I’m sure I am not the only one who has harboured a dream of enjoying lunch at St John with Fergus Henderson. On a long list of ideal dinner party guests, Fergus has always been right at the top, name in capitals, written in permanent marker. I'm due to have lunch with him on Monday but the Saturday before, I'm struck down by a stomach infection that has me doubled over with waves of agonising cramps. By 3am on Sunday morning, I've finally found my way to a doctor. 'Gastritis', he says. 'Take these H2 blockers and some Rennies and don't eat anything rich. Drink lots of water.' He ushers me out. 'Oh, and no alcohol. Obviously.'
You never quite know what to expect from your heroes, but as we set up on Monday morning to take a few photographs, Fergus arrives resplendent in the uniform we’ve come to know so well – walking stick, well-worn tan derbies and sartorial pinstripes from head to toe. After much hand-shaking and some pleasantries, we suggest that it would be nice to photograph him with a drink in hand. ‘A very good idea!’ he says. He fetches three glasses of St John Pinot Noir from the bar – one for each of us – and proceeds to hand them out. I briefly consider my mortality. Drinking on a workday morning makes us feel a little like giddy school children, but Fergus – nursing a hangover from St John’s anniversary celebration the night before – insists that it is purely medicinal. ‘Things are a little blurry at the moment,’ he chuckles. ‘Pinot Noir should put that right.’ Bolstered by a second opinion from Doctor Fergus, I decide it would be rude not to join him.
Yesterday’s festivities were in celebration of St John’s twenty-fifth birthday – a monumental achievement for a restaurant that has, in retrospect, done more than any other to lead British food out of the doldrums and into something resembling a golden age. Or an iron age, perhaps; not in the sense of backwards-ness but in functionality and rigour. St John has never had delusions of grandeur – Fergus and Trevor have gone about their business quietly, believing simply in an ethos of sustainable eating and the importance of food and drink to the spirit. It seems that over time, we have all come to treasure that dining philosophy; the turnover of restaurants in the capital is as fierce as it has ever been, yet St John remains, a monolith of wood and whitewash.