How to Fail - Part 1: Great British Menu
Like many chefs, in my formative years Great British Menu loomed large on the aspirational horizon – the holy grail for young chefs, and a boot camp for a significant number of the country’s best-known restaurateurs. There are a great many things that I fantasised about in my youth which, upon participating, fell short of enjoyment and have left me needing therapy. Fortunately, most such haunting experiences were not captured on film and are absolutely not available on BBC iPlayer. Having finally had the opportunity to catch up on this year’s series, I thought it a useful part of my healing to reflect on my experience and, perhaps, lay bare some truths from the other side of the camera.
To be approached by GBM is an honour. They have an incredibly hard-working team of producers whose unenviable task is to whittle down a shortlist of potential chefs who can (A) cook at a feasible standard and (B) perform, even vaguely, on camera. After multiple chats (read: interviews), screen tests and a sample menu, the executive producers – unknowable and mysterious – select their victims/chefs. Glib as it may sound, it’s a genuine privilege to be asked to represent your region.
Once selected, I had around three months to prepare – full recipes, specs, props, time off, etc. You receive the brief, followed by a regionally specific bias. The year I took part it was children’s literature and authors with a link to the Midlands. My Mum is a librarian, and I studied English Literature at university – on paper, I had the advantage. Unfortunately, I also hate Tolkein and had – with considerable effort – graduated from children’s books to adult works some years before filming began. Some hope, some despair, you may think...
Here lands the excruciating plot twist, and the part I have, until now, been too ashamed to admit. At the time of filming, I was, for many reasons, in the midst of a breakdown. Let me tell you, dear reader, this does not make for a successful competition.
When I found out I’d made it through to the show, I had just totally tanked my second restaurant. As a chef who was dealing with a business going bust who, at one point, couldn’t afford to feed himself, it wasn’t perhaps the best of ideas to take part at all. I borrowed money from my parents to fund the dish development and props. At the same time, the Head Chef of the restaurant I’d managed not to lead into financial ruin had also just handed in his notice. Between preparation and filming I was either working, going through insolvency documents, or crying into a pillow. To conclude, the timing wasn’t great.
Going into filming, I had only one course fully planned with props, had done no practice sessions, and was, quite frankly, bricking it. My only real prop success was for my main course – one of our managers snagged me a Deliveroo jacket from a disgruntled driver off eBay, and BCU very kindly relabelled it Hobbitroo. It was a Tolkein dish – and I know what I said earlier. Remember, this was for the main course, it will be pertinent later…
Central filmed first. At the crack of dawn on a Monday, a young runner collected me from the restaurant and took me to the studio. Impressively, it’s also the studio that produced the Teletubbies. In the gents toilets you can see Noo-Noo through a window. Finally, the glamour I’d always wanted. On breaks between filming I’d go for a piss and stare adoringly through that pane of glass to my hero and think, if you got through it I can. Naughty Noo-Noo was a kindred spirit – perhaps my time in the studio would also end with a Big Hug. (If you read earlier, you’ll note I was having a breakdown.)
After a not inconsiderable period of stewing hysterically alone in a green room, I was taken through to film the introductions with the other chefs whose identities were kept under wraps until this very moment. It’s hard to overcome the nerves and not act like some sweaty creature attempting an impression of a human being – in hindsight, this may only be true if you’re having a breakdown. On finding out I was up against Dom, Sally and Nial I remember two distinct thoughts: (A) I guess I’ll be leaving and (B) I probably shouldn’t have agreed to borrow money from my fucking parents to pay for a Hobbit-themed costume (foregoing regular meals in the process), if, as it transpired, I was likely to be kicked off the show before we even got to serve mains.
The first day you film amuse bouche – to warm you up – and a million texture shots. I walked up and down the corridor for what felt like several hours for them to edit the determined stride of chefs entering the contest – and me, hobbling like some sort of crack-addled goblin. I can confirm that whatever the talent of chefs taking part, none of us could walk up and down a corridor with any sense of rhythm or continuity. At some point they filmed us taking off our coats off and putting them into a locker. You put your coat on just for that shot – I was entirely nude beforehand. You film knocking on the door. I wasn’t very good at knocking a door and entering either. A harbinger of things to come.
Our judge was Paul Ainsworth. Paul is a genuinely wonderful chef and, far more importantly, a gem of a man. He was even nicer off camera than on, and I am grateful he was my judge. Each chef also has a home economist assigned and their entire team are legends – hard-working, kind, and talented. Lizzie was mine and she was a delight – I am continuously mortified that she got stuck with such a lemon. Lizzie, I’m sorry. Sammy Jo is a veteran lead home economist and is feared and adored in equal measure by chefs. She is wise and insightful, and continues to support me. Every cloud…
By the end of day one I was a wreck, and I hadn’t yet cooked anything that was being properly judged. Due to said breakdown, I also didn’t socialise with the others outside the studio, and I regret that. Many chefs made great friends on the show. On the nights between filming I sat eating a Dominos in the hotel room, which likely wasn’t the best use of the opportunity. One suspects a depressed goth fucking up everything he touches doesn’t endear one to new mates.
