A bulb named Marco
What kind of plant would you name after Marco Pierre White?
The reason I raise the subject is that when we moved house in September, we inherited a vast vegetable patch. We view this veg patch – and the accompanying greenhouse - with a mixture of joy and trepidation. Joy, because it means that we can finally grow our own produce and trepidation, because we havn’t the faintest clue how to go about it.
Sadly, because we had been trying to move to this house since about February, the preceding owners had not bothered to plant anything in it this year, so instead of inheriting the fruit and veg of their hard labour, we got a lot of dandelions and chickweed instead.
Having looked nervously at it for a few weeks; and having failed to locate the gardening books in all the cardboard boxes that remain unpacked, we finally plucked up the courage to go and seek some counselling. At the local gardening centre, I walked timidly up to an understanding looking soul and blurted out: “We need help! We’ve inherited a massive vegetable patch – what can we plant in it?”
It turns out that there isn’t much beyond onions and garlic that you can put in at this time of year – hence my renewed acquaintance with Mr White. Taylors Bulbs, of Holbeach, Lincs, do a fine looking bulb of garlic called Marco. As last weekend was a fine and pleasant one, I decided to get my Marcos out of their bag and into the ground. Armed with bamboo canes to make the straight lines (I do recall that vegetables need to be planted in straight lines) and with technical assistance from Youngest Son, we planted some 50 cloves. I dug the holes, he planted the Marcos: and now we wait . . . .
Meanwhile I speculate on the decision behind the choice of name and what it may imply for the eventual produce.
Having met Marco Pierre White, I have to admit to the same mixture of feelings about the garlic that I have about our vegetable patch in general . . .
My Marco Pierre White experience happened quite by chance back in April when we received a call one Tuesday night from a neighbour.
“Marco Pierre White has taken over The Highwayman at Exlade Street,” he said. “He’s looking for people to test out the restaurant and put the staff through their paces. Would you like to go?” Well, what would you have done?
I think we now hold the world record for finding a babysitter from scratch. We made it from receipt of invitation to restaurant table in an hour and a half. When you consider that this included getting two children fed, into bed and making ourselves look reasonably presentable, I think it will take some beating.
“It’s not the sort of thing that comes up very often,” I explained to the Chair of Governors of Eldest Son’s school (none of the usual suspects we use for babysitting were answering the phone and she does live pretty close by . . .). Bless her, she agreed with me, and even got a neighbour to sit for her children until Mr Chair got home.
It was a fantastic evening: champagne, foie gras parfait, Dover sole, an enormous crème brulee, and we met the man himself. He looked a bit dishevelled but was perfectly pleasant. So pleasant in fact, that I cheekily asked if I could interview him.
“Of course,” he said. “I will not talk to any of the local papers. You can have an exclusive.”
Two nights later, I was due to go out for a meal with some female friends. As I was getting the children ready for bed, I got a call from the neighbour. “Marco’s down at The Highwayman,” he said. “He’s asking when you want to interview him. I think you should get down there now.”
“I can’t!” I squeaked. “I havn’t done any background research and I’m going out with friends tonight.”
“You’d better go,” said Mr Darnbrough. It won’t take more than an hour. You can meet up with the others later.”
At about 7 o’clock, I walked into The Highwayman, clutching my notebook and trying not to look nervous. Taking a large gulp of the glass of wine that was offered to me, the interview began.
Nearly two glasses of wine and a lot of scribbling later, I announced to Marco that I had a dinner engagement and really had to leave.
“Where are you going?” he asked. And that is where the fun really began.
“You’re not going to eat there!” He expostulated (insert appropriate expletives). “Ring them up and tell them to come here!”
I obediently began scrabbling through my bag looking for telephone numbers while explaining that there was no signal for my mobile round here. He looked exasperated.
“Get me The Lamb’s phone number!” he exclaimed at a member of the waiting staff. “I’ll call them myself!”
And he did.
