Gordon Ramsay Quotes

Don't just stand there like a big fucking muffin!

Don't take it personally. Just take it seriously.

The minute you start compromising for the sake of massaging somebody's ego, that's it, game over.

Swearing is industry language. For as long as we're alive it's not going to change. You've got to be boisterous to get results. Gordon Ramsay

eh! All of you! come here!! taste it! taste it, taste it, taste it!!!

That's common sense Joe! And your tiny mind is not common!

Addicts are selfish, the most selfish people you’ll ever meet. And self-pitying. And manipulative. Always making promises they’ll never keep. They disgust me.

To walk into an office and have your ‘good morning’ returned with a grunt and no eye contact is not my idea of a happy house. There is always time to acknowledge that Someone is more important than Something, even if it takes a couple of precious minutes.

You’ve got to kiss arse to get somewhere, to learn. Clock-watchers are no good at kissing arse.

Where's the lamb sauce?!

A recipe is a guideline. Adding, subtracting, evolving it - that is part of the pleasure.

I recall when we opened in New York how the designer locks were impossible to slide shut, often leading to a difficult encounter no matter which side of the door you were on.

But I love women chefs: they are intelligent, they are fast learners, and they can be tough. As for the effect the have on the boys, its entirely positive. Put a woman in a kitchen and discipline will improve, if anything: the guys have being told off in front of the girls. It's a playground thing - they just find it embarrassing.

you need to know what you’re aiming for in order to reach it.

Put on a fireman’s uniform and walk past the fire because it’s your lunch break, and you are dead. Grab a bucket and start throwing water over the blaze and you are seen to be God’s little helper.

Loo doors without a decent, large hook are as infuriating as a lock that doesn’t offer you full protection.

He wasn’t a beta. Or a submissive of any kind, but sometimes his clan seemed to mistake his kitchen duties as a symbol of weakness. Fuck that. Hadn’t they ever heard of Gordon Fucking Ramsay?

TV guy and sometimes cooker Gordon Ramsay can get pretty macho with baby animals when doing publicity for something he’s selling, but you’ll never see a puppy peeking out of one of his pots. And though he once said he’d electrocute his children if they became vegetarian, I wonder what his response would be if they poached the family pooch.

But sometimes you have to question even the best and greatest. Cookery is quite a journey. Take nothing for granted.

I know for an absolute fact that if I ate a meal at one of Gordon Ramsay's restaurants, I would be able to taste his anger.

I didn't know what to say. I just stood there and noticed Gordon Ramsay over by the carrot truffle fries and all I could think was, "What is Gordon going to think if I say no?

Gordon Ramsay left one of his first jobs as an aspiring chef because he was tired of "the rages, the bullying and violence" perpetrated by the head chef.

I don't think people grasp the real me when they see me on television. I've got the wonderful family, the big house, the flash car. I run several of the world's best restaurants. I'm running round, cursing and swearing, telling people what to do. They probably think: that flash bastard. But my life, like most people's, is about hard work. It's about success. Beyond that, though, something else is at play. I'm as driven as any man you'll ever meet. When I think about myself, I still see a little boy who is desperate to escape, and keen to please. I just keep going, moving as far away as possible from where I began. Work is who I am, who I want to be. I sometimes think that if I were to stop working, I'd stop existing.

Interestingly (read: predictably), the push to curb perfectionism and be “perfectly imperfect” is directed towards women. Have you ever heard a man refer to himself as a “recovering perfectionist”? When Steve Jobs or Gordon Ramsay or James Cameron demand perfection, they’re exalted as geniuses in their respective fields. Where are the celebrated female perfectionists?

For months beforehand, I fielded calls from British media. A couple of the reporters asked me to name some British chefs who had inspired me. I mentioned the Roux brothers, Albert and Michel, and I named Marco Pierre White, not as much for his food as for how—by virtue of becoming an apron-wearing rock-star bad boy—he had broken the mold of whom a chef could be, which was something I could relate to. I got to London to find the Lanesborough dining room packed each night, a general excitement shared by everyone involved, and incredibly posh digs from which I could step out each morning into Hyde Park and take a good long run around Buckingham Palace. On my second day, I was cooking when a phone call came into the kitchen. The executive chef answered and, with a puzzled look, handed me the receiver. Trouble at Aquavit, I figured. I put the phone up to my ear, expecting to hear Håkan’s familiar “Hej, Marcus.” Instead, there was screaming. “How the fuck can you come to my fucking city and think you are going to be able to cook without even fucking referring to me?” This went on for what seemed like five minutes; I was too stunned to hang up. “I’m going to make sure you have a fucking miserable time here. This is my city, you hear? Good luck, you fucking black bastard.” And then he hung up. I had cooked with Gordon Ramsay once, a couple of years earlier, when we did a promotion with Charlie Trotter in Chicago. There were a handful of chefs there, including Daniel Boulud and Ferran Adrià, and Gordon was rude and obnoxious to all of them. As a group we were interviewed by the Chicago newspaper; Gordon interrupted everyone who tried to answer a question, craving the limelight. I was almost embarrassed for him. So when I was giving interviews in the lead-up to the Lanesborough event, and was asked who inspired me, I thought the best way to handle it was to say nothing about him at all. Nothing good, nothing bad. I guess he was offended at being left out. To be honest, though, only one phrase in his juvenile tirade unsettled me: when he called me a black bastard. Actually, I didn’t give a fuck about the bastard part. But the black part pissed me off.

