Jamie Oliver and the greasy spoon

By Lorne Jackson on Aug 23, 08 07:39 PM

Poor Jamie Oliver!

The king of the kitchen has been complaining that his life's work is in danger of being forgotten, and that he'll only be remembered as a "professional s**t stirrer".

As a man who has spent most of his waking hours undertaking the equivalent of dunking a Moulinex Blender in a cow pat, I believe professional s**t stirring to be a most noble pursuit.

It's the amateurs you have to watch out for - they have a tendency to use their index fingers.

Which is why I call them RANK amateurs.

Still, I understand Jamie's concerns.

For years he was lauded as a highly decorated member of that most glorious fraternity, the brotherhood of celebrity chefs.

But after a few grumbles about battery-reared chickens and dodgy school-dinners, the public's perception of him changed from puka cook to pious campaigner.

And like the man says, his life's work - forgotten!

Now, there might be some people out there who think that it's arrogant of a chef to talk in terms of his "life's work", as if heating food was as important an undertaking as painting an iconic picture or writing a triumphant symphony.

But I agree with Jamie.

Chefs are artists on a level with Picasso and Mozart.

If you disagree, I suggest a chat with Big Franco, the proprietor of Big Franco's, the greasy spoon round the corner from me.

Only last week we discussed this very topic. Let me set the scene ...

ONE WEEK AGO: BIG FRANCO'S CAFF

A podgy Sunday Mercury blogger enters, then crushes himself between a rock-solid bench nailed to the floor, and a grease-streaked Formica table. While idly picking at the ancient scabs of congealed sauce covering a squeezy, brown, tomato-shaped ketchup dispenser, he peruses the menu. Franco arrives to take the podgy blogger's order.

Big Franco: Wayawant?

Podgy Blogger: Ah, Franco my good man. I'm in need of something that will ravish the eyes and provide succour for the tarnished soul.

Big Franco: Worra bout egg'n'chips?

Podgy Blogger: Egg and chips you say? Positively delightful! But I was thinking about something more radical. Dangerous, even.

Big Franco: I burned m'self on the deep-fat frier 'bout an hour ago. Hurt like a mother****er.

Podgy Blogger: Yes, but where is the inherent challenge for the diner? One has a genuine need to be disturbed! Disorientated! Discombobulated...

Big Franco: Dis gonna go on much longer? I gots udder peoples ta serve, matey.

Podgy Blogger: I understand, Franco. Really, I do. As an artist you don't want to be compromised by commercial pressures. Van Gogh faced a similar conflict of interests. Regrettably he succumbed to the ultimate indignity of being a butterfly, broken on the wheel. Now you face a similar fate. Yet another visionary, violated by the vileness of the bottom dollar...

Big Franco: I ain't acceptin' no dollars here. None of dem Euros neifer. Now, if you ain't buyin', you sure as hell are budgin'!

With that said, Big Franco grabs the podgy blogger by the neck, then escorts him, with more than a little brusqueness, to the front door. Once there, the former customer is aided in his hasty vacating of the premises by the resounding thump of size 12 Doc Martin boot against seat of trousers.

The podgy blogger lands on the pavement outside, where tears spring readily to his eyes.

Tears of joy.

Podgy Blogger: Perfect! Just perfect! You can always tell the GENUINE artist. So wonderfully, wonderfully temperamental!