At 5.59am, on a Monday during that July heatwave, Tom Kerridge waits in the car park of the Hand and Flowers, his two-Michelin-starred pub in Marlow, in the heart of the home counties. He wears a black Who concert T-shirt, camouflage-patterned jogging bottoms and a white Mercedes-Benz cap, turned back to front. On one forearm, he has a tattoo of a drawing by his young son, Acey; on the other, the inked paw print of his beloved ex-mutt Georgie. He hands me a warm sausage bap and a flask of coffee as we clamber into a minibus, which contains five semi-somnolent forms, all of them head chefs at different Tom Kerridge restaurants, plus his head of PR, Laura, and the Observer’s photographer, Pål.
The plan is to head to Cornwall, which is about five hours away at this indecent hour. Kerridge, who possesses both a minibus licence and unmistakable alpha-male energy, will do the driving. The itinerary for the two-day trip reads like a 1990s stag-do: sea fishing, barbecue and beers on the beach, and a blowout, six-course feast with matching drinks in a smart restaurant. Sleep doesn’t feature prominently on the programme of events or, it becomes apparent, in Kerridge’s life in general.
