Gordon Ramsay at David Jones Food Hall

Gordon Ramsay

So Gordon Ramsay is in town, and he's leaving a trail of giggling lovesick women in his wake. I'm calling it the Mr Darcy effect: he's brusque but honest, stubborn but honourable, and women are convinced that they alone hold the flame that will magically melt that tough exterior.

It helps too that he's rough and blokey, an ex-professional footballer whose reputation for flying off the handle and hurling non-stop expletives only lends weight to his bad boy irresistibility.



And at lunchtime today (in probably the smallest most traffic-congested space you could find in the David Jones Food Hall), Gordon managed to simultaneously flirt with, insult and charm a crowd that was primarily made up of women (of course).


Trudi Jenkins, editor of Delicious Magazine
with Gordon Ramsay

It was his mission to get women back into the kitchen, he said. His next step would be to get them off the road, or failing that, get them into the bus lane at least. And all the women tittered affectionately.

The power of boyish charm.




Mise en place

The promised cooking demonstration was a three-minute tart assembly: a pastry disc spread with a white onion, butter and cream puree and then scattered with artichokes, asparagus, cherry tomatoes and parsley.

"Is there an oven here?" he asked, looking around at the suited staff.

"Um, no. There's one in the basement...?"

Mild chastising ensued and whilst Gordon pretended to put the tart in a oven, he quietly asked a staff member for another latte. "In a cup," he said with insistence, "and can you find out for me who had the idea of using a glass to store hot liquids?" he joked, as he waved at the squat latte glass. "I need a cup. With a handle," came the clarification.



The tart was then plated and dressed with a handful of rocket salad. One lucky gent received the sole sample and then Gordon was off to the side to sign copies of Sunday Lunch for the 100-person snaking queue.



Even watching Gordon sign autographs was compelling. Each person was addressed by name, hand shaken, looked at straight in the eye, a quick question about their occupation, a scrawled message in big looping script and then security ushered them along in the space of about twenty seconds.



Mrs Bennet couldn't have asked for more.