Chef d’oeuvre: Pierre Gagnaire

Pierre Gagnaire. Photo: Mark Read

A profile of the bonkers superstar chef Pierre Gagnaire for Spear’s magazine

With Pierre Gagnaire, one senses, food is merely a conduit to higher things. ‘Jazz is a world music and is like cuisine in its multiform appearance reflecting the rhythms of life itself,’ he muses on his sprawling, largely impenetrable website. ‘The painter takes his own personal language,’ declaims the chef, ‘and uses that to express things which seemed inexpressible… The presentation of a dish teaches me new rules of harmony and through this exercise, I find a form of peace.’

He seems to prefer to see himself not as cook but as creator, an artist rather than a mere artisan. People with extensive experience of high-end restaurants often claim that the best — certainly the boldest — way to experience Gagnaire’s is to spurn the menu altogether, allowing the chef to ‘create’ according to his whims and fancy. This ‘can make the difference between an extraordinary experience and a disappointing one’, claims one well-known blogger.

The Observer restaurant critic Jay Rayner has written that Gagnaire off-menu is ‘a puff of nothing, bland and unmoving, a set of paintings with ingredients used only for their colour rather than their flavour’. But Gagnaire takes himself so seriously he even offers a protracted reading list, with publishers, the better for us to understand the man and his work.

Such self-importance can be rather off-putting, especially when the ‘creations’ don’t justify it — though in my experience of Gagnaire’s cooking they happily do. If the world of the superstar chef is at times an unpleasant one — endless plane journeys, meetings, interviews, handshakes, posing in kitchens, gurning for cameras — then Gagnaire suffers more than most. He has about a dozen restaurants around the world: in Courchevel, Paris, Moscow, Seoul, London, Hong Kong, Tokyo, and those famed gastronomic paradises, Dubai and Las Vegas. The fawning customers and, latterly, commercial success have provided Gagnaire with levels of self-belief remarkable even for a celebrity chef.

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A Riviera runs through it

The Hotel du Cap Eden Roc on the Cap d'Antibes

A feature for Spear’s on the culture, grime and glamour of the French Riviera

THE NEWLY RENOVATED Hotel du Cap sits at the southernmost tip of the Cap d’Antibes, peering out across a wide gravel walk that dips towards 1,000 feet of private shoreline, a 100-year-old swimming pool, the Eden Roc complex and the Mediterranean Sea. It’s not the grandest hotel on the French Riviera but it’s among the most private, and for many of its 140 years it has been a symbol of the shifting, esoteric appeal of the Côte d’Azur.

It was the model for the Hôtel des Etrangers in Tender Is the Night, F Scott Fitzgerald’s novel which captures succinctly the qualified, conflicted glamour of the Riviera in the 1920s. Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda arrived at the Côte d’Azur when he was already a successful author: when they left for the last time some years later she had already begun her tailspin into insanity, while he had become a slurring, irascible alcoholic who would never complete another novel. The Riviera has always had a strangely inconsistent effect on its artists. Twelve Nobel laureates in literature have lived there, but the region has produced no major poets or novelists, and though artists have often moved to it and worked to its remarkable light, few grew up there.

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Private islands: no worries atoll

Fuck Off Island, Johnny Depp's Bahamas retreat

A piece for Spear’s on the vices and virtues of private islands

WHEN THE NEW Duke and Duchess of Cambridge fled Anglesey for their honeymoon, they had hoped to keep their destination secret. But an indiscreet factotum of the Seychelles department of tourism blabbed that the couple had rented a private island in the republic’s North Island resort costing a reported £45,000 a night. The episode once again brought private islands to the fore. Why do these places retain such tantalising appeal, and is it ever possible to make money from them?

For a prince who has always fought to maintain his privacy, the symbolism was clear. A private island constitutes a physical demand for seclusion. Moated and cragged, shielded from lenses, obscured by palm or fir, it actively and visibly precludes entry. It’s a place where its owner — whether temporary or permanent — can enjoy a lordly isolation, a state of near incalculable value to the very famous. Mel Gibson chose his 22km2 Fijian island, which he bought in 2004 for $15 million, in part for the 650ft cliffs that surround it. Johnny Depp quaintly refers to his Bahamas cay as ‘Fuck Off Island’.

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Plucking hell: eating forbidden birds

Before

After. Garlic clove for scale

Eating illegal game birds in Paris.

THE FOUR BIRDS lie before me in a brown puddle. Each is little bigger than a golf ball, its firm breasts clasping spindly, oven-blackened legs that jab out like useless skis. ‘Go on,’ says someone. I’m suddenly aware that the rest of the table is looking at me. The lark’s legs become makeshift chopsticks: I pinch them between thumb and forefinger and lift the creature. Its surprisingly heavy carcass dribbles sauce on to the plate. The cavity that once held its neck and organs gapes before me like a darkling maw.

I bite, then bite again, and at last, with some effort, manage to tear myself a mouthful. Vertebrae split and buckle as I chew. A small shard of bone gently spears the roof of my mouth, mingling the hot, tender flesh and crunchy bones with the ferrous savour of my own blood. It’s haute cuisine, but not as we know it.

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