Today in The Guardian I came face to face with a new term created for men who know their bouillon from their brisket: the gastrosexual. It’s a term with the potential to the turn the stomachs (mind the pun) of loutish male chauvinists and feminists alike. Like the metrosexual, gastrosexuals are men who are, I bite my tongue as I say this, in touch with their feminine side. Oh, did I say that like metrosexuals, gastrosexuals can only be men?
His aphorisms, which he delivers with the same slow deliberation you imagine him applying to his signature "truffled parsley soup with poached eggs", range from the profound ("To reach great heights, you have to find great depths within yourself") to the baffling ("A tree without roots is a piece of wood. A cricket bat with roots is only a tree.") and the deranged ("I need my toast, I need my toast, I need my toast. Toast, toast, toast, toast.")
The former Dynasty star received just 16 days' training from chef Marco Pierre White before going on to win the competition.
Footage Courtesy of ITV1