a life
in kitchens.

I never set out to be a chef. I set out to make people happy with food, and the apron came with the job.

I grew up in a house where the kitchen was the loudest room. Stock on every Sunday. Bread on Saturday. The smell of garlic hitting hot oil at six p.m. on a Tuesday. By twelve I was peeling, by fifteen I was prepping, by eighteen I was on the line, and by twenty I understood that this was the only thing I'd ever properly loved.

Two decades on — London, Sydney, New York, and home again — and the same thing still moves me. Good produce, treated with care. Something cooked slow on a wood fire. Bread torn at a long table. Wine spilled. Stories told twice. The good things.

These days I cook privately, consult on menus, run the occasional supper club, and write down what I make so other people can make it too. That's what these recipes are. A door, propped open, with a light on inside.