“As you move through this life and this world you change things slightly, you leave marks behind, however small.”

One of the first things many people do when someone important – or a celebrity who they might vaguely be aware of – passes, is to go onto social media and express their condolences.

Some can do silly things; others miss the point entirely.

When I read the news about Antony Bourdain this lunchtime, I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat; not just because I loved the guy’s writing, documentaries and food, but because it’s another example of the darkness into which depression and mental health issues (some might add addiction) can enter us into.

Rather than speculate on the circumstances around his far-too-early departure from our lives, I wanted to do something a bit more personal than a tweet or status update, and actually celebrate the man; raise awareness of his importance… of why I admired him so much.

You may well be only vaguely – or even not at all – aware of who I’m talking about; if so, here’s the table in Hanoi where he ate a couple of years ago with Barack Obama:

Yes, the former American President was probably the bigger draw (and reason for this see-through time capsule) but the fact that Barack had agreed to meet and eat with him, I think, highlights how influential Tony was. Many chefs and celebrities have shared their grief, and acknowledgement of his greatness.

I am neither, but want to share with you why my heart is so heavy this evening.

It all started  in 2005, when I’d just begun teaching. In the Observer one hangover-free Sunday, I read an interview with this fascinating sounding guy from America who’d written a book – an expose, if you like – of his time in the kitchens of New York. That he’d dallied with drink and drugs along the way made him all the more interesting, so I went and bought his autobiographies and delved in with intrigue.

Reading the first chapter of ‘Kitchen Confidential’ in which the chef describes in delicious detail his first taste of oysters in France one summer – when I, myself, had just had a similar experience – I was instantly hooked and passed on his book to a fellow wannabe chef. I’ve never had it back, but it doesn’t matter… it’s fair to say the book affected me forever.

His second tome, a document of his food travels of the world, was arguably more important for him as it introduced the notion of food  travel which would open up a series of series he made about eating his way around the world: places I’d never go to, but felt I knew, thanks to his dry humour, appreciation of the everyday and New York drawl describing every barmy encounter.

When I first got Sky TV a few years later, that was the first programme I remember searching for; the first thing I remember really enjoying.

NO… RESERVATIONS.

The night he got drunk waiting for a Russian Fish Pie; the drinking Guinness and whisky chasers in an Irish Bar off 5th Avenue; the Full English with Fergus Henderson… these memories are vivid, but may be slightly inaccurate, however it doesn’t matter because they made me excited to cook.

And to travel.

Buying his first cook book even brought with it mixed experiences – I was sick one night after cooking the lapin aux olives, and don’t remember making too much else out of it (but will do from now on) – but as I read more about the culinary world, and realised more and more just how admired he was, I decided I just had to experience his cooking for myself.

I don’t think he was cooking the night we went to Les Halles Brasserie, Nassau Street, New York, December 26, 2009. He certainly didn’t cook my meal, because it was steak tartare and frites… but it was the best steak tartare I’ve ever tasted and in the most wonderful bistro-esque surroundings, with a Ribenary Beaujolais and the tastiest bread and butter going, plus mirrored walls and plush banquettes which took us from the post-proposal dreamland we were in, to 1950s Paris and Le Charme Discret de la Bourgeoisie.

Fast forward a couple of years, and we were married.

We travelled to Nice and one of the highlights of our visit to Cannes was a billboard advertisement featuring Bourdain and his new TV programme, ‘The Taste’. I watched every episode when it aired in Britain, albeit to mixed reviews, and his straightforward views seemed to sit better with his travel documentary style rather than the food talent show, meaning his new project of ‘The Layover’ which advised how best to spend a weekend in various cities.

That my Sky planner – and my Netflix watchlist – still have several hours of Bourdain programmes on them – ‘Parts Unknown’, especially – which show that I never got bored of him and his sweary articularcy – but the sadness at today’s news means I am at a crossroads of whether or not to delete it all because everything was beautiful and nothing hurt but I don’t know how I’ll feel, watching them all again.

