A Hellish Read

Maybe you love him. Maybe you hate him. Maybe you love to hate him, you cheeky poppet.

As I’ve said before, I rather like Gordon Ramsay, more for his Brit shows (Ramsay’s Kitchen Nightmares and The F Word) and Michelin stars (eight) than for Fox’s Hell’s Kitchen. Clearly staffed with inept kitchen squid, the show is meant to provoke Ramsay’s legendary temper.

When I saw Roasting in Hell’s Kitchen on the shelf, I bit … and now I really like him. The book reads as if you’re at the pub and, over a pint, you asked him “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Far from a tot who grew up tied to Gran’s apron strings, his childhood was a mess. He had to scratch and claw his way through life to get what he wanted, which turned out to be a life with food. His stories are colorful and riotous, they had me laughing late into the night. I have no doubt he’s cut from the same cloth as my friend Cliff, a Brit who carried a sutures set with him at all times.

Most TV chefs put on a persona that everyday hard-scrabble kitchen guys see through: an icky-palatable-to-the-masses glimmer glow. Ramsay is old school, he’s the real deal, and while it’s clear he loves the limelight, you can be dead sure he won’t be hawking for Applebees.