Chez Rose, London

I grew up watching Great British Menu with my Dad. Me, in my early twenties and still living at home, him mid-fifties, still working and beating me nightly at chess. The halcyon days of cooking TV; it provided a much needed juxtaposition to the viewpoint that you had to be a Ramsey-esque areshole to others in order to make it to the screen. We watched and I learnt, from Marcus Wareing making the custard tart in season 1, to Sat Bain’s snotty egg, Jason Atherton’s El Bulli-esque martini, Mark Hix reading the newspaper purely to piss off Micheal Cains, Glynn’s straight ten strawberry dessert from that final week where he served a fishless fish course, Johnny Mountains meltdowns, and Kerridge changing the landscape of the show by going all mainstream with the cooking and perceived personality. I’d sit there on the end of the sofa, whilst Dad sat crossed-legged on the rug by the fire regardless of the weather, us making silly bets and watching a style of cooking that seemed a dream away…