These days, anyone who has ever made a sandwich on the telly is qualified to be a ‘celebrity chef’, but back in the 80s, it was Marco Pierre White in London who was the bad boy of the restaurant scene. His autobiography is basically a celebration of what a selfish, uncompromising, single-minded pig he was for much of the time he was running said restaurants. Being an ex-waitress, I know he’s not exaggerating when he says he worked for 18 hours straight, or put a fish down the trainee chef’s pants. I enjoyed reading about the crazy concoctions he came up with, the obscene amount of money being thrown about on restaurant bills, and his almost autistic like search for the perfect piece of cutlery for his eateries. But at the same time, he was boozing, ignoring his family and being a tyrant, which he seems to take some sort of misplaced pride in. The really interesting stuff – like what really went wrong with his venture with former friend Damien Hirst – are completely glossed over, which makes you wonder that if he wouldn’t touch that uncomfortable period in his life, what else has he avoided, or neglected to include? The temperature on this dish of a book is: tepid at best.
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