Pleased to meat you... pigging out with Fergus Henderson and April Bloomfield

Fergus Henderson is London’s king carnivore. His friend April Bloomfield is queen of the Big Apple’s offal scene. They talk to Lucy Hunter Johnston about snout-to-tail eating and all-night boozing on both sides of the pond
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Lucy Hunter Johnston16 November 2012

If you want to avoid being scowled at by a pair of chefs who between them have four Michelin stars — and believe me, you do — then don’t call their cooking ‘trendy’.

True, Fergus Henderson’s meat-heavy menus at his St John restaurants have inspired a glut of pretenders (think recent openings such as Beard to Tail, Pitt Cue Co and Meat Liquor), and fellow British meat fanatic April Bloomfield counts Beyoncé and Sarah Jessica Parker as regular customers at her three New York restaurants, but trendsetters they are resolutely not.

‘Cooking like this is not a concept, it’s a way of life,’ Fergus, 49, scolds, after a generous slug of Merlot. ‘Once you’ve knocked the beast over the head it’s only polite and common sense to eat it all.’ ‘Chefs need to be cost-effective as well as respectful to the animal,’ adds 38-year-old April. ‘Why would you ever want to throw something away? Even when you have a turnip you use every part, not just the lovely rooty bit. It shows your respect and love for food.’ Current trends (or lack thereof) aside, even though he finds the idea ‘rather rum’, and she blushes at its mere mention, it’s hard to dispute that this mismatched pair are king and queen of the carnivores, with kingdoms that span the Atlantic.

It’s lucky for the meat eaters of New York that the British postal service can be unreliable: April had her heart set on a career as a police officer: ‘I wanted to walk the beat and chase criminals like Cagney and Lacey.’ But when her application for the force arrived too late, she joined her older sisters at the Birmingham College of Food. After two years of training, at 18 she moved to London where she worked first for Rowley Leigh at Kensington Place, then with Adam Robinson at The Brackenbury in Hammersmith and finally for Rose Gray and Ruth Rogers at The River Café. It was in the W6 riverside kitchen in 1999 that she met Jamie Oliver, who in 2003 recommended her to New York chef-to-the-stars Mario Batali and his business partner Ken Friedman, when they were looking for someone to open a new venture with them in Greenwich Village. ‘I’d never even been to New York before, but they flew me over for a whirlwind weekend and I felt completely ready to move. I’d gone as far as I could at The River Café, and at 29 I was too naïve even to be terrified.’

Within days of The Spotted Pig opening in February the following year, news about the English girl with the balls to serve meaty gastropub fare to picky New Yorkers spread, and the nightly queue quickly began snaking through the West Village. It has scarcely diminished since, no doubt helped by the Michelin star it has held on to since 2005.

April lives alone in an East Side apartment and when she isn’t in her chef whites, she relaxes by going fishing in Connecticut, or eating at nearby Il Mulino. But she doesn’t have much downtime.

Four years after the success of The Spotted Pig came The Breslin (and with it another Michelin star), with The John Dory, specialising in fish, opening 12 months later, both in the shabby-chic Ace Hotel in Midtown, a watering hole for Manhattan’s hipsters, where Fergus stays whenever he’s in town.

All three restaurants stayed open during Superstorm Sandy, even though The Spotted Pig had no power or water. ‘We got food sent over from the other restaurants,’ Friedman tells me from New York. ‘The Ace was like a refugee camp, all these people camping out; everyone just came together. I was incredibly proud.’

The restaurants may be heaving when April is in the kitchen (a recent New York Times review suggested that a two-hour wait for one of her chargrilled burgers with blue cheese is ‘acceptable’), but things get even more manic when Fergus makes his annual pilgrimage to New York for a three-day cameo rotation at the restaurants, aptly named FergusStock.

The pair met through the late Rose Gray in 1999, and FergusStock started 11 years later, when April invited her friend to The Spotted Pig to co-create one of his notorious ‘nose-to- tail’ menus, in which not a scrap of the animal goes to waste (the description comes from his first book, The Whole Beast: Nose to Tail Eating, which was followed by Beyond Nose to Tail). ‘It’s a little disorientating being in someone else’s kitchen,’ he says, ‘and there’s a far higher chance of f***-up-ability, but over the years we seem to have found a routine that works.’

The evenings are booked out months in advance, mainly by admiring chefs who come to marvel at Henderson’s moreish dishes, such as pig’s ear terrine with cornichons, and roasted bone marrow with parsley, shallots and capers, a St John classic. Anthony Bourdain, the TV chef and author who is something of a legend in the world of American cooking, has said of Henderson: ‘Every time you see pork belly or kidneys on an American menu, you owe a debt of gratitude to Fergus.’

‘He is iconic in New York,’ says April. ‘It’s cultish really; people have an obsession with him.’ At this Fergus starts to splutter in protest, but April continues: ‘People are drawn to him and want to be in his presence to learn. He is teaching diners whether he knows it or not, just through his passion for the animal.’

Fergus lives in Covent Garden with his wife Margot, of Shoreditch’s Rochelle Canteen, and his three teenage children. He was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 1998, which has affected his ability to wield meat cleavers and butchers’ knives. He underwent revolutionary deep brain stimulation in 2005 (a procedure he describes as ‘a bit fruity... similar to the dentist’s chair but 100 times worse’), which has helped to control the worst of the tremors, and during the course of our lunch pops a number of lurid-coloured pills. His role in the St John kitchens is now more about overseeing and teaching than hands-on slicing and severing, but nothing has dented his ability to party.

Fergus’s sojourns to New York invariably end up in a booze-fuelled feast. One notable night at this year’s FergusStock started with drinks at the Cipriani, and ended with April cooking fried eggs with a shaved white truffle Mario Batali had in his bag (as you do) at a lock-in at The Spotted Pig. ‘It all got very jolly,’ she says. ‘I had to sneak off home and leave them to it.’ Fergus just beams; one of his books has a recipe for a hangover cure that includes Fernet Branca and Crème de Menthe, which you get the impression he has often found use for.

Last month, for the first time, April returned the favour. She took over Fergus’s kitchen at St John in Chinatown as part of a two-day residency this side of the Atlantic and dodged the mayhem brought about by Superstorm Sandy completely. It is keenly hoped that this visit might signal a possible return, or at the very least a London outpost. On this she is cautious, but enthusiastic: ‘I’d love to come back. I miss so much of the culture in London when I’m away, especially the pubs, and Ken and I would love to open a restaurant here… but when that will be I just don’t know.’

So, is there any morsel of flesh that even these two carnivores won’t touch? ‘The penis,’ Fergus shudders. ‘I’m fine with testicles but we all have our boundaries, and mine is a pink penis.’ ‘That’s such a man thing,’ says April. ‘I’ve definitely eaten a penis or two in my time. You wimp.’ ES

A Girl and Her Pig by April Bloomfield is out now (Canongate Books, £25)

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