On other newspapers I had never cooked the
food in the pictures either. As a working chef,
I never thought I had time. The recipes went out
to a home economist and photographer and they
performed nobly but it was never quite my food.
I decided this time that I couldn’t get away with
that again. I agreed to do the pictures myself,
met a photographer and attempted to negotiate
a rise for the extra work. I didn’t get it.
I had not heard of Andy Sewell. I had put out
some feelers and suggested somebody else
but I liked Andy well enough. It soon became
clear that he had an original turn of mind and
intellectual curiosity. He reads, and can even get
to the end of those interminable essays in the
London Review of Books. We can talk about
opera and classical music. However, he can be
10
quite extraordinarily annoying. He will make me
do things, whether it is repeating one simple
action or holding something for a ridiculously
long time, or standing in some unnatural
position so that I do not spoil his light. It is
galling for a chef who is accustomed to having
his own way in the kitchen to have to play
second fiddle.
If this was not bad enough, Andy has bad habits.
Long after he has left the building – we always
do the photo shoots at my home – I find things.
A clutch of mussels will be basking in the sun
on a faded iron chair in the garden. Rabbit
entrails will be splayed out on the butcher’s
brown paper in the window of the sitting room.
His own expensive equipment will have been
meticulously stashed in his rucksack as he
climbed on his racing bike but his dirty plates
and half-finished mug of coffee will have been
left casually about the place. I asked his mother
about this pattern of behaviour: she just gave
a sort of knowing sigh.
And yet every week I forgive him because he
takes extraordinary pictures. One of the reasons
he is such a pain is that he will only ever use
natural light. This means a short working day
in the winter, and my having to work with no
artificial light in the kitchen. It is also why his
pictures have such a painterly quality. The
contrast is scaled down, the colour – and I rarely
cook by colour – is often slightly washed out but
there is depth. He will take hours over a shot but
you forgive him because he is in communion: he
is not taking a picture but getting to the essence
of the thing, whether it is a raw ingredient or a
finished dish.
Working with this man has its drawbacks, but
the process has given me a new lease of life.
Apart from the fact that actually cooking the
food makes the result a great deal more real,
working with this fastidious creature has raised
my game. I always cook the real thing: there
are no tricks and no shortcuts. Not only would
Andy’s camera find me out, but also we always
eat the dish afterwards – or at least Andy does.
He has, for a slim man, a considerable appetite.
This book is a selection of our work over five
years. It is arranged by month because I think
that provides a more compelling narrative. Some
dishes are starters, some ‘mains’, and some
puddings, but as often as not they are just
something to eat when you are hungry.
One last note. What matters in a cookbook is
that it, and its recipes, work. I hope that is the
case. I owe their accuracy and precision to a
number of kind and patient editors, especially
to Natalie Whittle who nursed the column from
the period we started in the magazine until
very recently. I should also thank my legion of
supporters who have waited a long time for this
volume with stoic endurance and can only hope
they are not too disappointed with the result.
However, if there is an award for patience it must
go to my wife Kate, who has been long suffering
in too many ways to detail here.
11
January
I enjoy cooking and writing in January.