The second day started at the crack of dawn, and we filmed starters and fish across the morning and afternoon. My starter was always going to be interesting because I hadn’t properly planned the dish, nor practiced it. Think of it like a kamikaze Ready Steady Cook. It is entirely my fault that I found myself in the bizzare, surreal, stupid situation of competing on such a prestigious show with such a comical lack of preparation. I’d ordered bits. Bits that were maybe four different dishes I’d worked with before. Paul said it was too busy. The fact that it was edible at all was, frankly, a small miracle. My brief was Revolting Rhymes by Roald Dahl. I’d like to apologise to Roald. I’d like to apologise to Paul, the other chefs, and indeed the poor quail that died for me to fuck up so badly. I’d ordered some insects because they were a point of interest at the start of my career. Threw some of them in there – maybe they were revolting? A score of 6 was really unfathomable, and some vague encouragement.
I couldn’t eat lunch because I felt too shit. If you thought I was unprepared for the starter, wait ‘til the fish… I have a deep love for scallops and I’d built a dish on the basis that I understood the core product, knew flavours that would work with it, and had a desire to somehow use a skull. The skull was enough impetus to find an obscure Midlands author who had vaguely gothic undertones to her novel. I’m not proud to say it, but I never read the book and likely never will. I dislike fantasy fiction, and now I especially dislike Midlands-based fantasy fiction.
The beauty of a ceviche course is everyone else was in the shit for fish and my serve was dead straight forward from a service perspective. Lots of fresh / raw / lightly cooked elements. Strategy - look it up. To be honest with you, this dish – that I’d never practiced before – was a lot more successful. I think that’s the most frustrating part about my exit. I put a bit too much wasabi on – like, tears in eyes, right in the nads wasabi – and still got an 8. I reckon with a bit of practice it would have been a 9 or 10 and I might have got through to mains – where I’d actually practiced that one course (and had that outfit ready). That said, Dom was the other chef at the bottom and his pike fish course was stupendous - the best fish course of the day and he deserved to go through infinitely more than me.
The results are drawn out – predictably. I knew I was out. I felt I was out before I even started. The sad, broken outsider, chain-smoking between takes. So out of his depth. I feel acutely every chef that has left this year – the pain is real, it’s humiliating, and the five or so cameras on every move and reaction makes it all the more visceral. I can laugh about it now, but at the time it was terrible. The majority of my exit interview was unusable – it’s a family friendly show after all.
The director wanted to film me leaving, packing my knives, sobbing furiously in a small cupboard, etc. I made clear I was utterly unwilling to co-operate in any more doom porn for the day. “Dobby is a free chef” I shouted and threw my socks at the director before walking off. With retrospect, probably not the most professional shout. Paul took me to one side in the judge’s room and gave me half an hour of his time that he didn’t have to. We spoke about the agony of the show, how many stars have to align for it to work, and he encouraged me to carry on. I’ll never forget it.
The aftercare was decent – I sent a long rambling apology-cum-thank you to the entire team – who were, as individuals, lovely. Some of the production team came to The Wilderness for Christmas lunch a few months later – I assume to help me recoup some of the cash I’d spaffed on a Hobbit-themed outfit that to this day I’ve never been able to flog. Or wear. Based on my performance in the studio, I can’t imagine they were coming for the food.
In the final edit, I think they did well to mask what an absolute car crash I was from start to finish. Shockingly, I was invited back to participate in this year’s series – it says plenty about my mental state the year prior that I seriously considered taking up the offer, despite the fact we were in the midst of Covid and I was (once again) working my arse off to stop the restaurant going down the tubes. Even given the context, I would have been far better equipped to succeed. But it turns out I must have learnt something from that first time. Don’t do TV in the midst of a breakdown kids, no matter how much you think the exposure might be a form of redemption. The likelihood of crashing and burning is, unsurprisingly, far greater than the likelihood of success. It’s a fool’s errand.
So, there’s the truth about that time I went on telly and totally fucked it up for myself, and, to an extent, for Birmingham too, who I was very unconvincingly representing. To all the chefs who take on the challenge, both present and future, you have my utmost respect – it’s a tougher gig than its teatime-telly appearance may at first suggest. Would I say yes if asked again? Yes, but I’d treat it with the gravity and respect it deserves (and, ideally, do so in the context of running a stable business – please God, give me a break). Although, given the aforementioned antics, I imagine the producers have already (and quite rightly) blocked my number – and if they haven’t, I’m sure this ramble will be the final nail in my GBM coffin.