Growing up as the son of a charcutier, he had learned whether it was Monday or Tuesday from the smell of boudin or andouillettes on the stairs; and his earliest memory was of beating up egg yolks which, as if by magic, thickened in the hot stock into sauce for his mother's blanquette of veal. To run just one restaurant with Albert would have been good enough. And it was hard work: so hard that he was hardly ever at home, and his first wife divorced him. Though he knew almost no English, he still had to take his turn at front-of-house while Albert was manning the stove.

They cooked and played host in alternate weeks, knowing well that if they tried to share service there might be blood. Both of them came up with ideas, but his strength lay in details. Precision and patience were a pastrycook's skills. It mattered to him, for instance, that commis waiters should not talk to the customers and that diners should wear ties (he almost refused entry to the Rolling Stones when they turned up without them). Every ingredient had its right place, too, and as each arrived he would taste it, unseasoned, to judge exactly where it might sit within a dish.

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