An ex who believed the air she breathed should be purer than anything the rest of us mortals were entitled to, took me to Scott's - a restaurant in Mayfair - when I first moved to London. Booked under my name, the maitre d' who saw me lumber up and through the front door must have been rather disappointed. The prominent position reserved for the communications magnate allowed us to be sitting on the table next to Karen Brady, who was the centre of attention of six suited, wrinkled and folliclulary challenged gentlemen. The sharp all this is that is the occasion was the only time I had dinned on what I like to characterise as "Masterchef" food. Very tasty and extremely rich if I remember correctly.
I have a quiet admiration for the Professionals that enter the specialised version of Masterchef (it's probably the only TV programme I'll set aside time for now that the F1 circus is nothing but anymore). I think my own culinary skills are ok and I can vary the range of dishes I serve up in a week. But the precision and skill these girls and guys have, I can only dream about.
During my visits to the new UBS building in Liverpool Street, I had the opportunity to photograph the professionals practicing for the evenings "Chef's Table." The ease, finesse and perfection that was on display left me staggered.
The only down side was my own lack of bravery to request a taste. Professionalism at all times is the excuse if anyone asks...