Adapting a recipe's ingredients is completely in your hands. But the method is what really matters. The techniques in cooking are rigorous and imperative: They are your passport to a successful dish. Cooks must practice, practice, practice. Anyone can learn, but you need focus, proper understanding, and to go at the right pace, not running before you can walk.

Torture Cuisine by Stewart Stafford Kitchen death growls, Whipping that cream, Beating those eggs, Burning all the toast. Knifing diced cheese, Drawn, quartered ham, Straining tomato sauce, Crushed-down walnuts. Peeling potatoes naked, Then smashing them up, You say purée, I say mash, Turkey and chicken skewers. © Stewart Stafford, 2022. All rights reserved.

Now I was lucky, in a way, because my money didn’t come overnight. It started with a gradual easing of housekeeping restraints so that Tana could shop without working out the sums beforehand. She could impulse-buy and fill the kitchen shelves with things that were fun to buy, even if they never saw the light of day again. Norwegian wooden toothpicks, plastic swords for the olives, pink loo paper with the imprint of raspberries

It’s more an affliction than the expression of any high-minded ideals. I watch Mark Bittman enjoy a perfectly and authentically prepared Spanish paella on TV, after which he demonstrates how his viewers can do it at home—in an aluminum saucepot—and I want to shove my head through the glass of my TV screen and take a giant bite out of his skull, scoop the soft, slurry-like material inside into my paw, and then throw it right back into his smug, fireplug face. The notion that anyone would believe Catherine Zeta-Jones as an obsessively perfectionist chef (particularly given the ridiculously clumsy, 1980s-looking food) in the wretched film No Reservations made me want to vomit blood, hunt down the producers, and kick them slowly to death. (Worse was the fact that the damn thing was a remake of the unusually excellent German chef flick Mostly Martha.) On Hell’s Kitchen, when Gordon Ramsay pretends that the criminally inept, desperately unhealthy gland case in front of him could ever stand a chance in hell of surviving even three minutes as “executive chef of the new Gordon Ramsay restaurant” (the putative grand prize for the finalist), I’m inexplicably actually angry on Gordon’s behalf. And he’s the one making a quarter-million dollars an episode—very contentedly, too, from all reports. The eye-searing “Kwanzaa Cake” clip on YouTube, of Sandra Lee doing things with store-bought angel food cake, canned frosting, and corn nuts, instead of being simply the unintentionally hilarious viral video it should be, makes me mad for all humanity. I. Just. Can’t. Help it. I wish, really, that I was so far up my own ass that I could somehow believe myself to be some kind of standard-bearer for good eating—or ombudsman, or even the deliverer of thoughtful critique. But that wouldn’t be true, would it? I’m just a cranky old fuck with what, I guess, could charitably be called “issues.” And I’m still angry. But eat the fucking fish on Monday already. Okay? I wrote those immortal words about not going for the Monday fish, the ones that’ll haunt me long after I’m crumbs in a can, knowing nothing other than New York City. And times, to be fair, have changed. Okay, I still would advise against the fish special at T.G.I. McSweenigan’s, “A Place for Beer,” on a Monday. Fresh fish, I’d guess, is probably not the main thrust of their business. But things are different now for chefs and cooks. The odds are better than ever that the guy slinging fish and chips back there in the kitchen actually gives a shit about what he’s doing. And even if he doesn’t, these days he has to figure that you might actually know the difference. Back when I wrote the book that changed my life, I was angriest—like a lot of chefs and cooks of my middling abilities—at my customers. They’ve changed. I’ve changed. About them, I’m not angry anymore.

