I. Comprehension Check.

JOBS AND CAREERS

Focus vocabulary

The daily running

Train

Chef

Come across

Demanding job

Be attracted to smb.

The power to do smth.

Catering

Apprentice

Take on the role

Be in awe of smb.

Alter

Recipe

Make one’s mark on

Source dishes

Starter/ main course/ dessert

Earn smb.’s respect

Seek advice from

Hand on heart

A drop in standards

Read the text carefully.

RELATIVE VALUES

Albert Roux and his son,

Michel Jr, both master chefs.

Interviews: Caroline Scott

Albert Roux, 65, opened the Le Gavroche restaurant in London’s Mayfair in 1967 with his brother, Michel. It was the first UK restaurant to be awarded three Michelin stars. In 1994 Albert handed the daily running of Le Gavroche to his son, Michel Jr, in order to concentrate on other business interests, including a series of Albert Roux Cafes. He and his wife, Monique. live in West Sussex. They also have a daughter, Danielle, 35. Michel, 41, trained in Paris and at the Mandarin Hotel, Hong Kong. He lives in south London with his wife, Giselle, and their daughter, Emily, 10. He recently published the Le Gavroche Cookbook.

MICHEL:My father came to England as chef to Peter Cazalet, the Queen Mother's horse trainer, and I was born a year later. My mother helped 28 in the kitchen, and I was put under the table in a little chair with a piece of puff pastry and a rolling pin. All the playthings you could possibly need are in a kitchen: pans to bash, mixtures to beat.

When I was about six, my Uncle Michel came to work with my father. He spent all day practising making roses and swans for sugar-work competitions. One of my strongest memories is of the sweet, musky smell of my father's kitchen. It is the smell of the happiest years of my childhood. I don't think I've ever come across it again.

I have wonderful memories of family life before Le Gavroche. We lived in a little pink house in a tiny village called Shipbourne in Kent. My father's job wasn't demanding unless the Cazalets had guests or the Queen Mother was coming for lunch. He'd be digging up the garden for a vegetable patch, and I'd help him plant potatoes. We kept pigeons and rabbits - we ate them, of course - and I remember holding and feeding a pet lamb; we probably ate that too. I went to a little country school, and in the afternoon we'd sometimes fish together.

But my father wanted his own restaurant, and I felt I hardly saw him again. I looked upon Le Gavroche with fear. It was a grown-up world where I had no place. There was a totally different smell in this kitchen and, as far as I was concerned, a totally different father. He worked from Monday to Saturday, came home late, got up after I'd gone to school, and on Sundays he stayed in bed until lunchtime. I was quite afraid of him, but I was hugely attracted to what he did. The power he had seemed extraordinary. It isn't just the power to give orders, it's the power to feed people well, to give pleasure.

I was 16 when I decided to study catering. My father sent me to Paris to be a pastry apprentice. I never planned to work for him. It began when I stood in for the pastry chef, who was on holiday. Then the head chef left, and I took on his role. I'd make something, and my father would wave his hands and send me back to do it again. The pressure was awesome. He loses his rag. He looks nasty and he shouts and curses and frightens everybody, and then it's over. At the end of the service, he'd pat me on the back and say: "I hope you'll get it right next time."

I was so in awe of him, it took me 10 years to make my mark on Le Gavroche. To begin with, I'd ask if I could alter something, and he'd say: "Absolutely not!" These recipes were his babies. So there was my father not wanting to let the restaurant go, me trying to make my mark, and the customers trying to resist the changeover and complaining.

I consider my food very French, but my father's food is from the classic mould: rich sauces, bigger portions. I once cooked lamb chops with a cream tarragon sauce at Le Gavroche, and he sent the plate back three times. I had to reduce the sauce until it was silky rich. He eats at Le Gavroche both for business and pleasure. His favourite dishes are roast Pyrenean lamb on the bone and braised ox heart with carrots. And we're all big fans of puddings.

My father has toured France, sourcing local dishes. And yet he loves everything British, to the point that he insists he is only French by passport. But he looks Gallic, particularly when he has a cigarette sticking out of the side of his mouth. And he eats like a Frenchman: the table is set properly, he doesn't eat alone, and even if it's just a quick lunch, there'll be a starter, main course and dessert. I've seen him really not well, when most people lose their appetite. He'll say: "I'm not feeling good, I'll just have a little roquefort salad or a little tripe sausage."

