Keith Floyd – Death of a Legend
I feel like I am almost insulting the memory of Keith Floyd by calling him a legend. Floyd was more an anti-hero of gastronomic proportions, but yet, to those of us who have grown up with the new way he brought food into peoples lives across the world, he was and is a legend. We knew he was dying. All of us who watched the incredible documentary on Channel 4 last night, “Keith meets Keith” presented by Keith Allen, saw that one way or another, Floyd’s body had had enough and wanted to lie down and stop. But, oh, what a journey it had had.
In a strange way, television was a bit of a calling for Floyd. A great cook, the average kitchen was too small for this thoroughly egocentric man. My father would have described him as having “Bon Amie”, which however nice that may sound, can also be a subtle way of saying “dangerous.” Floyd was dangerous – he challenged all that worked with him to keep up, not just drag along behind, but almost be able to read his mind. I remember him coming into the studios once for a radio interview about one of his brilliant books. There were two microphones set up at a comfortable position so that interviewer and interviewee would be well recorded, yet have a clear view of each other. Floyd sat down at the one chair which had no mic. Well, he was the guest, so I went into the sound booth while they settled down and quietly moved the microphone. As I went back into the control room, Floyd leaned back on his chair so that he was once again miles from the mic. I went in once more and readjusted the mic. This time it was slightly in his vision – so he changed chairs. “You’re not very good at this, are you?” He said, looking me straight in the eyes. Well, he didn’t actually end up wearing the mic through his skull, but even he noted that it was a close shave.
But this cantankerous temperament of his, this mixture of professionalism, idealism and impatience, produced a kind of genius that is hard to match.
Food to Keith Floyd was treasure. It was the gold that could inflame a conversation, create a meeting, bring people to a single place. In the interview with Keith Allen he made the point that food, good food, created a commonality between even strangers – it is a form of communication. In the early days of TV cooking, Fanny Craddock was queen. With her anglicised versions of classic dishes, and far too many pineapple and cheese canapes, she dressed our homes with the idea of “anyone could do this.” But there were two problems – she was speaking down to people, she treated them as fools, and her cooking was safe and boring.
Floyd changed it all. From the first time he appeared on television, he was telling the cameraman that it was the food that was important. He would order them to point the camera at what he was doing, not at his face. Forget the chinse, throw away the net curtains, the nice paper serviettes and the cocktail sticks – embrace the idea of the food as one lovable feast. “My Little Gastronomes” he called us, his friends on the other side of the TV screen. We were an exclusive club of anyone who cared to watch and Floyd was our Guru. But, this was preaching to the converted. I don’t think Floyd believed he was causing a culinary revolution – this was pure titillation. He assumed that by the very fact you were watching his series or reading his books you were already into such heady drugs, so he served up the strongest concoctions he could muster and left us high as kites, greedily devouring the result.
When it worked, that is. Floyd was a very good cook, but he was not so vane that he would not own up to burning the cakes occasionally – or even quite a lot. His has to be the first series on television that featured a cook completely screwing it up. But even there he turned it into an occasion, a moment to remember. Floyd hated producers and directors; he inevitably took over the direction of the programme as soon as the camera rolled as he felt that these professionals did not have a clue as to what was being demanded not by the cook, but by the food on the plate or in the pan.
Last night, on the Keith Allen programme, he cursed the modern TV Chefs – not for who they are (he was very complimentary about their skills) but for who they had become. He accused them of being seduced by television, by the producers who did not care a damn about the food but wanted a “TV Moment.”
Strangely, Floyd was himself partly responsible for this. Every programme he made was an event of some kind. Sometimes hysterical, sometimes cringe-making, sometimes just tasteless, but always exceptional. But, he was like that because as soon as you turned the camera on he went into Floyd Performance Mode, at least he thought he did. In reallity he just remained himself – loud, gregarious, obstreperous and challenging. And then he added ten percent to it all. Keith Allen described him as “Honest.” And that really is very accurate. With modern TV Chefs you get a creation based on a person, but then honed and moulded by the producer (with the possible exception of Rick Stein who is as stubborn as a donkey).
You see, Floyd started all this. He came up with the format. It is Floyd that, in different ways, the producers are trying to emulate by working with and on Jamie and Gordon and Ainsley. But they miss the point, as usual. They are pointing the camera at the wrong thing again. Floyd was who he was not because a producer made him so, but because that is who he was in the first place.
Floyd was a one-off. He was unique and should remain so. There is no doubt that he was an impossible man and the various elements of his family must be going through a terrible time at the moment. But he was also a genius, and as much as the producers may have hated him from time to time, his “Little Gastronomes” loved him to bits and would follow him into any kitchen at any time and watch him burn a thousand cakes, and would love every minute of it!
I am reminded of a by Edna St. Vincent Millay:
“My candle burns at both ends It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends – It gives a lovely light.”
Bottoms Up, Keith! Wherever you are.
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