef. I couldn’t believe my ears: the little bastard was getting everything that I ever wanted. I buried myself in my work.

  The only relief I could get was from my Yamaha motorbike. On a Saturday night, I’d meet all my mates, and we’d all pile out onto the M4. We’d sit on our petrol tanks and play dare to see who could hold their bike at full throttle, and keep it there from bridge to bridge. It was an amazing adrenalin rush, and the only way I could relax after work.

  I couldn’t afford to park this bike anywhere, but Tim and Tana had an amazing flat by the river, and Tim had said that I could park my bike in his garage there. It must have been early summer, June, when I went down there late at night to get my bike. I pressed the buzzer to the flat, and Tana answered. I’d left my keys at their place in case Tim had to move the bike during the week.

  ‘Where’s Tim?’ I said.

  ‘Didn’t you know? Tim and I separated a week ago.’

  ‘You’re joking!’ I said. I tried to seem sympathetic, but inside I was dancing a jig.

  So, boom! I was straight upstairs. I didn’t bother going to Soho to see my mates. Instead, I stayed with her, talking, until about six in the morning. Then I asked her if she fancied coming out on the bike with me. Tim had his own helmet somewhere. So, as dawn broke, we set off.

  That was how we started seeing each other, and we married in December 1996.

  Chapter Seven

  War

  We got our first Michelin star at Aubergine fourteen months after we opened our doors, in 1995. Two years later, in 1997, we got our second star. We went from nothing at all to two stars in just three years. Only one other restaurant in Britain had ever done that. Everyone came: Princess Margaret, David Bowie, Robert de Niro. We were so busy that not even Madonna could get a table.

  It was around this time that my relationship with the Italians involved in the restaurant began to get difficult.

  A few months after I got my first star, Marco told me that he needed to talk to me.

  ‘My chef is leaving,’ he said. ‘I’m going to give you a share of the business, I’m going to make you my best of chefs, and I’m going to pay you £100,000 a year. You’ll never need to worry about money again. Don’t tell me now. I want you to think about it. Let’s have dinner on Sunday night.’

  Fuck me.

  That Sunday, over dinner, I told him.

  ‘That’s an amazing offer,’ I said. ‘The thought of running your three-star restaurant is a huge honour. But I was with you at Harvey’s when you got three Michelin stars, and, to be honest, all I want to do now is win three stars myself.’

  His reaction was shocking.

  ‘You’re fucking mad,’ he said. Then he started raving on about my Italian business partners, about how much debt they were in, and what their plans were for Aubergine.

  ‘They’re about to close it down,’ he said. ‘They’re going to sell the restaurant, and you won’t have a pot to piss in.’

  So I went to my Italian contact. Aubergine was fully booked. We were taking forty grand a week, at least. Weren’t we secure?

  ‘We’re not making any money, Gordon,’ he said.

  Then he gave his side of the story about Marco. Things had started to go wrong over at The Canteen, and not long after this, Marco quit.

  Then some odd things started to happen. Aubergine picked up a bad review by Jonathan Meades in The Times. At the time I thought that Marco might be somehow behind it, and I began to wonder if he was trying to get back at me for turning down his offer. I felt the same about a horrible review by A. A. Gill, the restaurant critic of The Sunday Times. A. A. Gill and Marco are best buddies, so it was easy to convince myself that they were working together. With hindsight, however, I now know this was just down to my paranoia. The stuff they were writing was so obviously rubbish, but still, I felt very nervous.

  Then, out of the blue, the Italians told me that they wanted to open a second fine dining restaurant. As before, they would give me a 10 per cent share. All I had to do was find a chef. I immediately thought of Marcus Wareing, and we opened L’Oranger in St James’s. It was a huge success, and won a Michelin star after just six months.

  The next thing that happened was that other companies started sniffing round with a view to buying us. I wasn’t interested in selling, but the Italians were. People started to tell me that Marco and the Italians were working together and that they were going to sell my restaurant without telling me. Marco, of course, denied this. With only a 10 per cent share, I would have had very little control.

