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Editor-At-Large: Dish of the day - macho male chef, kebabbed

Janet Street-Porter
Sunday 09 October 2005 00:00 BST
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hour to get the attention of a waiter, I don't really know why we placed an order, because what was served up after another lengthy wait bore no relation at all to the dishes we were expecting. The attitude of the staff was clearly learnt at the table of the master himself; in other words, they were stroppy, sneering and couldn't care less. Customers were just an irritant that their operation would function better without.

Not surprisingly, the place closed soon afterwards. Even in trendy Clerkenwell there aren't that many suckers. Mr Novelli is a classic case of someone whose ego is clearly larger than the total sum of his talents. Having opened Maison Novelli in my neighbourhood, he then expanded all over the place, from Mayfair to Cape Town, gaining Michelin stars and accolades from food critics before going bankrupt. At the same time, his photogenic good looks guaranteed him a place in the plethora of lifestyle programmes filling up our television channels. He wrote cookery books, he conducted a torrid love life, and then signed up to work at the Auberge du Lac, the restaurant attached to Brocket Hall in Hertfordshire, three years ago. I was surprised that this gorgeous, pouting firebrand might find all-round satisfaction chained to a cooker out in the dreariest zone of the commuter belt. But it was his astonishing appearance on Hell's Kitchen which proved once and for all that chefs like Jean-Christophe really see themselves as all-round entertainers rather than mere mortals who can whip up a soufflé or produce a perfect millefeuille. On Hell's Kitchen, the spats between Mr Novelli and the other contestants were legendary. Now I can begin to understand why all those years ago my steak never arrived when I tried to eat in his brasserie - he was probably using it to hit a lowly member of the kitchen staff around the head.

Funnily enough, Mr Novelli parts company with Brocket Hall and its sister establishment in London at exactly the same time as he flies off to South America to take part in another television reality show which is based on Alive, the book by Piers Paul Read. This tells the story of a rugby team whose plane crashes high in the snow-capped Andes, after which they had to resort to eating the flesh of their dead companions to survive. When I interviewed some of the survivors on a radio show in the 1970s, one of them cheekily asked me out for dinner; it was an invitation I felt I could easily refuse.

In the spat about whether Mr Novelli was fired or decided to walk out, one thing is clear. He could hardly be whipping up Michelin-starred food for the likes of Victoria Beckham if he'd signed another contract to whisk up jungle fodder deep in the Andes. Recently I took part in a BBC programme called Full on Food, and I can't tell you just how redundant I felt in the proceedings. The programme is presented by a man called Richard in a striped shirt, which rather emphasises his bulk, whose claim to fame is that he once wrote restaurant reviews for our sister paper. He was aided by chef-in-residence, Richard Corrigan, of the Lindsay House in London, and super-boffin Heston Blumenthal.

As I toiled over my chicken casserole - and thanks to everyone who stopped me in the street and told me they actually made it! - I became aware that blokey banter was the order of the day. No wonder Nigella has to have series of her own. Quite frankly, the butch babble which emanates from the mouths of Mr Ramsay, Marco Pierre White, Antony Worrall Thompson and that super-nelly Gary Rhodes, just leaves me cold.

They have managed to make cookery as macho as the Premiership. It's no wonder that few young people want to train as chefs and learn the art of catering. Unless they want to shag all and sundry and drop a load of f***s into every sentence, they won't stand a chance of getting anywhere. Every female chef - from Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray to Angela Hartnett - has style, personality, and charm; not for them the appearances on reality TV in order to boost their profile. As for their male counterparts, clearly their strutting and posing only indicates they are suffering from serious insecurities. Could it be to do with their libido?

F F F

The Tories' week in Blackpool has been a challenge for political journalists, trying to fill inches of newsprint with scintillating copy about an organisation in the throes of self-destruction. As one leadership candidate after another trotted out in the beauty parade, the spotlight fell on their wives. I have already written about how Sandra Howard (married four times) was virtually canonised by head office in an effort to make Michael Howard interesting, in spite of the fact she had no job, did very little except look nice, and had landed a lucrative book deal, even though she wasn't a writer.

Now the same Tory spin doctors are airbrushing a group of potential party leaders' wives into warm, cuddly loveable people, fit to reside at 10 Downing Street. Samantha Cameron is a front runner, even though she is just as posh as her husband, whom she irritatingly refers to as "Dave". Her mother is Annabel Jones, who owned the Beauchamp Place jewellery shop, and Sam is creative director at Smythson, the world's swankiest stationers, where a diary can cost you hundreds of pounds, and they sell little red-and-blue, leather-bound notebooks entitled "Saints and Sinners" in gold leaf. Sam is expecting her third child, and although they now reside in luxury in Notting Hill, she claims to have been brought up near Scunthorpe and in Oxfordshire. So Sam and Dave are a caring, sharing power couple. Shame he went to Eton.

Gillian Clarke is a keen birdwatcher, doesn't drive, studied medieval history at Cambridge, and is a grandmother. Dave (as in Mr Davis, he of council house upbringing) is married to Do (Doreen), also a homemaker, once a teacher, who only came to the conference on a day trip. Dr Liam Fox is engaged to Dr Jesme Baird, a cancer specialist who has attended five conferences and has a full wardrobe of Prada power-suits. Lady Rifkind is a zoologist who has been diagnosed with MS. She doesn't live in her husband's constituency in Kensington, preferring their homes in Pimlico and outside Edinburgh.

Of course, Sam and Dave, and Do and Dave, are front-runners, and with Sam about to drop a sprog in February, the timing couldn't be more perfect. Can I just remind everyone that when women run for high office or high-powered jobs in the City, their husbands are never subjected to this kind of patronising drivel. Do we care about Mr Marjorie Scardino, or Mr Clara Furse? Of course not. But in the end, the Tories are in a hole, and need whatever glamour and oomph they can dredge up.

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