Talking to Jamie Oliver is like talking to a TV evangelist. He’s all fire and brimstone, passion and conviction wrapped up in an appealing mix of sincerity and charm. Yes, he’s talking about food, not God, but he still hopes to make miraculous conversions.
“I absolutely believe that if I can get people to cook and eat fresh food on a regular basis — get mums and dads to cook good, delicious food for their kids — then perhaps we can make a difference to their lives,” Jamie says, hand on my forearm, his blue eyes locked on mine with an intensity that might be a little scary if he wasn’t so damned charismatic.
“And if I do a good job — this might sound a bit bolshie — but if I do a good job, then we should start to see a change in Australian health statistics in the next few years. That’s my passion.”
Evangelical is the perfect description for Jamie Oliver. Food is his mantra, line, chapter and verse. And stepping into the Jamie Oliver roadshow, even for just a few hours, provides a rare glimpse behind the robes of Britain’s high priest of pukka tucker.
Being on set with Jamie, 38, immediately reveals that his world doesn’t remotely resemble the one the rest of us live in. He’s in Sydney filming a new commercial for supermarket chain Woolworths and, clearly, he needs to make every second count.
For him, it’s a constant blur of timetables, schedules, cameras and TV lights, punctuated by a revolving kaleidoscope of faces: publicists, marketing executives, cameramen, interviewers, make-up artists and extras. And there are plenty of them, like a cloud of ever-present gnats all eager for a little piece of his time and attention.
Yet that’s not to say that Jamie is aloof or unfriendly. Anything but, in fact. Everyone who drifts into his sphere is “darlin'”, “luv” or “buddy”, depending on their gender. And he’s somehow charming enough to pull it off, without condescension.
A sudden downpour drives the entourage into a small pavilion, where the celebrity chef is cheek-deep in make-up. In a room little bigger than a half tennis court, 40 people mill about as he starts filming for Woolies.
Though my interview with Jamie is not scheduled for another hour or more, a tap on the shoulder from one of the three publicists in the room means it’s show time. “You’re on,” says Peter Berry, Jamie’s long-time PR and one of a team who flew in with Jamie from London. “But remember, you’ve only got 15 minutes.”
Jamie is waiting at one end of the room, sitting on a wooden dining chair. “Blimey,” he groans, struggling to stand. “That thing’s hard. It’s breaking my back… Hi, I’m Jamie. Nice to meet you, buddy. I can’t stand up… makes me look like I’ve got a woody.”
Ah, the famous Oliver sense of humour; a little risqué, a little too close to the bone (no pun intended), but earthy and real, much like Jamie. He ushers me into a corner outside a makeshift dressing room, where we huddle for a chat.
Suddenly and quite unexpectedly, the crowd of people behind us fade away. Jamie is softly spoken, but he has that rare gift for making you feel like you’re the only person in the room — like a skilled politician, though he’d probably be offended if you said that to his face.
Jamie’s connection to Woolworths is a mult-million deal that will have him spruiking a new range of meals bearing his name, from Easter. Yet for Jamie, he says, it’s actually much more than that.
“Sure, I’m getting paid for it, but if this was just another gig to get Jamie a few more quid, then I can honestly say that I wouldn’t be here,” Jamie says. “This is an opportunity to get access to about 18 million Australians about fresh food and the benefits of cooking for themselves. And the hard reality, Australia is the fourth unhealthiest nation in the world.”
Jamie says his name-branded food is a part of that. “It’s like a box of stuff where I’ve already done the shopping,” he says. “In Australia, we have two generations who haven’t been taught to cook. In the 40’s, 12 per cent of women worked. Today, it’s 65 per cent. I want to be the bridge between those who can’t cook and those who can.”
The truth is that Jamie is much more than a celebrity chef. His unique brand of cheeky-chappie cooking has made him a hugely successful businessman with an empire estimated to be worth $270 million, while he and his wife, Jools, have been reported to have a personal stake of $136 million.
As succulent as that might be, he’s equally as famous as a food crusader, pushing his views that fresh food and home cooking sit at the heart of the answer to the Western world’s obesity epidemic.
