THEO RANDALL
ONE HAMILTON PLACE
PARK LANE
LONDON
Theo Randall is good-looking man and he can’t help it.
He also has a nice expression, exudes charm and a professional patience-at least that’s what I saw in him. I could be wrong, as I had previously seen all those qualities in men I had married, then divorced but they couldn’t cook.
“What a great kitchen you have” I said instead of “aren’t you handsome” and embarrass us both. It was a huge, spotless, calm sea of stainless steel.
“Thank you. Put them all over here please” and he broke away from what he was preparing and I tipped out the bag of the precious black gold.
His name is forever linked to Chez Max and the start of River Café in which he spent 17 years and they must still miss him.
We went to the River Cafe when it first opened and hated driving through the backstreets of Hammersmith, feared for our lives, rarely saw the pretty river Thames view because it was already dark, but enjoyed the food, drank great wines and swore to return for lunch.
Nowadays it’s a couple of turnings off the Hammersmith roundabout and often there’s a fleet of chauffer’s sitting outside; how London and Londoners have changed.
“I presume your tan is from Italy where you had to go and search out best truffles in gorgeous locations while suffering long al fresco lunches on our behalf?” I asked him with a smile.
“Something like that” he replied knowing I was totally envious.
“Is Ashley in today? (Ashley Wells Ex Head Chef) I would love to say hello?” I asked about all my favourite people.
“You’re looking well also! What are you all eating down here?” I asked Ashley who looked great. It was a stupid question as this kitchen was full of the best food in the capital.
Theo was preparing some fish on a huge steel counter and I wanted to help, ask plenty of questions, stay all morning, taste something; anything not to leave.
Truffles came out and truffles went back in and we sniffed, turned and examined each and every one like comparing our fancy marbles at school.
“Take a look at the new restaurant refurbishment please,” said the suntanned Theo with a Hollywood smile.
“Yes, thank you that was my intention I cant wait to see what you have done” and off I went into the beige, pale cream, tranquil dinning room that reminded me of California and wondered if his days at the wonderful Chez Panisse still flowed around his veins like a good Napa wine?
A large glass bowl of perfect shinny red peppers took center stage by the front door reminding diners it was all about high quality, world-class preparation and honest tastes.
The restaurant décor was in total contrast to the Intercontinental Hotel’s very Middle Eastern cliental filling the lobby and the opulent lounge areas; it was two different planets, with two different species, divided by a single restaurant door.
Years ago the Intercontinental Hotel was the slightly dull cousin to an elegant and sophisticated Four Seasons Hotel opposite, but this is no longer the case. This ugly cousin has grown long legs, eyelashes, stylish features, is now full of confidence with a fleet of chauffeured cars outside.
I went back outside clutching my precious bag of truffles, through the revolving doors into the cold London sunlight and remembered I was here on a freezing February night when he had first opened.
He was one of the first celebrity chefs ensconced in a grand five star hotel with his name over the restaurant door that guided guests away from the bland, ordinary, dull hotel food of the past.
Theo is a legend in his own lifetime, has remained gracious, and hardly aged a bit.
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