  To make things worse, Tana had just got pregnant with our first baby, I’d got myself a new mortgage, and I was up to my eyeballs in debt. I’d created this great restaurant, and I’d nearly killed myself doing it. I had worked at the stove for sixteen hours a day, and now it was about to be taken away from me.

  The night that I came up with my master plan, I couldn’t sleep. So I went up to a little café by Chelsea Bridge and got myself a cup of coffee and a bacon sandwich. Then I sat there all night, plotting how I could secure my bollocks. I needed an idea that would turn the Italians against Marco because, that way, all their plans would crumble to dust. And I needed to keep my own nose clean.

  By morning, I had it. I would arrange for Aubergine’s reservations book to disappear, and to the Italians, at least, I would make it clear that Marco was to blame.

  In the days before computers and the Internet, a top restaurant’s reservations book was worth its weight in gold. We were fully booked between four and six months in advance, and the book had details of every single one of those bookings. Without it, the place would sink into total chaos. So that is what happened. I made it disappear.

  Chaos followed. We had hundreds of calls from punters who didn’t actually have reservations, but who were happy to try it on, knowing the mess we were in. The newspapers wanted details, and I was all too happy to do as many interviews as they wanted.

  ‘Only someone in the trade would know the full value of a reservations book,’ I told journalists.

  Marco denied his involvement. Besides, who else would want our reservations book? Where did I keep the diary during all this? Oh, I had it in a very safe place.

  The Italians were totally pissed off with Marco. They were right back on my side. I was relieved. I no longer liked Marco, and I no longer trusted or wanted him to ‘help’ me at the restaurant. It was my own place or nothing.

  But I did string Marco along. He had taken over the restaurant at the Café Royal. He had this idea that he would go into partnership with Chris Hutcheson, by this time my father-in-law, and me, and let us run the Café Royal. We went along with it, but Marco didn’t know that we had plans to buy another restaurant. Whenever Marco mentioned the Café Royal, I’d pretend to be interested, and whenever the Italians talked about my future with them, I’d smile and nod. The smirk on my face must have been a mile wide. We had funding for the new restaurant, Royal Hospital Road. No one knew, but we were on our way to the real starting line.

  Chapter Eight

  The Great Walk-Out

  The deal on Royal Hospital Road was completed – secretly, of course. I felt very excited. It was time for me to resign from Aubergine. This should have been easy, but, thanks to the Italians, it turned into one of the most dramatic moments in my career so far. One of the Italians, Giuliano, had bought out the others, and now had 90 per cent of Aubergine. But I still hadn’t signed anything.

  Giuliano wanted Marcus Wareing to sign a four-year deal with the company. So far, Marcus had refused. Then a small discrepancy was found in the fo
od costs at L’Oranger. This gave Giuliano an excuse to turn on Marcus.

  ‘Sign this fucking deal or I’m going to sack you,’ he said.

  Marcus didn’t sign. So he was sacked and marched off the premises.

  Then I gathered all of the staff around me, both from L’Oranger and Aubergine, and told them that I was going to stand by Marcus. I would resign as a director, and I was going to open a new restaurant.

  ‘You’re more than welcome to come and join me,’ I said. ‘I hope there’ll be a job there for all of you, but at the moment, nothing is certain. If you want to hand in your notice and follow me, that’s up to you. I can’t tell you what’s going to happen next, but, in my view, both these restaurants are finished.’

  What happened next was amazing.

  On the spot, forty-six members of staff walked out, and, in doing so, closed two of London’s best restaurants.

  Both Aubergine and L’Oranger were shut for several weeks while Giuliano tried to get new staff. That meant that the company was losing an awful lot of money. More than £100,000 a week was being spent in the two restaurants. Customers with reservations took their business elsewhere. Possible future customers did not want to eat in either place if their chefs were no longer in the kitchens.