The trouble is that if you are three nice middle class ladies sitting in a restaurant waiting for their friend Susan to turn up, you don’t actually believe the person claiming to be Marco Pierre White when he says he’s got her at The Highwayman and you are to hightail it over here and have dinner at his expense: even if he is using characteristically colourful language.
Finally, he put me on the phone. “It’s not a wind-up,” I heard myself saying in a slightly higher voice than usual. “Please come!”
So there we were. Marco, four women of a certain age and income bracket and several glasses of champagne. Over the course of the next hour or so we did politics; we did the future of the restaurant industry; we did parenthood: I did too much drinking.
In my defence, I would like to point out that it had been a fairly surreal week. Tuesday we get to meet MPW and have a lovely meal for free. We also – quite by chance - end up talking to the people at the next table and find that they will be our new next door neighbours. Wednesday we hear that the house sale has fallen through and are predictably devastated. Thursday, I find myself (completely unprepared – knowing nothing about MPW except that he is a Michelin-starred chef and very litigious when it comes to journalists) back at The Highwayman for an interview with the great man and then another free meal - to which my friends are summarily invited. I think I was finding it all a bit too much.
Some people would sip mineral water on such an occasion. Some people would think “I’ll just have a little drink to calm my nerves . . .”.
I remember sitting back at one point and looking admiringly at my friends as they took Marco on with grace and style. There was no kowtowing to a celebrity. He did say some outrageous things and he did use the f-word a lot. They dealt with him politely and with enormous good humour: they gave as good as they got. I think that they enjoyed the occasion - I hope that he did.
Marco eventually left us to have our dinner. At the end of the evening, I left my car in the car park and gratefully accepted a lift home from one of my (sober) friends.
I did email Taylors Bulbs to ask if they had named their garlic after Mr White. So far, I've not had an answer. If I don't hear from them, I'll have to wait until my Marcos are ready next summer. I expect the proof will be in the eating. . . .
Part of this article appeared in Round & About in May 2006 http://www.roundandabout.co.uk/
www.taylors-bulbs.com
What kind of plant would you name after Marco Pierre White?
The reason I raise the subject is that when we moved house in September, we inherited a vast vegetable patch. We view this veg patch – and the accompanying greenhouse - with a mixture of joy and trepidation. Joy, because it means that we can finally grow our own produce and trepidation, because we havn’t the faintest clue how to go about it.
Sadly, because we had been trying to move to this house since about February, the preceding owners had not bothered to plant anything in it this year, so instead of inheriting the fruit and veg of their hard labour, we got a lot of dandelions and chickweed instead.
Having looked nervously at it for a few weeks; and having failed to locate the gardening books in all the cardboard boxes that remain unpacked, we finally plucked up the courage to go and seek some counselling. At the local gardening centre, I walked timidly up to an understanding looking soul and blurted out: “We need help! We’ve inherited a massive vegetable patch – what can we plant in it?”
It turns out that there isn’t much beyond onions and garlic that you can put in at this time of year – hence my renewed acquaintance with Mr White. Taylors Bulbs, of Holbeach, Lincs, do a fine looking bulb of garlic called Marco. As last weekend was a fine and pleasant one, I decided to get my Marcos out of their bag and into the ground. Armed with bamboo canes to make the straight lines (I do recall that vegetables need to be planted in straight lines) and with technical assistance from Youngest Son, we planted some 50 cloves. I dug the holes, he planted the Marcos: and now we wait . . . .
Meanwhile I speculate on the decision behind the choice of name and what it may imply for the eventual produce.
Having met Marco Pierre White, I have to admit to the same mixture of feelings about the garlic that I have about our vegetable patch in general . . .
My Marco Pierre White experience happened quite by chance back in April when we received a call one Tuesday night from a neighbour.
“Marco Pierre White has taken over The Highwayman at Exlade Street,” he said. “He’s looking for people to test out the restaurant and put the staff through their paces. Would you like to go?” Well, what would you have done?
