It was 4.30 on a cold and wet morning and I was choking on the stench of thick layers of years old grease behind the deep fat fryer and I was ecstatically happy as I scrubbed and cleaned the once white tiles back to their original gleaming brightness.

It was my first day on my first proper job and I would soon be delegating this filthy work to some other poor sap who similarly wanted to become a chef de cuisine. In the meantime, my job was to scrub, peel, haul, carry, chop, clear and clean it all up again.

The head cook (for in the mid 1970’s we had few “Chef’s” as that was far too French and suggestive of “haute cuisine”) had agreed to take me under her wing and teach me how to prepare the only famous dish to come from England and clogged the arteries of its working classes: The Great British Breakfast.

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