The Independent

February 2, 1991

Yes chef, no chef,we love you chef

Denied his dream ofMichelin promotion, Nico Ladenis, the owner of Chez Nico, has another worry -the recession. Emily Green finds him in fighting form

NASTY Nico. Ladenisthe menace. The proud Greek-blooded chef, brunt of endless taunts from thePress, at 56 can still stamp and snort: the damned French, owners of the 1991Michelin Guide to Great Britain and Ireland, last week again denied him hisdream - promotion from two to three stars.

But he has a moreurgent worry: the recession. In common with restaurants across the country,from Le Gavroche to pizza chains, business at Chez Nico is down by an averageof 20 per cent. Business lunches are down. The dollar is weak. Americans andJapanese are not flying. Nico and his brigade must keep heart, provide the bestfor less and, above all, avoid job losses in the kitchen.

For all his ferociousreputation, Nico is beneficent; feeders often are. He is also an outsider.Neither British nor French, his moon-shaped Balkan face just does not fit -particularly his mouth. Given the Roux brothers' monopoly on Britishthree-stars, another chef pining to join their exclusive ranks might have keptmum about disapproving of Albert Roux's sous-vide restaurants. Nico does notrub noses either. He is not a member of the Academie Culinaire, and he writesangry letters to critics and guide editors. People entering his restaurant halfexpect him to bite or spank them, and look faintly shocked when he greets themwarmly.

As he gets older, hefinds it all increasingly ludicrous. The man notorious for refusing to servegin and tonic, who declared the drink was emblematic of an ''attitude of mind''going with ''a prawn cocktail, a grilled Dover sole, Melba toast and BlackForest gateau'', insists he has, in fact, always served gin and tonic.

The man famous forsending a sack of salt up from the kitchen when a customer requested tablesalt, says he never did it. And the proclamation that will undoubtedly be hisepitaph - ''the customer is not always right'' - now seems mild next to theantics of the young Turk of the two-stars, Marco Pierre White.

Nico became arestaurateur in his mid-thirties, by which age Mr White is intent on havingretired a rich man. Born in Kenya, schooled in the shadow of Mt Kilimanjaro, hecame to Britain at the age of 17 and read economics at Hull University, wherehe was a contemporary of Roy Hattersley. He was head of the Conservativesociety, Hattersley of the Socialist society.

As a young man he hadany number of jobs, including analysing advertising sales for Lord Thomson'snewly launched Sunday Times Magazine, where he met his wife, the half-Romanian,half- French Dinah-Jane.

They married in 1963.We have the Shell oil company to thank for turning Nico towards the kitchen.The company gave him an aptitude test that revealed him as ''non-conformist,argumentative and unemployable''.

After saving pounds3,000 the couple spent a year in France, eating their way across Provence,guided by those potent, cryptic Michelin stars. Ever since then Nico has wantedstars. Three of them.

He taught himself tocook, starting with Masterpieces of French Cuisine, by Francois Amunategui. In1973 the Ladenises opened their first restaurant in Dulwich, south London; by1981, in a second restaurant in Battersea, they had their first Michelin star;by 1984 they had two and held on to them in a succession of immaculaterestaurants in Berkshire, Pimlico and the present Great Portland Streetpremises north-east of Oxford Circus.

He is now top-rated inThe Good Food Guide and Egon Ronay Guide. No matter to most that he only hastwo Michelin stars; to all the world he is a star. This bothers him. ''Starchefs do lots of things but few are in the kitchen,'' he says. ''They lecture,they write books, they swan around.'' He will lead you to the below-stairshatch of an immaculate stainless steel kitchen and point to the brigade.''These are the stars.''

Nico is in the kitchenevery day, but he has not cooked since he left Berkshire. He devises, hesupervises, but he is too old and too slow. This sort of cooking would exhaustGazza. The Great Portland Street kitchen brigade is headed (under Nico) by PaulFlynn, 25-year-old Irish sous-chef. He has worked for Nico for seven years,during which time Nico sent him off for a stage with Roger Verge. The thirdman, Tony Wright, had a Michelin star of his own at Mallory Court in theMidlands. He and Paul Flynn run the Meat and Sauce station.

At the Fish station,two more boys; at the Veg station, two again; at Pastry, two; Washing up, two;Larder, one. They work 12-hour days, five days a week: split shifts, 8am-3pm,5-11pm.

The day starts at 8am.By 8.30am, rolls, pastry shells, lemon and chocolate tarts are baking.Vegetables are cooking. Stocks and sauces are on the go. By 10am the supplierstroop up and down the street-front delivery hatch. At Meat, braising liquor iswaiting for the veal. Fish arrive mid-morning from Devon. Ice is decanted intoa black bin-liner. Raw, red hands produce gleaming bass, red mullet, brill.

More deliveries.French beans are rejected. The house white bread - ciabatta from La Fornaia -is late. Another day it is near raw. They already bake their own brown rolls;Nico announces that they will now bake their white.

The boys speak little.If they are not cooking, they are cleaning. Nico is ''Chef'': ''Yes, Chef.''''No, Chef.'' This is not the case upstairs, the terrain of Nico's wife anddaughters. The girls are in their mid-twenties; both are statuesque, butIsabelle is blonde, creamy and gentle, Natasha dark, witty and proud.

By 11am Jean-Luc, themaitre d', and the four waiting staff arrive. Jean-Luc is about to leave to dohis French military service. Tony, his successor, will be the first Cockneymaitre d' anyone knows of in a Michelin two-star. The Hoover drones. Chrome, granite,glass are all polished. Tables are set. When Nico is not there, the ritualswings along to Capital Radio.