He has mellowed. I suppose he is a cuddly father figure. But I'm not cuddly. I don't talk to him about my problems. I wonder whether his disappearance from my life when I was seven had something to do with that. But we're probably closer than we were 10 years ago, because I've earned his respect.

I seek advice from him, and now occasionally he seeks advice from me. He'll ask about a new pastry, or my iced souffle, which he particularly likes. But more often he'll have a meal like he did the other day and he'll say: "Michel, the lamb was lovely, but ah, those turnips weren't cooked enough!"

ALBERT:Michel was a great little kid. We'd shove him under the table in the kitchen with a bit of pastry and jam and flour, and he was as happy as pie. Then he would give me his little roll to put into the oven to cook. He was a bit perturbed when we decided to go to London. He became so unhappy. But I had my dream and I wasn't going to be moved. I'm a little mad, you know, and I think that what my brother and I achieved had a little touch of genius. Michel was very young, and my daughter had just been born. Looking back, I know I missed something very important, but, hand on heart, I do not have regrets. It was the price I had to pay.

I had to work 17 hours a day. Things were not that rosy. For a start, you couldn't get the food. If you wanted olive oil in the early 1960s, you had to go to the chemist, who sold it to you in a small bottle to put down your ear hole. We had to go to France and smuggle this and that through customs. In London, the menu of the day was pink prawn cocktail, a steak, and fruit salad with a bright red cherry. We tried to introduce lighter food, sauces without flour, and success was immediate. But I wanted a chain of restaurants, and the hours got worse. From Gavroche came Le Poulbot and Les Trois Plats, Le Gamin, the Waterside Inn.

Michel never asked for anything. To make money, he'd do the washing-up at Le Poulbot in the City. He was quiet and very dignified, never drawing attention to the fact he was the boss's son. When he was 15 we were fishing on holiday in Ireland, and I said: "Well, Michel, it's time to decide what you're going to do." He said: "I'm going to surprise you. I want to do your job." I was hoping, but I had no idea. I sent him to France on a pastry apprenticeship. He had a crummy room and earned nothing, but every time I offered him money he said: "No, Dad." We had to force him to accept a little car.

He was adamant he didn't want to do his national service, on the grounds that he was British, not French. So Brit was he that his bedspread was a Union Jack. As a compromise, I arranged for him to do his national service cooking at the Elysee Palace for Giscard d'Estaing and then Francois Mitterrand. After that, he went a bit wild — longhair, trousers up here, strange colours. He was moody. You'd try to tell him something, and he'd argue your socks off.

I wanted to retire at 55, on October 8, my birthday. Michel was off his wild period and he said: "Dad, I'm ready to come." He worked with me for nine months, and then, the night before my birthday, I said:

"Michel, I won't be here tomorrow." He was in shock. From that day, he was on his own. I felt his cooking was evolving, yet somehow suppressed by the big man standing over him The pressure was immense — my wife was very worried. And there was a drop in standards, no question. He tried to cook my menu, and it didn't work — if an artist copies the Mona Lisa, it's not an achievement.

In the second year he said: "I'm ready to put my own dishes on the menu, but I want to keep a signature menu and call it Homage to My Father." He is a very thoughtful man. Of course, Homage to His Father has now gone out of the window, which is great—it means he's flying his own colours. He buys well and he cooks beautifully.

Some things we disagree on. I don't like a carrot or a french bean to crackle. If you give me a warm carrot, let it be cooked. Yesterday I had poulet aux morilles, which was fantastic. Free-range chicken with pasta and a touch of cream in the sauce. And he's very good on puddings. Although Michel is thin, he eats like a little piglet.

He has never been my son. Right from childhood, from the age of six or seven, he was my friend, and I hope he felt like that too. But he likes his private life to be private. Sometimes I eat in the kitchen, and I'm impressed by what I see. He is very cool, very Brit. He doesn't shout much.

I feel I've been blessed by all the gods to have a son like Michel. I am very volatile, but he is calm, level-headed and kind. He's never caused me a moment's anxiety, only joy. He is the most precious thing in my life.

I. Comprehension Check.

Date: 2016-01-14; view: 471