  Those restaurants were Marcus and me.

  Of course, the press had a field day.

  When I resigned, Giuliano was still saying that we could work things out, but I’d waited eighteen months to have my say, and I wasn’t having any of it.

  ‘Don’t you know how hard I’ve been working over the last fucking year?’ I said. ‘My wife was pregnant with our first child, and we had all sorts of problems with that, and all that time you were trying to undermine me. I swear to God, I will never even think of doing business with you again. Now, you own these restaurants. Fuck off and run them!’

  A few weeks later, on the first of September 1998, we opened the doors of my new restaurant, Royal Hospital Road. I found jobs for every single person who’d supported Marcus and me. It was thrilling. But our troubles weren’t over yet.

  Being issued with a writ is never what you’d call pleasant, but I was handed this one on my way back from my father’s funeral.

  Giuliano was going to sue me for a lot of money for breaching my contract by leaving Aubergine and L’Oranger. He also accused me of breaking my contract with him by stealing his staff. I was going to fight him all the way, even though I had no spare cash for legal fees.

  Giuliano wanted revenge for what had happened after the Great Walk-Out. He was also furious because we planned to open a second restaurant just a few doors up from L’Oranger. We could afford to do that because things were going so well at Royal Hospital Road. In the January after we opened, Aubergine lost one of its Michelin stars and Royal Hospital Road gained two.

  I had to sell our house to fight the legal battle, and we moved back to renting. That was a terrible thing to have to do. My childhood had made me long for a safe, secure home of my own. And I felt terrible for Tana, who had Megan, our new baby.

  In the end, the judge strongly advised us to settle out of court. If we carried on, even the winner wouldn’t get very much money. So, four months after I received the writ, we settled. I needed to work on my restaurants. We were on our way now, and we couldn’t afford to let anything else stand in our way. And, as usual, I was broke.

  Chapter Nine

  The Sweet Smell of Success

  In January 2001, Royal Hospital Road picked up its third Michelin star. On the same day, my wife handed me the keys to a blue Ferrari. Lovely as the car was, there is no doubt in my mind which one was the greater prize. I’d longed for that third star, and now all my hard work had paid off. It meant, officially, that my restaurant was the best in London because, the year before, two other chefs lost their three-star status. To this day, mine is still the only three-Michelin-starred restaurant in London.

  My third star wasn’t just important in its own right: it meant that bigger, better things were around the corner.

  There were changes at Claridge’s Hotel, and my father-in-law, Chris, went to a meeting. There he met a man who has amazing vision, John Ceriale. John immediately threw down a challenge by asking if I would be happy to do breakfast if we were to take over the restaurant at Claridge’s, but there was a catch. I’d have to cook the breakfast.

  Chefs hate doing breakfast, and Chris knew this, but it would be great to run the Claridge’s restaurant, and other people would be interested in this. So Chris replied yes. Later, he told me that he had wondered how to break this news to me. He even said that, had it been a problem, he would have done the breakfasts himself. God forbid!

  We were both thinking the same two things. First, that we were not going to lose out on this amazing opportunity, and second, a successful breakfast business would pay the rent, leaving the income from lunch and dinner to us.

  A deal was struck. I would be allowed to put my name above the door, and, what’s more, my restaurant would have its own entrance. I was thrilled. With its old-style glamour, Claridge’s is a place I’ve always loved, and its history is amazing. It’s been open in one form or another since 1812, and everyone has visited, from Queen Victoria to Margaret Thatcher, from Donatella Versace to David Beckham. The restaurant was very much a place I liked to take Tana, so I was determined to get everything completely right.

  When it opened in October 2001, we had spent £2 million on furniture, decoration and all the rest. The room, in shades of my favourite aubergine, is airy and elegant. I chose all the china, glassware and cutlery myself.

