before they close, because this is going to be a hit!’
Early next morning I caught the first train back to Plymouth and in four hours or so I was walking up the very same corridor that had seemed so gloomy yesterday. People were making their way to the canteen. I saw the usual faces grouped around their usual tables—engineers at one end of the room, journalists and features staff at the other. I recognized the four, or was it five, engineers who had painted such a bleak picture of my efforts. But that was yesterday. Such a very long time ago, and today I was happy and probably a little hung over from the night before. I was up in the world of sun-split clouds in my Spitfire again, the Merlin engine purring like a contented tiger, the wings full of ammo and down below me, clearly outlined against the silver sea, four, or was it five, Heinkel bombers, as fat as turkeys, were making their way home…or so they thought. I pushed the stick forward and flipped the safety off.
‘I think I’ll have a nice cup of tea, Mrs Boggis, and one of your finest cheese scones, a nice warm one straight from the oven please.’
David believe me, cooking’s the new rock ‘n’ roll
Floyd’s Bistro in Bristol had a real touch of class. It was 1982, before the days of open-plan kitchens, white walls, washed wood, and chrome. Floyd’s little restaurant smelt right, rather like those wonderful cafés du commerce that adorn any self-respecting market town in France. As soon as you opened the door you were greeted with a waft of good coffee, hot butter with a touch of garlic, and just a hint of Gauloise, Floyd’s cigarette of choice. It even had a real grumpy French waiter, who looked like a consumptive Bryan Ferry. On one wall was a mounted head of a huge antelope or it might have been a gnu, its long horns festooned with hats and umbrellas. The Bistro was packed when we got there and we were shown to our table in the middle of the room.
I’d been tipped-off about Mr Floyd by Andy Batten-Foster, the presenter of RPM, which had been running for four years now. Andy had met Floyd before, in a Berni Inn, which might sound strange but there was nothing wrong with a Berni Inn in those days: a prawn cocktail, a decent steak, and black forest gateau, thank you. He really liked Keith and thought he’d be good to have on the programme. However, the thing that most impressed him was that a waitress had spilt a glass of red wine over the brand new Burberry trench coat that Floyd had bought that day and worn for the first time that evening. He was clearly proud of it because he didn’t want to take it off. But he didn’t bat an eyelid. Staring at the red stain he just said, ‘Gracious me my dear, I wouldn’t worry about that—all it needs is a damp cloth and it’ll be fine.’ But deep inside, Andy knew he was crying.
Andy had been talking to me for ages about Floyd’s Bistro. Apparently he’d been once before when Floyd sent a table of four packing because they insisted on ordering well done steaks. In so many words Keith told his wide-eyed audience that his entrecôtes were of the finest quality, from pedigree cattle reared on lush Somerset meadows blessed with crystal streams and he was fucked if he was going to cook them well done thank you very much. He showed them the door and suggested if they hurry they might just make the Wimpy before it closed.
On another occasion a regular customer complained that his Wiener schnitzel, a thin escalope of veal dipped in egg and breadcrumbs, was really tough. Floyd came out of the kitchen, personally apologized to the man and took his plate away saying as he retreated that the most perfect Wiener schnitzel would be coming up any minute. Down in the kitchen Floyd was reputed to have cut a couple of beer mats roughly into the shape of schnitzels, soaked them in a little white wine to soften, rubbed them with garlic butter, seasoned them and dipped them in egg and breadcrumbs, and popped the lot into hot olive oil. The man ate it uncomplaining while Floyd, glass in hand, watched him joyously devour every mouthful. Such was the reputation of the man. Floyd offered a little bit of theatre in a rather staid part of Bristol. No wonder the place was packed.
On the night I went for dinner I can’t remember who I was with but, such are my priorities, I do remember what I ate. We had clams followed by steak frites and a bottle of the house red. Because we were late arriving, it wasn’t long before Keith made an appearance from his hot kitchen. He walked among the tables like an adjutant surveying the recruits’ canteen, asking the occasional customer if everything was to their liking. He started chatting to an expensively dressed couple sitting at a table underneath the gnu or ibex or whatever it was. They had parked their new Porsche on the pavement outside and were spending much of their time admiring it. Without asking, Floyd helped himself to a large glass of their wine and then in a loud voice apologized for not having any scampi in the basket left because the Bristol Estate Agents Fine Dining Club had been in at lunchtime and scoffed the lot along with all the Blue Nun he had in the house. They thought this very funny and so did the rest of the diners. Who would he pick on next?
He reminded me of Graham Kerr of Galloping Gourmet fame. This was an imported series from New Zealand shown on the BBC in the early Seventies. Old ladies in the studio audience would be doubled up laughing as Mr Kerr leapt over chairs, simultaneously quaffing a glass of wine without spilling a drop. He’d gallop back to his kitchen area and fold in the béchamel sauce for the moussaka he was making. Then suddenly he’d dash off with a spoonful of seasoned minced lamb to another part of the studio and stuff it down the throat of some poor unsuspecting old dear. People weren’t watching it because they wanted to learn how to cook, they were watching because the man was funny and having a good time—surely what entertainment and cooking are all about?
Well, of course, the inevitable happened. I think Floyd was saving us to last. After pouring himself a generous glass of our red wine, he started to tell us how much he disliked people who worked in television. As far as he was concerned they were all liars and cheats. ‘They come into my restaurant pissed out of their heads, promising me the earth with my very own series. I break open my very best brandy, then they piss off and I never see them again.’
I couldn’t help but notice he had eyes that one minute twinkled with merriment, and the next looked like they were on fire as if he was about to burst into tears, rather like a small boy who’s had his fishing rod confiscated.
I told him I thought he was a very funny man who cooked well. I’m not sure whether he appreciated the word ‘funny’, but he went on to explain, in his sixty-a-day voice, how he had prepared the clams we’d had earlier. He talked passionately about his long love affair with Provence: the red wine, the olive oil, the fields of sunflowers and lavender, the soft golden light and the colour of the buildings, the spicy sausages and the salt cod with aioli. To him it was heaven and he yearned to get back there.
I think it was his voice that convinced me that he had something special about him. There was definitely a hint of danger about the man too. He reminded me of Richard Burton with a touch of Peter O’Toole. I wasn’t quite sure whether he wanted to punch me in the face or pour me another glass of wine (sadly we’d run out). I said I’d really like him to make an appearance on RPM. My idea was for him to cook a main course for a dinner party for less than a pound a head. He told me to bugger off.
Undeterred, the next morning I drew up a little contract which included a small payment for him to appear on the programme and drove round to his restaurant. He opened the sash window upstairs, cigarette in hand, and I think he must have thought I was an over-enthusiastic customer, as he looked completely bemused. I reminded him of our conversation the night before and said I’d be round the following day with a camera crew to film him creating a culinary masterpiece on a shoestring.
When we arrived the next day there, on a crowded kitchen table, were four rabbits the size of whippets, bottles of Pouilly-Fumé, cognac, saffron, bunches of fresh purple garlic, large chunks of Bayonne ham, and a wicker basket full of apricot-coloured mushrooms. There must have been over a hundred pounds’ worth of food in all, enough to feed at least twenty people, and I was paying for it.
So what happened to my wonderful idea of creating a meal for less than a pound a head? The short answer, as put by a slightly irritable Mr Floyd, was ‘bollocks to that’. He told me he saw the filming as a God sent opportunity to show off his formidable culinary