My mother was a wonderful cook, and my father was a wonderful eater. She was from Bolton – mothers from Bolton seem to be a common theme among quite a few very good chefs I know. They used to throw dinner parties of the kind that people had in the 1970s – paisley tablecloths, lots of claret, creme caramel and going to bed without doing the washing up. I remember coming downstairs in the morning to find the debris of the night before, half-drunk glasses and ghostly wafts of cigar smoke, and longing to be a part of it all.
My favourite food as a child was steamed syrup sponge and custard. When I was little I had a mystery illness which landed me in hospital for a few days; Mum tells me that she realised it must be serious when I refused steamed syrup sponge.
