[Pierre Gagnaire: the good and the bad]

Ladies and gentlemen, my son (commis in a 2 star Mich in UK) and I ate at PG last summer from the carte and suffice it to say that we were so seduced by the food, even after 2 weeks of (superb) Michelin trawling through Spain, that when chef appeared at our table in fresh whites, his head magically backlit by the dining room lighting, his hair gleaming like a halo, the vision was so surreal that we sat like morons with mouths slightly open at this angelic apparition, whereupon PG smiled and decamped to the kitchen where he probably had a good laugh at our expense. Tourists. But OMIGOD the food.

Not a very helpful post but that was the best meal we have ever eaten and we still laugh at our mutual reaction.

[Things I love that other people don't get]

Husb. leaves the house to go away working for 10 days......tuyu magically jumps out of the airtight tin and into the frying pan. Need at least 8 days for the smell to vanish as he has the nose of a foxhound.

Kids used to love eating those packs of dried Squiddy in Thailand....ditto

[How we ate growing up]

As a reformed lurker I have had the genius idea of using this wonderful thread to introduce myself to you all (gulp, a bit more intimidating than I had imagined)...so, here goes. Be gentle with me.

1. What was your food culture growing up?

Grew up in Sydney, Oz, one of 4 kids, with a mother who's forebears were almost convicts and a dad who was the firstborn of Russian Jewish immigrants. An unusual marriage at that time. The expression 'Australian food culture' in the late fifties was a contradiction in terms to put it mildly.My dad's mum lived with us and my earliest memories are of helping her in the kitchen as she chopped and cooked and turned out stunning food that was totally different from the stuff I was eating at my friend's places (thank god). And her baking was sublime. My mum's parents had owned butcher shops so we also ate things we thought we normal, that grossed out my friends. Oh, how I laughed after swapping my crumbed brain sandwich at school which was thoroughly enjoyed until I spilled the beans about the contents.

2. Was meal time important?

Pretty well. And we all had our set places around a large table in the kitchen my dad had built especially to fit us all. Breakfast was wonderful. Our parents loved the water, so every morning, except for the colder winter months we would get up early and go to a nearby beach to swim for a hour, just at that time when you can feel the promise of the heat of the day to come, and the cicadas are already singing their song. Back ravenous and our bodies sticky with dried salt, and mum would cook us stacks of pancakes and scrambled eggs and sausages.

3. Was cooking important?

Supremely. I didn't quite realise how well we were eating at the time but I was drawn like a magnet to the stove, and picked up prep and cooking skills quite young, but also didn't realise it. I just remember that I loved the rhythm and routine of creating a meal with the adults.

4. What were the penalties for putting elbows on the table?

Nothing said specifically. Us kids were just expected to sit up, use our implements properly and never talk with food in our mouths. However mealtimes were fraught with danger in our house. Dad was a practical joker. You ate your cereal with care in case you bit down on a small plastic diver swimming submerged in the milk, freshly baked cakes had mysterious animal footprints across the icing, and on one memorable occasion dad hid a small firework we called a tom thumb in mum's mashed potato and lit it when she had her back turned. Years later there are still stains on the ceiling and I still have the image burned in my mind of mum's eyebrows looking like twin snowdrifts. But I was horrified to hear my best friend's mother burp loudly one mealtime at their place and I am afraid I rather disgraced myself by bursting into hysterical laughter.

5. Who cooked in the family?

Mum and Nana and me regularly, dad when he was in a creative mood. A bonus was being entertained by nana's stories of her life in Russia, and then England and the States while we worked in the kitchen. Probably why I left Oz when I was 19 and have had wanderlust ever since.

6. Were restaurant meals common or for special events?

We NEVER ate out. Was uncommon then and, unlike now, no local restaurants, especially ethnic ones. Was only much later when a Vietnamese family moved in next door when I was about 13 and passed us titbits over the fence that I had eaten Asian food. Amazing, in retrospect. We have lived as adults for many years in Hong Kong and Thailand and before that in New Guinea, Fiji, Nigeria, Bahrain and I couldn't imagine not eating out.

7. Did the children have a kiddy table when guests were over?

We would normally eat first, although I do seem to have a sort of memory of a wobbly card table at some stage. Probably when we had nana's brothers and sisters and families visiting from the States.

8. When did you get that first sip of wine?

Beer, actually, now that's a surprise; I must have been quite young, it was another very hot, blue day and dad gave me a sip of what he was drinking when we were having a BBQ. Blech. Wine, I was 15 and got supremely drunk on crappy liebfraumilch on a double date, whereupon the poor bloke I was with propped me at my front door, rang the bell and ran. Dad held my head while I was sick most of the night and never said a word. Never again. (sort of)

9. Was there a pre-meal prayer?

Surprisingly, given our mix of religion we did say simple grace when we were very young but it petered out. I know mum and dad only sent us to Sunday School so they had a bit of peace.

10. Was there a rotating menu?

Sunday roast lunch, with chopped herring or chopped liver to start. Soup and sandwiches Sunday night.

11. How much of your family's culture is being replicated in your present day family life?

The children are away (uni and work) now but we always sit at the table and we always eat pretty damn well. Kids have inherited a love of food and respect for ingredients. We eat a huge range of cuisines. I do 90 percent of the cooking. Husb. just uses the excuse that I do it so well. Son sometimes cooks (just turned 18, left school at 16 to follow his dream to be a chef, now commis at 2 michelin star, working 18 hour days with half-hour mealtime, skinny as hell, and no social life but loving it. I admire his dedication totally.

And we do occasionally still find plastic toys in our food.

Yikes, very long, promise other posts will be the soul of brevity.