Image result for anthony bourdain asia argento

In more recent years, his Instagram feed was full of exotic experiences so I’m glad at least that his 61 years allowed him to see (and eat) the world. He also impressed me as a father of a young girl like myself, and as a passionate and proud supporter of his girlfriend, Asia Argento, who had become embroiled in the Hollywood scandals surrounding certain producers and movements.

I get the impression he wouldn’t have wanted me to be crying, writing this; I don’t even know why I am.

He’d much prefer to know that we raised a glass to him during a family tea – I had a pint of Guinness and think he would have liked it – and now plan a glass of Languedoc and some Brie, to send him off in style.

I’d like to think he changed things more than slightly, and left many marks behind.

Antony’s a hero I would have loved to meet.

“Do you know who I am? I’m like a Morrissey with some strings” (LJF)

Recent events have led me to reflect on all the things I’ve achieved in life, especially as I approach the top of the hill.

Being a best man recently, reintroduced me to friends I made twenty seven years ago; meanwhile, I bumped into my geography teacher from the same time and my cousin prepares to renew her vows for a silver anniversary.

It all got me thinking.

I have fallen in love with ‘Wonder’ by R. J. Palacio – the book has pretty much changed my life – and was teaching recently about Mr. Browne’s precepts and I discussed with a class, the many things I’m proud of. Family, friends, teaching… the three degrees, the flexibility and versatility and designing several singles and a top ten album and having the artwork in the museum for five years… being a mentor, a role model, a best man, a brother and son and father and husband.

As an aside, I’m not showing off; just trying to be truthful, and to justify what’s to come…

It got me thinking about a small, separate part of my life which has actually come to offer several seminal moments which I feel very lucky to have experienced and still can’t quite believe some of which have actually taken place.

I’m talking about meeting my heroes.

There’s always been a fine line between acknowledging being close to greatness and being a celebrity groupie / stalker / any other term of negativity and in today’s society, that line is finer than ever. Online accessibility, mobile phone use and general popular culture trends mean that Andrew Warhola’s assertion that ‘everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes’ has come true and even the artist’s own correction to that quote – ‘everyone will be famous in fifteen minutes’ – have come true.

I’ve always been interested in being close to famous people… I think most people are. I still have my autograph books from childhood, when we waited at the stage door of one of the piers in Blackpool for Lenny Henry and Tracey Ullman and then met Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards whose signature I cherished. I’d make my dad set off three hours early for my first few matches, to meet the players on their way in and if possible get a photo with to document the moment. Like Ricky Fitts in ‘American Beauty’, I just had to remember the moment.

I always needed to remember.

Time went on and I entered the world of adulthood, suddenly mixing in circles that muddied the waters of celebrity and blurred the lines between ‘them’ and ‘me’. Autographs gave way to selfies or tweets, whilst experiences replaced the signatures, such as drinking with Hollyoaks actors, having Antony H Wilson’s mobile number in my phone until the day he died, donating artworks to Turner Prize winning artists and then working closely with a band I would regularly see on TV or at signings or have pupils fawning over.

Meeting slebs didn’t lose its impact, I just became more comfortable with it, and was happy to tell celebrity chefs what my kids thought of them or asking a royal to send me some of her carrots because I came to realise they are just normal people who happen to be famous and there, but for the grace of God, could have gone I, who went on to do something arguably more important and difficult and therefore, me meeting them is – maybe – just as memorable for them.

It’s a crazy notion, but keeps me going.

I like to think I made an impression on some of them at least, and hope, if you’re reading this, you remember meeting me as fondly as I do you.

In no particular order, here’s a few highlights of my celebrity-meeting career with a nod to Billy Joel and the MerseyBeat poets:

Pat Nevin as a kid, local radio DJs, Beckham (Geri’s number?) and David Morrissey.

 

Leighton Baines in Waitrose, speaking French to Cantona, talking girls with Ifans, and Robert Carlyle.

