[ad_1]
David Moore, the restaurateur behind it, has a story. He was born at Beach Hill Clinic in Monaghan in August 1964, the same year Petrus produced one of its most exotic vintages. He drank that wine on his fiftieth birthday, a gift long held by an early backer who sensed Moore was destined for a broader stage.
When he was young, his mother ran a small hotel. Beef mattered. So did judgement. She could read a customer at a glance and decide who deserved the best cuts and who did not. In the 1970s, Monaghan hardened. At 10, Moore witnessed the bombing which tore through the town on the same day three further explosions struck Dublin, killing thirty-three people. His mother decided they would leave. When they reached Blackpool in 1977 it felt, he says, “like Vegas”, though boarding houses still carried notices warning “no blacks, no dogs, no Irish”.
Hospitality came to Moore early. “From nine I was behind the bar sorting bottles,” he says. “By 12 I wanted to be a chef.”
Pied a Terre
At 14 he washed dishes in a Blackpool hotel, pleased with his wage. Catering college led him to The Box Tree in Ilkley, where Marco Pierre White’s presence still hung in the air. A chef noticed Moore’s shiny shoes and said simply, “You will like Le Manoir.”
Moore drove to Oxfordshire in an Opel Kadett with tiger-print seat covers, booked lunch at 12.15, ate a set menu which consumed nearly a week’s wages, then asked to see the manager. He waited in a corridor alive with French until judgement arrived. He got the job, the only waiter who could not speak the language the house prized.
At Le Manoir he progressed quickly. “I never had a mentor,” he says. “It might have helped, but I had to work things out for myself.”
He lived with Bruno Loubet for a time. Six years passed, shaped by rigour which would later anchor his own dining room. He and his wife, Dr Valerie Woods, bought a flat in Abingdon just as mortgage rates hit thirteen percent. Negative equity followed.
A short spell at Le Louis XV in Monaco exposed him to Alain Ducasse’s precision and restraint. It taught him how to let flavour speak without ornament. Then, in 1991, he opened Pied à Terre with Richard Neat. The room was narrow, the ambition not. Moore lived above it, in what is now the Petite Chambre. Neat, newly returned from Joel Robuchon’s Jamin and sharpened at Harvey’s, helped secure the first star within thirteen months and the second in 1996 before leaving to build his own career abroad.
Richard Neat, left, and David Moore, circa 1993
Handout
What followed was a remarkable procession of chefs. Tom Aikens retained both stars at twenty-six, becoming the youngest British chef to do so. His kitchen ran hot and few could last. Shane Osborn restored the second star in 2003 and held it for eight years before moving to Hong Kong. Marcus Eaves rose internally, opened L’Autre Pied to a star, then returned before moving on. Andy McFadden followed, later returning to Dublin to open Glovers Alley. Asimakis Chaniotis arrived young and rose fast, becoming the youngest chef in London to win a star. He called Moore his “British dad”. Interestingly, Moore judges other dining rooms in decimals. “Chapter One in Dublin is a two star but nearer 2.7,” he says.
Today the kitchen is led by Aggelos Kassais, another Greek talent. He spent two years as sous chef at Pied, worked under Claude Bosi at Bibendum, staged widely in Athens and earned early recognition in western Greece. Chaniotis described him as someone who rose by graft rather than display, steady under pressure and generous with his team.
Pied has accrued more than stars. In 2007 it was voted Readers’ Choice in the World’s 50 Best Restaurants survey. Moore accepts such praise with reserve, aware of how easily accolades can distort focus.
After the flames, the steel
The dining room
Press handout
In late 2004 a fire nearly ended everything. A faulty part in an ice machine caused structural damage which brought down the staircase and compromised the roof. Moore kept his staff on salary, sent them out to hone their skills, and rebuilt in 10 months. The reopening did not mellow the restaurant. It clarified it.
Upstairs, an event kitchen hosts Moore’s masterclasses, including a plant-based menu which avoids tokenism. A dish of maitake over aubergine caviar with king oyster mushrooms and a vegan Vin Jaune foam has become a house signature.
The cellar is overseen by Connor Skrine, who completed WSET theory before he was old enough to sit the practical. He trained in France at 17 and joined from The Pig. The list runs to 600 bottles, with 200 more in bond. At home, Moore drinks Montlouis from Chidaine. “A classic,” he says.
Moore still arranges the flowers in the restaurant himself. He declined an outsourcing quote which amused him, then annoyed him. He believes a dining room loses something once its owner relinquishes such details. He remembers details. Moments too. He no longer eats sea bass after a bout of salmonella. He once sent a volatile chef to therapy rather than dismiss him. A guest collapsed mid-service and was treated by another diner who turned out to be a doctor. An oxidised bottle of Coche-Dury was handled without fuss. A group of chefs threatened to walk out minutes before a full Friday service and were steadied. He avoided a punch from a drunk guest who fell over instead. He prefers a Negroni to a Martini, “which needs stirring with the little finger seventy-nine times.”
There were odd episodes too. In 2014, fraudsters posing as agents for wealthy clients removed more than eleven thousand pounds’ worth of wine using forged paperwork. Two years later, a £700 Christmas tree vanished from L’Autre Pied. “My nicest ever,” Moore says.
Beyond the restaurant, Moore has backed younger operators through the London Cocktail Club and supports craftspeople via Cockpit Arts. The silver rings he wears are made there. He and Valerie retreat to Margate at the end of the week. He writes about its tensions, chain stores beside natural wine bars, and sees something familiar in the friction. There will be no Pied by the sea. “Margate is for me,” he says. “Not for work.”
Asked if he feels Irish, he answers without pause. “Totally.” He has not changed so much, you sense.
At 61, he still sleepwalks. He still thinks in lists. And if he had to share a bottle with anyone, he would choose a fine white Burgundy for Margaret Thatcher.
Pied à Terre begins its thirty-fifth year with a £35 set lunch in January.
[ad_2]
Source link