According to Marc (‘Doc’) Crewe, my favourite chefs were tossers and the restaurants I loved were poncy. I’m obsessed by MasterChef; Doc’s favourite food-related documentary was ‘Half Ton Mum’. When I was cosying up with Nigel Slater’s gently kitsch autobiography ’Toast’, Doc would email me extracts from the original rock’n’roll chef Anthony Bourdain’s graphic memoir ‘Kitchen Confidential’ ...“for perspective”. By rights, Doc and I should never have appeared on the same menu together. And yet, it was he inspired me, week after week, to keep on writing about a subject that we both loved.
Doc was, in many ways, Venue’s own Michael Winner: a sardonic, graceless and often wilfully obnoxious man, but informative and erudite, both on and off the page. And he really, really knew his stuff when it came to food. When he called Jean Christophe Novelli a wanker, his judgement was based as much on a lack of technical ability than the fact he envied ‘the big ponce’ his fanbase of swooning females. When he accused me of allowing pomp and ceremony to skew my verdict on one of Bath’s Michelin-starred restaurants, he had a valid point. And yes, ‘Half Ton Mum’ said more about the western world’s attitude to food than Slater’s Alan Bennett-style musings. But I’m not conceding to these conclusions from under a jus of sentimental hindsight. Such topics were typical of the lengthy ruminations Doc and I would indulge ourselves, often while we got inelegantly wasted; in the company of a fellow foodie, he was as keen to discuss the variables of slow-roasted belly pork and the latest ego-fuelled ‘sleb chef tantrum as he was quick to encourage the exchange of vile revelations from the sleazy depths of our imaginations. Doc may have had his totally tasteless moments, but he never failed to bring flavour and bite to Venue's pages - or my life.
As recent tributes have attested, Doc was a truly original character. But a rare sensitivity lay not too far beneath that superficially cynical exterior. Doc talked me through many romantic dramas, bringing clarity to what were, with hindsight, utterly ridiculous situations. It was Doc I’d turn to in times of domestic crisis, because I never failed to be impressed by how he dealt with those of his own.
Last time I saw Doc, I was moved by full-on festive spirit and buoyed up by too much wine. So I decided to tell him how much I loved him. It wasn’t the sort of exchange Doc and I normally enjoyed, but now I’m grateful for my own sentimental ridiculousness because – and most definitely not in spite of - his response. “Why d’you have to go all X-Factor on me?”, he grumbled disdainfully; “just fuck off and have a good Christmas”. Despite losing one of my best friends three days later, I duly adhered to Doc’s final commission to me. And as far as I’m concerned, Doc genuinely did have the X-Factor. I’m so sorry he fucked off early.
Footnote: the typeface has gone all weird and my computer won't let me upload a picture of Doc to accompany this piece. I can hear him now, chuckling over my shoulder. Well sod you, Doc; I'm going to publish and be damned.
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