  I was determined to run our kitchen at Claridge’s and the kitchen at Royal Hospital Road at the same time. I was lucky because I had a great right-hand man coming with me to Claridge’s, Mark Sargeant. But the drive from Mayfair to Chelsea took just seven and a half minutes. If I had to, I could flit between the two.

  We spent a lot of time practising our menus. We always trial new dishes over and over until they are perfect. As a result, the menu at Claridge’s is exquisite.

  Claridge’s was an immediate hit. In our second week of trading alone, we welcomed some 1,500 guests. We were on our way, and I had proved something: it was possible to run more than one restaurant to the same high standard (the restaurant at Claridge’s soon won a Michelin star).

  My next project was to open a restaurant in Glasgow. That idea was very dear to me, for obvious reasons. I liked the idea of having a success there. So we opened a seventy-seater restaurant inside Glasgow’s most popular hotel at the time.

  Glasgow was the first British city to have a Versace store outside London. The city is very swish, so I felt there would be a market for our kind of cooking. I appointed David Dempsey as chef, and the food was brilliant. Within a year, this new restaurant had won a Michelin star.

  In 2002, at the request of our business partners, we opened a restaurant in The Connaught hotel in Mayfair. The Connaught is a very special place – but its restaurant had become as stodgy as hell. I got Nina Campbell to redecorate it, and appointed Angela Hartnett as chef. She has an Italian background, and the menu was going to have a modern Italian touch – a real change for us. I agreed that our move into The Connaught could be filmed by the BBC2 behind-the-scenes series Trouble at the Top. This was good publicity, both for the restaurant and for Angela, who dealt with me and the cameras really well. The restaurant, once the complaints of some rich old ladies had died down, was a huge success. Angela’s restaurant, which we called Menu, went on to win a Michelin star in 2004.

  After setting up at The Connaught, which was not easy, I must admit that I did feel as if anything was possible. But, when the idea of us taking on The Savoy Grill came up, I couldn’t quite believe it. The Savoy is probably London’s most famous hotel. On a typical weekday, you could find any number of cabinet ministers dining at The Savoy Grill. It was very, very traditional. It still had a dessert trolley, for God’s sake, heaving with trifles and jugs of buttercup yellow Jersey
cream. Changing it was going to be like messing with the Holy Grail.

  The American designer Barbara Barry gave the room a new sense of glamour – but it still felt like The Savoy Grill. In the kitchen was Marcus Wareing. Marcus combined a modern approach with the best features of the old Grill – the dessert trolley, for instance, and he continued to serve dishes like omelette Arnold Bennett. The critics loved it and so, too, did its customers.

  Since The Savoy Grill, we have gone from strength to strength. The Boxwood Café, my take on an American diner, has been a huge hit, proving those who said that I can’t do anything other than fine dining totally wrong. I was keen that it would have a child-friendly environment, and it is the only one of my restaurants where I’ll allow my own kids to eat. The Knickerbocker Glories are worth crossing London for.

  More recently, we opened maze in Grosvenor Square. Jason Atherton, its chef, won a Michelin star inside a year. I would say that the maze bar is one of the most glamorous in London. Abroad, we opened two restaurants in hotels in Dubai and Tokyo.

  It is now over a year since I opened in the hard, brutal world of New York. We opened in Florida around the same time, but that was simple, compared to the politics, union problems and food critics in New York. Now we are preparing for a big opening in Los Angeles. This, in many ways, will be as important and challenging as New York, and it will need all my time at first, and back-up from London.

  Every time I open a new restaurant, the critics fill the newspapers with the same old stuff: I am spreading myself too thin, or this new restaurant has to do with vanity and money, rather than the passion that was behind Aubergine.

  It’s total rubbish. In the weeks building up to an opening, I am there, totally. I’m hands-on, putting the chefs through their paces, testing every dish, over and over. All my chefs have worked for me for years, and I trust them completely. People ask me who does the cooking when I’m not there, and my answer is always, ‘The same people who do it when I am there.’