Jeremy Lee

Head chef, Quo Vadis

Home was Dundee and all my early holidays were on islands – Arran, Mull, Islay – over on the other coast of Scotland. Having three sons and then an equally rambunctious daughter, our parents realised the thing to do was totally exhaust us all day, then at midnight bundle us unconscious into two cars to drive through the night – Mum steering the Mini Clubman, Dad the Mini – to catch an early morning ferry from Oban. Both cars were laden to the gunnels with camping equipment and Mum’s batterie de cuisine.

We camped on island beaches and survived the most extraordinary weather – you name it, we had it. But to see the sea crashing on the shore each morning and those skies at sunset was magnificent. Mum cooked lunches and dinners and with whatever internal clock we’d had instilled in us we’d return on time from our adventures, spruced up and cleaned at a nearby tap to eat her wonderful food on the beach. Not grand cooking but beautifully plain simple food well made. Wonderfully ad hoc yet civilised.

Dad was a very fussy, particular eater and supplies were gathered from the island’s best local butcher, fishmonger, grocer and baker. Apart from bacon or sausage sandwiches and kippers or mackerel, Mum made minces and stews on the beach. Then, when you saw her sitting down with a book by the sea, having watered and fed her brood, there was a very contented feeling about her. Of course, what parents crave the most is peace. So being reasonably assured that we’d be safe when we gallivanted off for hours must have been marvellous for them.

My favourite meal on the beach – the one I’d ask Mum for – was breaded haddock, boiled potato and peas. She’d amass different crusts and husks and bits of bread throughout the week before pounding them into breadcrumbs, I’ve since realised. I thought that meal was the most delicious thing in the world.

In my teens, things became more sophisticated, because we’d camp in Brittany – travelling at night in a VW Dormobile to Stirling and onto the sleeper to Newton Abbot, then drive to Plymouth for the ferry to Roscoff. In France, Mum’s wings just unfurled and she was at the charcuterie counter and everywhere. I remember one day, while Mum and Dad visited a couple in a nearby tent, we boys were given 30 francs and we went for roast chicken and chips at a restaurant and ordered glasses of beaujolais. The owners didn’t bat an eyelid and I felt grown up and sophisticated.

Most of my travels nowadays are two days here, two days there, thanks to generous friends who ask, “Why don’t you join us?” at a place in the country, or Italy, with a swimming pool. Chefs are really terrible at taking holidays, frankly.

I went quickly around the world once eating maggots and monkeys with Fergus Henderson for a TV programme [Could You Eat An Elephant?], and in a remarkably glamorous restaurant in Vietnam one day we ate snake. Anything snakey and alive is an instant urrgh for me and they’d brought out live snakes to select from and one whooshed out and got six inches from my face. We had to order a whole snake each, for head-to-toe consumption, so I went eeny-meeny-miney and chose a cobra, and it was coshed. It was pretty full-on, but tasted delicious.

I do remember once having a traditional fish-shop fish supper – on Brighton beach, back when the [West] pier was still standing. It wasn’t very good. I do love the idea of fish and chips on a beach. But I’d much prefer, because of my age now, the sort of thing Mary- Lou Sturridge is doing at The Seaside Boarding House in Burton Bradstock.

I have a full two-week holiday coming up – my first for a very long time and my first August holiday for even longer. It’s at a friend’s in north Tuscany and I’ll be doing as little as possible. I’ve always been very lucky in that all my friends are very good cooks and love making food, funnily enough.