There was a time during Marco Pierre White's career at the stove when it felt like he had turned the business of being a Michelin-starred chef into a spectator sport: how the crowd roared when he threw belligerent diners out of his restaurant; how they cheered when he charged £25 for a plate of chips; how they covered their eyes in disbelief when he chucked a whole cheeseboard against the wall. Happy days. But in the end Marco tired of the beautiful game, concluded it was a life for younger lads, and hung up his apron. He did what all knackered players do. He went into management.
Against that dangerously overstretched metaphor, it makes absolute sense that he should now have decided to go into football stadium catering. Later this month he will open a restaurant at the Chelsea ground named, with customary modesty, Marco. 'It's the kind of restaurant that I like,' he said recently, 'and the menu will feature all of my favourite dishes.' In the old days we could have been sure what those were: tagliatelle of oysters with caviar, roast Bresse pigeon with a fumet of truffles, savarin of raspberries. Now? Who knows. Throw in his starring role in ITV's Hell's Kitchen, which starts tomorrow, and he's spread so thin you could read a newspaper through him. The menus at the various restaurants he is involved with slip from haute French to clumsy Italian, from bistro to British. On past form the menu at the new gaff will be like that legendary projectile cheeseboard: whatever sticks to the wall when he chucks it there.
This is just Marco with his eye on the main chance, as ever. In truth this new restaurant is more interesting for what it says about football than about the consultant involved. The opening is being promoted as part of the snappily titled Bluewing promotion at Chelsea, which they describe as a 'new non-match-day marketing campaign'. Quick translation: it's a way of making money out of a football stadium when, er, there's no football on. This is part of a developing trend. Much has been said about the glittering arch at the new Wembley stadium, but less has been said about the staggering catering facilities there, which can feed 15,000 people at once. The eating options include the largest banqueting suites in London, one of which can do a sit-down dinner for 1,800.
The pioneer in all this was Gary Rhodes, who ran a restaurant next to his beloved Manchester United's stadium in the late 1990s. It conjures up the image of chefs competing against each other by taking over the catering concessions at rival clubs: Heston Blumenthal at his beloved Arsenal, Marcus Wareing at Southport, Gordon Ramsay at Chelsea. Oh hang on. That one's already taken. Still, there's no doubt it's all a long way from botulism burgers and hot dogs with a side order of e.coli 157.
The die-hard fans will of course see all this as just another symptom of the gross commercialisation of the game, caused by Nick Hornby making it all right for middle-class boys to come out about their passions, leading in turn to share dealing, nose-bleedingly expensive Sky Sports subscriptions and, inevitably, the Russian oligarchs.
Me? I'm a restaurant critic who hates football so much he would rather nail his own tongue to the floor than ever consider going to watch a live game. Indeed, a new restaurant, even one overseen by a busted flush like Marco Pierre White, is probably the only way that anybody will ever get me to a stadium. And I just might. Here I go, here I go, here I go, as I believe the chaps might say on the terraces these days.