The sommeliers,Jonathan and Marie-Noelle (one of the few women sommeliers in London), beginchecking stock. Lists - vintages and prices - are carefully amended.

By 12 noon, thestainless steel railing to the delivery hatch is polished and staff havechanged their clothes, waiters into white aprons, sommeliers in black. By12.15pm they are at attention throughout the restaurant, chatting. Untilservice hits full tilt, they will continue to chat. Michelin doubtless wouldnot approve, but their comfort makes the place approachable, and Nico will nothave showroom dummies.

The first guests boundexpectantly in at 12.15pm. Nico slips downstairs for ''lift off''.

No dish leaves thekitchen without Nico's inspecting it and carefully wiping the rim of the platewith a slightly damp brown cloth. First are amuse-gueules - maybe poachedquails' eggs with a duxelle of mushrooms in pastry shells covered withhollandaise. Nico squints, wipes and murmurs, ''Away.'' Off dashes the waiter.The boys have to work double fast to get food out hot. Nico is a slow wiper.

Orders pick up. Nicocalls them. ''One coquille! One guinea fowl! One brill! One pigeon!'' In aquirky vestige of ancien regime conduct, the Irish voices chorus back, ''Oui!''''Oui!'' ''Oui!''.

Depending on thetiming of the sauces, three to five pairs of hands are involved in the assemblyof each dish. Red mullet begins with the laying out of a rosette of blanchedtomato petals on a warmed plate. Boys on Fish produce the steaming mullet. Boyson Veg produce a juicy fennel topping. It is dressed with rosemary- enhancedolive oil, topped with split olives, splashed with balsamic vinegar and ready togo at perfect heat alongside four to six other plates, each bearing equallyelaborate constructions, in a matter of two to three minutes.

From clatter, motionand calling at 2pm, by 3pm the kitchen will be near-deserted and spotless. By5pm the team is back in full swing. Dinner upstairs is more of an occasion thanlunch, with more wine, more women. Most customers are rich. This does not stopthem from nicking perfume from the loos. One even snuck out an 18in tallstatuette. Strange rituals with a two-star.

Friday night, a womansends a half-eaten lamb dish back with a dismissive wave. A small hair sits onthe rim of the plate. It is coated with something very like mascara. ''Deductit,'' says Nico. The prospect of reverberating gossip is awful. ''A hair on myplate at Nico's!'' ''A hair on her plate!'' ''A pubic hair on her plate!''

Business meals are alifeline of top-flight restaurants, but it is a marriage of misunderstanding.Take the four men on Table Five Thursday night. The topic: a preferred stockprospectus. They eat well and drink even better. Aperitifs: pounds 37.50.Chateau Giscours '78: pounds 70. Chassagne Montrachet '86: pounds 52. Chateaula Lagune '78: pounds 77. Liqueurs: pounds 67.50. Weaving from the restaurant,one peers woozily at Nico's book on display at reception and enquires how muchit costs.

''It's yours!''declares his dinner partner, a man holding a Citibank Visa.

''This is how to makeyour wife feel really good - you go out to dinner and buy her the cookerybook!'' giggles the new owner of My Gastronomy. Natasha's lip curls. She is,perhaps, perilously like her father.

As the man clutchingthe book stumbles out, the man signing the bill gloats to another colleague:''We have bonded seriously.''

Another, more tenderhistory has flowered with the Ladenises. There always seems to be some oldgent, or some smiling lady they have been feeding since Dulwich. Pointing toone such customer, ''Don't give him a bill,'' says Nico to Natasha beforeleaving Friday night.

The most nerve-wrackingcustomers are the food critics. Shortly after lift-off on Thursday night,Natasha bounds downstairs. ''Jonathan Meades of The Times is in Very!''

Very Simply Nico, shemeans, a classy little bistro fashioned by the Ladenises from their old Pimlicopremises, staffed with a splinter group from Great Portland Street.

Nico: ''Send him aglass of champagne.'' (Pause.) ''No, don't. He might not want to be recognised.What's he eating? I bet it's canard.''

Natasha (upstairs onphone): ''What's he eating?'' (Rushes downstairs to Nico): ''Canard.''

Nico: ''Tell them totake special care with the chips! He loves his chips! No, never mind!'' (PhonesVery Simply Nico himself): ''Take special care with the chips! He loves hischips!''

Natasha (downstairs again,puffing): ''He's booked under his own name!''

Nico (with a wave):''Then send him a glass of champagne.''

Nico's enthusiasm,generosity and insistence that cooks and waiters have status translate intoremarkable loyalty from his employees. Their average tenure is five years,gold-watch time by catering standards. They are fed twice a day, paid well overthe industry average, and long-serving members are housed in subsidisedaccommodation.

This may have to bepared back. December takings averaged pounds 40,000 a week. They are now closerto pounds 32,000. Rates have increased from pounds 2,900 to pounds 18,500.Certain economies can and have been made. There is no dispensing with theMichelin signatures - truffles, the foie gras, the beurre echire - or trade andstatus would go with them. But veal stock has been replaced with chicken stock.Meats are roasted with nut oil instead of butter. Petits fours are served bythe tray, and replenished rather than left to be idly picked over.

All good husbandry,yet if trade does not pick up, according to Basil Tyaba, a gentle Ugandan whokeeps the restaurant's detailed accounts, staff will face salary cuts ratherthan job losses.

The week Michelin cameout, his family and staff almost wished Nico would yell; but the legendary ogrewas smiling tautly, like Steven Spielberg, the maestro so many times denied hisOscar.

Copyright 1991Newspaper Publishing PLC. All rights reserved.