That fervour, he says, springs from his childhood growing up in his parents’ pub in Clavering, a village in north-west Essex.
“When I was nine or 10, my parents used to shut the pub on Sundays,” says Jamie, who was diagnosed as dyslexic at school. “My mates and I would raid the kitchen and then take off for a picnic.”
“Two of my mates were gypsies and they didn’t know about food. They ate jam sandwiches for dinner. One day, I made them sandwiches with fresh salmon. The look on their faces when they tasted it was priceless. It was the first time I had an insight into the power that good food can have in people’s lives.”
That passion never left him. It drove him first into the restaurant trade as a teenager and then onto the small screen, where he became the global rock star of ragu, watched in 100 countries worldwide.
Ben O’Donoghue, who starred in the TV show, Surfing The Menu, with fellow chef Curtis Stone, worked alongside Jamie for three years at The River Café.
“I remember him coming into work all denimed up — denim jacket, denim jeans, white sneakers, a right, proper Essex boy,” says Ben. “He looked like a young Rod Stewart with his hair sticking up all over the place. He loved rude jokes — we used to moon each other in the kitchen — but he really knew his stuff.”
Back then, Jamie and Jools lived in a bed-sit in Hammersmith. Today, Jamie Oliver is the 501st richest person in Britain. He lives in a $13 million house in Primrose Hill, near Regent’s Park in London, with Jools and their four children: Poppy Honey, 12, Daisy Boo, 11, Petal Blossom, five, and Buddy Bear, three. They also have a home in Clavering.
And it’s Jools and the kids who sit at the centre of his life. He freely admits that running his empire often takes him away from home. He grinds out 18-hour days during the week, but reserves his weekends exclusively for them.
“I have three marriages, really,” he says. “Firstly, I have my marriage to Jools and my family. I have Friday and every weekend off. I have seven weeks holidays every year. That’s what Jools wanted the moment Poppy was born. That’s our system. I ain’t around for much Monday to Thursday.
“But I feel like I’m a good dad. My kids know who I am and I feel like I am contributing as much as I can. I’m proud of my marriage and what I do as a dad.”
His second “marriage” is to his 8000 staff. “That requires a lot of concentration to keep all that in the air,” he says. “And it takes a lot of love, too, because I love a lot of the people I work with.”
And then there is what Jamie describes as a “marriage” to the public. “That might sound pretentious, but that’s how I see it,” he says.
“I’m the second biggest-selling author on the planet, but I’m a special needs kid. That’s weird, but I feel a real commitment to all those people.
“One in three Aussies own one of my books. I don’t take that lightly. If they’re in bad health, then I’m listening. I give a shit.
“The truth is that all three of those marriages just want clarity, truth and love, and I don’t think I’ve put too many steps wrong in any of them.”
Of course, even evangelists have to deal with temptation, but Jamie says he’s also managed to navigate those traps — the drug scandals and affairs that have ensnared other celebrity chefs — without succumbing.
“Jools is the most amazing wife and mum you can ever imagine,” he says. “She’s an absolute ninja when it comes to looking after the kids. I have never felt anything but love and support in our relationship and that goes both ways. People might read things, but they’re mostly not true.
“In the old days, when I first came out to Australia, I used to get underwear thrown at me on stage. These days, I think everyone knows that I’m a happily married man and actually sensible, so they don’t bother.”
Australian author and chef Tobie Puttock, godfather to Jamie’s daughter Daisy, says it would be difficult to find a more committed man, either to his ideals or his family.
“He loves his family more than anything in the world,” says Tobie, who was head chef at Jamie’s Fifteen in London. “I have travelled with him in Europe and he’s on the internet every day, talking to them and showing them where he is. He’s the real deal.”
Jamie’s been busy for most of his adult life and, recently, has brought some of the clarity he mentions to bear. “It’s all about knowing what I should do, what I can do and where to use your best skills,” Jamie says.
“I look at other chefs and think, ‘You’re a better cook than me’. It’s not that I’m the dog’s bollocks because I’m not, but I’m a hippie at heart and I want to look after that matrix between people and food. I want my kids to know that their dad worked hard for a reason. It’s my life’s work and I’m really kinda cool with it.”