He's got more wrinkles than a bloody Sharpie.' 'Sharp-pei

In my heart, I believe that I am a passionate and intuitive cook who could make a five-course meal without even looking at a recipe. I feel I have the flash and charismatic personality of a famous chef, the fiery tenacity of Gordon Ramsay, and the soulful sexuality of Tom Colicchio. The problem is that I lack all basic skill. For instance, my dad had to come over to show me how to turn my oven on. It is sad when your hopes and your abilities do not line up. I

A friend of mine, Alessandro Ferretti, studies HRV and religiously tracks his rate with medical-grade equipment. When he watched Masterchef Australia, with its genial and encouraging hosts, he found it relaxing and enjoyable and his HRV reflected this. But when he watched Masterchef USA, with Gordon Ramsay effing and blinding, he found it so irritating his HRV went down!

In 1999, Gordon Ramsay stole the reservation book from Aubergine and framed Marco Pierre White.

Personally, I never cut corners when it comes to flavor, but there are many tricks that I’ve learned over the years for saving time while cooking

He’s polite and professional to everyone he meets, but behind their backs will tear them apart like he’s Chef Gordon Ramsay and everyone is just an idiot sandwich.

He’s polite and professional to everyone he meets, but behind their backs will tear them apart like he’s Chef Gordon Ramsay and everyone is just an idiot sandwich.

Americans knew only too well that republics were very delicate polities that required a special kind of society—a society of equal and virtuous citizens. By throwing off monarchy and becoming republics, declared South Carolina physician and historian David Ramsay, Americans had “changed from subjects to citizens,” and “the difference is immense.” “Subjects,” he said, “look up to a master, but citizens are so far equal, that none have hereditary rights superior to others.”3 Republics demanded far more morally from their citizens than monarchies did of their subjects. In monarchies each man’s desire to do what was right in his own eyes could be restrained by fear or force, by patronage or honor, and by professional standing armies. By contrast, republics had to hold themselves together from the bottom up, ultimately, from their citizens’ willingness to take up arms to defend their country and to sacrifice their private desires for the sake of the public good—from their “disinterestedness,” which was a popular synonym for virtue. This reliance on the moral virtue of their citizens, on their capacity for self-sacrifice and impartiality of judgment, was what made republican governments historically so fragile.

You don't necessarily have to be a big family in order to share food around a table and enjoy each other's company. And it doesn't have to be a Sunday, it can be a Saturday, it can be a Friday, any time of any day when families and friends can bond, sharing laughter as well as sadness. It's also an opportunity for individuals, especially children, to gain in confidence.

The important thing is to try and enjoy cooking. It shouldn't be something that you dread. What is there to be scared of? You only learn through making mistakes so they are not something to be afraid of. I still get it wrong sometimes and I am still learning new things - that doesn't stop and you shouldn't either. Keep going until the fear is gone!

Finding great talent, looking after staff and nurturing their talent is what we learned to do well. Losing good people is symptomatic of only one thing: truly crap, appalling and abysmal management.

There was no way I wanted to be a pathetic dreamer like him for the rest of my life. I wanted to be the best at whatever I did. The only question was: what would that be?

Baking with chocolate is similar to cooking with wine. You get out what you put in.

I was not scared of Edwina Currie - a bully who shagged the prime minister. It was music to my ears when she finally got kicked out. The silly cow.

Well, I was not scared of Edwina Currie – a bully who shagged the prime minister.

Addicts are selfish; it’s always, ALWAYS about them.

Living with an addict is a 24/7 business. It’s a bit like having a baby. You’re joined at the hip, and every five minutes you’re hit with that paranoia: where is he? What’s he doing? What’s he up to? If he was going somewhere, we made him call us as soon as he arrived; if a journey was supposed to take ten minutes, and he took twenty, we’d be going: why are you late?

After a while, Dad went off to Spain, and I didn’t see him for many years. I was too busy trying to make a success of my life, but even if I hadn’t been working every hour God sent, I had no real wish to see him.

Equality lay at the heart of republicanism; it was, said David Ramsay, “the life and soul of Commonwealth.” Republican citizenship implied equality. “Citizen” (or sometimes “cit”) was a term that had been commonly used by the premodern monarchical society. It generally had meant the inhabitant of a city or town, who had been thus distinguished from a member of the landed nobility or gentry. Dr. Johnson, in fact, had defined a citizen as “a man of trade, not a gentleman.” In 1762 an English comedy by Edward Ravenscroft was entitled The Citizen Turn’d Gentleman.10 By adopting the title of citizens for members of their new republics, the revolutionaries thereby threatened the distinctive status of “gentleman” and put more egalitarian pressure on their society than they meant to.