I think we now hold the world record for finding a babysitter from scratch. We made it from receipt of invitation to restaurant table in an hour and a half. When you consider that this included getting two children fed, into bed and making ourselves look reasonably presentable, I think it will take some beating.
“It’s not the sort of thing that comes up very often,” I explained to the Chair of Governors of Eldest Son’s school (none of the usual suspects we use for babysitting were answering the phone and she does live pretty close by . . .). Bless her, she agreed with me, and even got a neighbour to sit for her children until Mr Chair got home.
It was a fantastic evening: champagne, foie gras parfait, Dover sole, an enormous crème brulee, and we met the man himself. He looked a bit dishevelled but was perfectly pleasant. So pleasant in fact, that I cheekily asked if I could interview him.
“Of course,” he said. “I will not talk to any of the local papers. You can have an exclusive.”
Two nights later, I was due to go out for a meal with some female friends. As I was getting the children ready for bed, I got a call from the neighbour. “Marco’s down at The Highwayman,” he said. “He’s asking when you want to interview him. I think you should get down there now.”
“I can’t!” I squeaked. “I havn’t done any background research and I’m going out with friends tonight.”
“You’d better go,” said Mr Darnbrough. It won’t take more than an hour. You can meet up with the others later.”
At about 7 o’clock, I walked into The Highwayman, clutching my notebook and trying not to look nervous. Taking a large gulp of the glass of wine that was offered to me, the interview began.
Nearly two glasses of wine and a lot of scribbling later, I announced to Marco that I had a dinner engagement and really had to leave.
“Where are you going?” he asked. And that is where the fun really began.
“You’re not going to eat there!” He expostulated (insert appropriate expletives). “Ring them up and tell them to come here!”
I obediently began scrabbling through my bag looking for telephone numbers while explaining that there was no signal for my mobile round here. He looked exasperated.
“Get me The Lamb’s phone number!” he exclaimed at a member of the waiting staff. “I’ll call them myself!”
And he did.
The trouble is that if you are three nice middle class ladies sitting in a restaurant waiting for their friend Susan to turn up, you don’t actually believe the person claiming to be Marco Pierre White when he says he’s got her at The Highwayman and you are to hightail it over here and have dinner at his expense: even if he is using characteristically colourful language.
Finally, he put me on the phone. “It’s not a wind-up,” I heard myself saying in a slightly higher voice than usual. “Please come!”
So there we were. Marco, four women of a certain age and income bracket and several glasses of champagne. Over the course of the next hour or so we did politics; we did the future of the restaurant industry; we did parenthood: I did too much drinking.
In my defence, I would like to point out that it had been a fairly surreal week. Tuesday we get to meet MPW and have a lovely meal for free. We also – quite by chance - end up talking to the people at the next table and find that they will be our new next door neighbours. Wednesday we hear that the house sale has fallen through and are predictably devastated. Thursday, I find myself (completely unprepared – knowing nothing about MPW except that he is a Michelin-starred chef and very litigious when it comes to journalists) back at The Highwayman for an interview with the great man and then another free meal - to which my friends are summarily invited. I think I was finding it all a bit too much.
Some people would sip mineral water on such an occasion. Some people would think “I’ll just have a little drink to calm my nerves . . .”.
I remember sitting back at one point and looking admiringly at my friends as they took Marco on with grace and style. There was no kowtowing to a celebrity. He did say some outrageous things and he did use the f-word a lot. They dealt with him politely and with enormous good humour: they gave as good as they got. I think that they enjoyed the occasion - I hope that he did.
Marco eventually left us to have our dinner. At the end of the evening, I left my car in the car park and gratefully accepted a lift home from one of my (sober) friends.
I did email Taylors Bulbs to ask if they had named their garlic after Mr White. So far, I've not had an answer. If I don't hear from them, I'll have to wait until my Marcos are ready next summer. I expect the proof will be in the eating. . . .
Part of this article appeared in Round & About in May 2006 http://www.roundandabout.co.uk/
www.taylors-bulbs.com
posted by Susan Darnbrough at
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