For much of his adult life, Heston Blumenthal spent his days in the same small rooms. First, in the kitchen at The Fat Duck, his world-famous, three Michelin-starred restaurant in Bray, Berkshire, which he founded in 1995. More recently, after a week-long manic episode in late 2023, on a psychiatric ward in the south of France, where he remained in confinement for 20 days before a further 40 at a specialist clinic. He described the experience as “prison-like”.
Blumenthal has not been shy about the bipolar diagnosis that followed. His recovery at his home in a small village in Provence, which he shares with his wife Melanie, has been long but rewarding. He mentions that resulting medication led to considerable weight gain, now mostly off again thanks to Mounjaro and “mindful eating”. And after all that’s happened, the chef says he’s now coming out the other side; that he’s getting better, feels liberated and is slowly stepping back into the routine of work.
A lot has changed. For one thing, Blumenthal’s second restaurant, the two Michelin-starred Dinner at the Mandarin Oriental in Knightsbridge, will close in January next year. The announcement last month made headlines. Dinner is his flagship in London, one 16 years in the making and which in the early days bore such marvels as his riff on a Jammie Dodger and “meat fruit”, commonly cited as the original viral dish on Instagram.
We meet in the private dining room at Dinner, a space made up to look like a medieval banqueting hall tucked away from the hubbub of the hotel and its sweeping views across Hyde Park. “I’m definitely calmer now,” Blumenthal says, reclining on a throne-like chair. “I’ve lost some of that manic edge. I’m comfortable.”
A tumble-dryer mind
Blumenthal has been vocal about issues surrounding mental health since his own complications unfolded. He’s now an ambassador for the charity Bipolar UK, which works to end the stigma associated with the condition and raise awareness about its effects.
“My mind could be like a tumble dryer — ideas just spinning constantly. I could be up for two days at a time with idea after idea. Coming out of hospital has given me time to reflect, and that reflection has been good. I wasn’t comfortable sitting in silence before. Now I am.”
Bipolar disorder is a lifelong, chronic condition that a person will always have once it develops. It’s a cyclical illness, one characterised by periods of high mood (mania) and low mood (depression). It needs management, Blumenthal explains, and treatment is perpetual. He’s doing OK now. But did he always feel different, I wonder, did he always struggle?
“There are a lot of people who have it and don’t realise,” he says. “It can take nine years to get a diagnosis — that’s a serious problem.”
Regardless, it sounds as if Blumenthal’s work, which he concedes has always been “obsessive”, never granted him the opportunity to realise what was happening to his mind. From 1995 for about a decade (The Fat Duck was awarded its third star in 2004), Blumenthal’s working hours that would surely have an effect on anyone. “I was stuck in that concrete box for 20 hours a day,” he says. “I don’t know how I functioned on two hours of sleep a night — something was driving me. Probably fear of failure.”
Blumenthal goes on to describe his transformative experience aged 16 when, over dinner with his family at the Michelin-starred L’Oustau de Baumanière in Provence, he was captivated by the sensory experience it evoked: “The smell of the lavender, the sound of cicadas, and the noise of waitstaff walking on gravel. I never set out to get three stars. I just wanted to cook. My drive came from a feeling, not ambition, but emotion. I wanted to recreate that moment — the smell, the sound, the feeling — for someone else.” He’s mentioned this tale before, but he talks about it with such exuberance that it feels wrong to ignore. It was “the inspiration behind it all”. He adds: “I’d fallen down a rabbit hole — and I wanted to recreate that feeling for other people. The Fat Duck changed the world of cooking. I just didn’t realise it at the time.”
I don’t know how I functioned on two hours of sleep a night — something was driving me
Though we’re here to discuss the closure of Dinner, it’s difficult to move past The Fat Duck, where Blumenthal made his name and which remains a pilgrimage for so many fine-dining lovers even 31 years on. To maintain that level of cooking and service for so long takes its toll, medical or not. And although Blumenthal, by his own admission, did take his foot off the gas marginally in the mid-2000s, it was only so he could take on all the cookbooks, TV shows and celebrity appearances that come with cooking prestige. I watched him growing up.
Blumenthal was always billed as a “mad scientist”, as much a professor as a chef, creating an edible haunted house, wallpaper and all, and cooking a whole pig sous vide in a Jacuzzi. He says his thoughts were far more off-kilter off-screen: “I had an idea to collect hair and turn it into a personalised pillow. I wanted to solve global water issues through mindful eating. My brain doesn’t slow down — it just keeps going. You reach a level of exhaustion where you become almost delirious,” he adds, though still upbeat.
Possibly the only restaurant more famous than The Fat Duck today is Noma in Copenhagen. Its chef-founder René Redzepi has been the subject of claims by former employees in recent weeks, some accusing him of violence in the kitchen. Blumenthal demurs. He has little to say on the matter but acknowledges that “kitchen culture has softened” in modern times, with “fewer extremes, less shouting”.
He goes on: “What was hard wasn’t shouting, it was the pressure of getting a service right.” Hospitality shifts are like dog years, we nod.
Finally sitting still
There’s another sensitive topic to broach: cocaine. There have been suggestions the chef used it in the past to function and I’m curious to learn whether it had an impact. Blumenthal seems completely at ease. “When I took cocaine, I took it to sleep,” he says. “It wasn’t about being a rock star chef — it was self-medication. My brain produced so much serotonin (the hormone that controls happiness, anxiety, sleep, among many other things) that it actually worked in reverse.”
Blumenthal impresses that he’s a new man today and that his drug use happened pre-diagnosis. He is, he tells me, in a totally “new era”. We pause to sip our flat whites. Blumenthal takes his with oat milk. He seems in good spirits, engaged, calm. I’m surprised by how open he is. Though it can be a challenge to keep up with his conversation, tangential as it is (at one point, Blumenthal tells me about a 13th-century recipe for a chicken that’s made to look cooked, but isn’t, and which runs off down the table as it’s served to an unsuspecting diner).
I try to get the scoop on what he’ll do next, besides continuing to help run The Fat Duck, which he says is “as strong as ever”. There’s talk of a new book, but he can’t say any more. And the vaguest of suggestions that Dinner as a brand might not disappear with the restaurant.
“I’m sad to close because the space means a lot to me,” Blumenthal says pensively. “It’s where it is — I grew up around Hyde Park. It was the right time because the tenancy had finished. We had several discussions and both agreed on the change. It was mutual. There’s some sadness, but there are also some exciting things ahead. There are a handful of possibilities on the table which are exciting, but I’m a little restricted about what I can say.”
He’s still working hard, then? “I sleep a normal amount now, and I sleep well. At home we cook simple food — shepherd’s pie, poached salmon, sandwiches. Now I can sit still, have a glass of wine, and just look at a leaf. Though I still think about The Fat Duck as much as ever.”
It’s time to wrap up. I’ve already caused a delay to his medication, which he takes with lunch. But there’s time for one more question: was his beloved Fat Duck worth it?
“Yes, I think it was,” Blumenthal says, smiling. “I’d do it all again. For sure.”