Touching Tarantino, telling Liam Gallagher he’s cool, Mani loving my hat, Shearer dropping my pen

Offering Dunc my GCSE artwork, cookbooks off Aiden Byrne, Pierre Koffmann, Paul Askew, League of gentlemen…

Alonso – hate and love you – Millwall with Danny Baker, Carra in the café, Gazza with the shakes

Tony Cottee, Steve Wright, Johan Cruyff on my flight, van Nistelrooy, Jade Goody and Seamie Coleman…

Howard Kendall signing cheques, Graeme Sharp the FA Cup, a very moody Mignolet… who else do I have to say?

Grayson Perry owns my pot, Tracey Emin has the lot, Richard Ashcroft in the Cotswolds and Jackson (of the snakes)

Reid, Kanchelskis, Southall, Van den Hauwe – all with the kids, plenty more to come… that’s what happens now

Peter Blake, Jamie Oliver, Camilla with the carrots, Dec agreeing I look like Darius… Vic Reeves p**s artist

James Dean Bradfield, Max and Bombhead, Clyne and Parkinson in the school, then there was Steve Cram

Richard Hawley Parr Street, Tony Wilson dj’ing, Wombats in the flat and school, and Holly Valance.

There will be many more who have disappeared in the haze of a drunken – or starstruck – hour, too. All pivotal and incredibly important to me at the time… well, some more than others.

Especially the footballers. Even the most eminently forgettable Everton player will have etched himself in my memory if he stopped to sign autograph for me or, God forbid, I bumped into him somewhere. However, the top three ever were probably Cruyff at the airport, Cantona and Ferguson in terms of sporting stars; meanwhile Gallagher, Ashcroft and Hawley in music.

However, none of the above – well, maybe a couple of exceptions (Cruyff and Ferguson) – had had the effect on me and my life that Liam Fray has had, though, and meeting him two weeks ago was particularly incredible.

Some people scratch their heads… others question, “and what?” but to me – who has some of his lyrics tattooed on my chest because my entire wedding speech was based on one of his songs – it was up there with some of the greatest moments of my life.

Not the higher echelons, like my kids being born or my wedding day, but the next level, because this guy – and his words – mean so much to me. I’ve seen him sing live ten times or more.

I’ve bought the merchandise, watched on YouTube countless times and danced around like a d’head but not cared because I was having the time of my life accompanied by his dulcet tones. I’ve spent hundreds of pounds on his oeuvre, his t-shirts, his gigs, having the time of my life… and I’ve admired his dress sense, liked his Instagram posts, and his words… Man, his words.

This was a week before we crossed paths.

The underdogs, the bridesmaids, getting noticed by the masses at last. even my mum was watching, and texted me about it:

Let’s just say, he is a bit of a hero of mine.

Morrissey didn’t get the honour of a mention in my speech, or a tattoo (yet) and, given his particular aloofness and distance, Liam is probably – arguably – numero one in my list of the possible people currently alive to meet.

You can guess, by now, what happened when we were out to celebrate our sixth year anniversary.

Sat by a widow, we were discussing the restaurant décor and potential colours for the front of our house (currently being rendered) when a familiar face walked past outside.

With the manager of the Courteeners.

I’m such a fan.

“F***ing h***, that’s Liam Fray!” I exclaimed and didn’t run – I kept some dignity – but briskly walked outside to greet the great man.

At this point, I admit, it all went a little Jed Maxwell.

I don’t mind admitting it, because it was a dream come true to have a conversation with this guy whose words I’ve listened to a thousand times.

He and his manager were a little taken aback when I lifted my shirt to reveal said tattoo but he liked it, and swore me to secrecy about why he was in town. We discussed meeting Morrissey, my missing the gig the previous weekend, and took selfies before explaining my wedding speech in detail. I do wonder what he thought of this oddball, six years his senior, who made the most of a once in a lifetime opportunity, and just hope he realises how much he has affected mine for the better, with his words of wisdom and kindness when our paths crossed fleetingly for a couple of moments.

