No one could make an omelette soufflé Rothschild (succulent with apricots, perfumed with Cointreau, his tour de force when he was Cécile de Rothschild's chef for nearly six years), the way he could. (Albert was more of a sauce man.) They bickered all the time, doing a tv cookery show later in which they flirted with filleting each other, but they made a good team; so in 1967 they bought their 90-seater restaurant in Lower Sloane Street and shook up London together.

As the business expanded, first with the Waterside Inn, then with two smaller restaurants in London, then with more down-market eateries that plain folk could almost afford, the same philosophy was applied to all of them, and a host of eager young British chefs were trained, some with Roux Scholarships, to run them. All this made Michel enormously proud, yet it was hardly what he had expected. He had wavered about being a chef. With his looks and his deep voice—in his kitchen, he never needed a microphone—he might have made an opera singer. But love of food ran deep.

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