Fun story. I cooked for this dude, once. I did my kitchen apprenticeship at the family-style restaurant of one of New Zealand’s premiere chefs, and he knew Ramsay really well. He was in New Zealand for a few weeks, and Martin brought him by the restaurant to check it out. It was right on the beach, fucking gorgeous. I was the only one there (apprentice = bitch work = 4am starting shifts), and they asked me to whip up some breakfast for them. It was SUPER simple, fried fish, eggs cooked in bread, sausages. He was incredibly gracious and kind, asked me to join them (I couldn’t, too much work to do, so they sat at the kitchen window so they could talk to me), and was super interested in hearing about my english grandma, who had taught me how to cook. I won’t hear a single bad word against this man, for all of his kitchen hysterics, he treated me like an equal.
gordon ramsay fandom
If you’re not in the Gordon Ramsay fandom you’re wrong.
Saturday, March 24, 1984. Shermer High School, Shermer, Illinois, 60062.
Dear Mr. Vernon,
We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in detention for whatever it was we did wrong. What we did was wrong. But we think you’re crazy to make us write an essay telling you who we think we are. What do you care? You see us as you want to see us — in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. You see us as a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess and a criminal. Correct? That’s the way we saw each other at 7:00 this morning. We were brainwashed.