The horse I rode in on.

At the age of 17 I found myself shaking margaritas and stirring down bourbon manhattans to pay for textbooks. This was the beginning of my love affair with all things edible, drinkable, beautiful and tasty. It took years and the completion of my university degree (for the sake of my father’s blood pressure) for me to come to a realisation. I wanted to be a chef.
It was one morning in London that I got a phone call from two colleges I hadn’t seen in years. Marie is French, slender, wise beyond her years, and drop-dead-gorgeous. Soren is German, broad shouldered, completely bald and constantly grinning. Friendships formed in hostile working environments such as Saturday night services can be difficult. It didn’t stop us, and it certainly didn’t stop Soren and Marie from falling in love.
“Still trying to be a chef?”
“Yes.”
“You want a job?”
“Yes!”
“Hows your French?”
“Ah…..”
My French was terrible. Don’t get me wrong, I’m fluent now. Eight months in a tiny kitchen in the South of France will do that to you. You learn, or you leave.
Marie’s father owned a restaurant, and those two were going to be running it over the summer. I decided to see France before i began work. So i bought a beautiful jet-black motorcycle for $600. I loaded up everything I owned in England and left London at 5am. I was going to ride that bike from London England to the bottom of France. My plan was to do it in 2 days. It took me five.
This was the beginning of my appreciation of the diversity that is French cooking. Even more so than working with the French, this ride taught me about just how diverse French food is. With every 200 or so kilometres on the road, things changed. Methods, types of meat, seafood, vegetables and herbs, French cooking is such that it can be bent and adjusted to suit climates, and availability. To take what is available and through your skill as a chef turn it into something beautiful and delicious, that is poetry. That is the essence of a great cook.