“Bill Granger is moving to London. Will you take him under your wing?” a mutual friend asked, way back in 2009.
“Of course,” I replied, feeling all big-sisterly and worldly-wise.
Shortly afterwards, Bill and his wife, Natalie Elliot, came for lunch – bringing a plate of food, in true Aussie style. I’d been dining in Bill’s airy, communal-table-dominated café in Darlinghurst, Sydney, since the early 90s, so it was a joy to finally meet the Gastronomic Love God.
Bill Granger’s TV shows included Bill’s Kitchen: Notting Hill.
And he could not have been more charming. When he strolled into my kitchen, in a fresh white T-shirt, all tousled blonde hair, cackling like a kookaburra, well, it felt as though a Bondi Beach sunbeam had just lit up the room.
But as for me taking Bill under my wing? Ha! Bill simply took flight. London society was instantly beguiled by his deliciously self-deprecating wit, laid-back attitude and magical way with an egg whisk. (As long ago as 2002, The New York Times anointed him “The Scrambled Egg Master of Sydney”.)
The son of a butcher, Bill was an autodidact – a word he clearly taught himself. With no formal training, he went on to create a culinary empire. With help from Nat, his business-savvy wife, they now own 19 restaurants from Australia to London, Korea and Japan. Bill has also made five cookery series, viewed in more than 30 countries, and his 14 cookbooks have racked up more than a million sales worldwide.
A terrible cook (I use my smoke alarm as a timer), I was worried Bill would not want me on his human menu. But when I confessed that the last time I’d baked was when I fell asleep on the beach, that I thought “aspic” was some posh ski resort in the Colorado mountains and “blancmange” the highest point in the Swiss alps, he gave that lovely coruscating laugh of his then gently pressed his cook books into my hands. “Give it a whirl, Kath.”
And Bill’s approach to cooking proved so welcoming and inclusive that those precious copies are now food-splattered and butter-stained, being so well thumbed in my kitchen.
Friends have been getting in touch to share their grief following the news of Bill’s death at 54.
“This is heartbreaking,” Nigella Lawson texted. “He was a wonderful man, who made life wonderful for others, too. It seems inexcusable that such a life force has been extinguished.”
“Bill meant a lot to me and the world of restaurants,” Ruthie Rogers rang to say. “He brought kindness and funniness and taught us to eat in a relaxed way. He brought Australia to London and made it a better city and a better place.”
“Gutted!” emailed Jason Donovan, who was often mistaken for Bill and thanked for his lamb shanks. “So sad … and that he died on Christmas Day when food is the centre of our lives. An Aussie legend … no bullshit and just a great guy. Wonderful father and husband. A ray of sunshine.“
When Natalie broke the terrible news of Bill’s illness a few months ago, Jason and I cycled down to the hospital together to leave gifts, Jason’s magnificent bouquet of native Aussie flowers totally eclipsing my comedy koala socks.
But Bill did love a laugh. It was one of his many endearing qualities. Chefs may be in the hospitality industry but the one thing they never seem to entertain is a doubt. Most appear to be puffed up, pretentious tantrum-throwers with a tendency to whip themselves up into a soufflé of self-regard. Well, Bill was their antithesis. His recipe for success? Home-cooked food in a restaurant environment.
Bill also knew that what comes out of a person’s mouth is just as important as what goes into it. I once rang him in a fluster, perplexed by a recipe. “What the hell is a braise? … ‘Brasie yourself, darling’ sounds like Australian foreplay.”
Although frantically busy in his own kitchen, the ever-gracious Bill took the time to explain with gentle encouragement and great enthusiasm. He made cooking accessible, celebratory and, above all, fun. His whole approach was quintessentially Australian.
In fact, when “Bill’s” opened in Notting Hill Gate, it became the unofficial Aussie embassy and headquarters of The Gum Leaf Mafia. Expats gathered here to share a giggle at the charming idiosyncrasies of the Poms, especially the dining habits of the upper class. (Bill felt sure you should never allow the dog to eat at the table, no matter how good his manners.)
How I’m going to miss him greeting us with that warm, cheeky smile. Even when queues snaked around the block, Bill always made room for his compatriots.
Deborah Frances White, of The Guilty Feminist fame, is also in mourning. “Bill was an Australian icon – a high bar to clear. A great loss to true hospitality. Brunch will never be the same without him.”
Bill was awarded a Medal of the Order of Australia in January this year in recognition of his contribution to tourism and hospitality. But he could have won it solely for his re-invention of brunch.
As I type this, I’m eating a commemorative slice of avo on sourdough with Bill’s trademark lime juice, olive oil, coriander, drizzle of dressing, hint of chilli, twist of ground pepper and, at the risk of sounding as corny as one of his delicious corn fritters, salted in tears.
Kathy Lette’s latest novel is Till Death – or a Little Light Maiming – Do Us Part.
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