A Dog's Life(3)

It was in a restaurant in a small town in Wiltshire that Jane Grigson introduced me to Jeremy Round, the first food writer and restaurant critic for the then fledgling newspaper, the Independent. I liked him instantly, because he talked as he wrote – with wit and verve and a sense of mischief. I was amused, as were many others, by the aptness of his name. His girth was Falstaffian, and became even more so during our sadly brief friendship. He addressed me as ‘Doll’ on that first encounter, and ‘Doll’ I remained.

He came to my flat with his partner – another Jeremy, whom he had met when they were students at Hull University. The two Jeremys were disconcerted to find out on arrival that I shared my life with an energetic dog. She welcomed them with a frenzy of barking. I had to assure them that the deafening racket was her way of demonstrating that they were acceptable to her – as, indeed, was true. Jeremy Trevathan was happier to be a sock-thrower than was Jeremy Round, who quickly tired of the game.

At the time, I was writing a monthly restaurant column for the Daily Telegraph, and the three of us often ate at the same places. I recall a Sunday spent in Worcester, where we dined in a newly opened bistro, staffed by enthusiastic teenagers. The boy who waited on us was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked. Halfway through the meal, Jeremy Round signalled him over to the table. ‘Could we have another bottle of water, darling?’ he asked, whereupon the pink cheeks reddened. The boy ran down the stairs to the bar. We heard sniggers from below. He was standing in the middle of a group of boys and girls pointing up at Jeremy and exclaiming, ‘That man called me “darling”. That man called me “darling”.’ Jeremy beamed.

At the end of dinner, Jeremy insisted on paying the bill. He handed the waiter a credit card, and when the youth returned with the chit, Jeremy put a couple of ten-pound notes on the plate with the words ‘That’s for you, darling.’ ‘Thank you, sir,’ Darling spluttered. A phalanx of grinning waiters and waitresses watched as we left the premises.

On a hot summer morning, Jeremy and I drove to a town in Sussex to investigate a new restaurant. The car’s roof was down, and we were enjoying the sunshine. There were roadworks in progress along several stretches of the route. Many of the labourers were stripped to the waist, and we eyed them appreciatively. Whenever the lights turned green Jeremy waved to the men, calling out, ‘Goodbye, boys’. Some waved back, and one shouted ‘Saucy’ after us.

There were no leftovers when Jeremy came to dinner. It was an honour and pleasure to cook for him. I don’t think I have ever met anyone with an appetite to match his. He wasn’t a glutton, for his was a discerning palate. He knew exactly what he was eating, down to the minutest ingredient.

He exuded optimism, a sense that life was a series of exciting surprises, each one to be savoured to the full. He was restless when I knew him, anxious to be on the move. He often talked of the years he had spent in Turkey. He had learnt Turkish and mastered the cuisine. Now, in 1989, he was tired of England and bored at the prospect of being condemned to write solely about food. It was his intention to move to America, to drive across the entire continent, to make his name there. He had ambitions to be a poet and, perhaps, a novelist. He made this announcement for the future early in the year. Jeremy Trevathan would accompany him, share the adventure. I was saddened at the thought of losing such lively, entertaining company.

Along with a hundred others, I was to be saddened more seriously in August. I had been invited to attend a congress for food writers in Hong Kong, but declined for reasons of work. Jeremy went, and then travelled on to Macao. It was there that he died, in a hotel bathroom, of a brain haemorrhage. He had enjoyed his meal that evening. His last known words were: ‘What time’s breakfast?’ His body was found in the morning, and the news relayed to his editor at the Independent in London. His parents, on a caravan holiday in France, were difficult to contact, and it was some days before they heard of their terrible loss. Jeremy was thirty-two.

Jeremy Trevathan flew to Macao to identify his friend, and to bring him back to England.

Jane Grigson and Elizabeth David were among the admirers who paid generous and heartfelt tributes to him. Elizabeth, with whom I was now friends, was especially devastated. She had always fought against the idea of having a biography written about her, but she changed her mind after reading, and subsequently meeting, Jeremy. Over lunch one day, she more or less appointed him her official biographer, taking pains to stress the reservations she had on the subject of biographical writing. That book would have been the greatest challenge yet for the young Jeremy, who was prepared to meet it. The cantankerous Elizabeth died in 1992, and two biographies – the first lively, but fanciful and inaccurate; the second worthily accurate but dull – have been published already. I can record with confidence that she would have loathed them.