People walked past and they clearly didn’t recognise this genius before them – him, not me – but some people looked and wondered, hence my distracted face in the profile pics in which he returned to being the epitome of cool. He wandered off into the city, I returned to the last of the ladies, the belle of the ball, and I entered a dreamlike state for a few minutes full of teary eyes as I wondered if it was all just a dream, dreamt by another.

It wasn’t.

It was definitely real.

Always meet your heroes.

Polyprionidae

“I am not a number! I am a free man!

“YOU ARE NUMBER SIX!”

Talking of weddings, it was our sixth anniversary in the middle of them all and we celebrated, as has become customary, with a special meal together.

My dreams of winning Masterchef may have been shelved, for now, but the traditions of our enjoying fine dining together once a year are upheld every April; planned months in advance, with every mouthful savoured and memories cherished.

Before we married we had a few memorable evenings at special places; Fergus Henderson’s St. John (bone marrow, eel, hare… all glorious) and the Carriage Works here in LPL as well as Anthony Bourdain’s Les Halles in New York. But, it really all started at L’Ortolan in Reading. A wedding present and introduction to the world of the sommelier, expertly matching wine for our enjoyment.

First anniversary? Negresco in Nice. Waiter was Franck, looked after us so well as Lisa was ‘enceinte’ and I had a wonderful steak tartare made tableside.

Second? L’Enclume. Unforgettable attention to detail and so many things of beauty.

Third was at Manchester House. Really well looked after, very clever combinations and an hour in the company of chef patron afterwards.

Fourth… Northcote. I got a tour of the kitchen as compensation for – pregnant again – wifey being sick. The food was amazing, by the way.

Adam Reid at The French in Manchester was the fifth, and arguably the best yet. Dramatic and theatrical, with a stunning soundtrack to match and again, what a great guy.

All of which meant that our lunch at Wreckfish had a lot to live up to… and boy, did it deliver.

Walking in, I saw they had Inedit on draught. A beer created by the great Ferran Adria to accompany pretty much any meal, this was the first time I’d seen it on tap so I already had a good feeling.

Something magical happened before the meal, so now, it’s my new favourite restaurant.

When we were discussing the paint colour as an option for our house exterior, and I saw one of my all-time heroes walk past the window, I kind of knew this was going to be an unforgettable couple of hours.

We ordered food and wine and were impressed by the relaxed vibe of the place. Very ‘bistro-y’ with an open kitchen and extremely welcoming, which you’d expect from a place launched via crowdfunding. Friends have eaten and been impressed by the sister ventures over the water, and I’d been impressed by Gary Usher (as well as his tattoos) on the TV and in interviews, plus with an upcoming Prescot addition to the family.

You can assist in the crowdfunding of Pinion… find out more here

The value of the fare on offer was incredible, too, especially given the quality of what we were about to receive.

We’d had a drink beforehand in the converted church that featured in The Golden Vision, so it was appropriate that – for what we were about to eat – we were truly thankful.

Starters, then… Ox heart like I’d never tasted; burrata and wild garlic sauce which was both soft and vibrant, green, punchy. Mains? I opted for the braised featherblade of beef with celeriac puree and buttered hispi – the most amazing bit of cabbage I’ve eaten since holidays at my grandparents -and WW opted for the Confit duck leg with an amazing pearl barley broth and kale. All accompanied by the most decadent and moreish parmesan and truffle chips.

The heart sang; the stomachs smiled in agreement.

Service was excellent, too, and we can’t wait to go back.

No room for desserts, we indulged ourselves in a double espresso and a cuddle of a baby with a couple on the next table who’d travelled over from Leeds for the experience. They, like us, were savouring every moment, every mouthful, and made us want to rush home to the kids but recognise how lucky we were to have had the opportunity to enjoy the couple of hours – and courses – as much as we did.

All in all, a perfect way to celebrate our six years of wedded bliss. We even receive some heavenly fudge and honeycomb, to acknowledge the ‘sweet / sugar’ symbolism.

In summary – just in case anyone wasn’t sure – I would urge anyone with tastebuds, an interest in supporting independent ventures or just a free couple of hours for a memorable experience, to go to Wreckfish.