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Times
15 hours ago
- Entertainment
- Times
Heston: My Life with Bipolar review — a frank account of his breakdown
In 2004 I interviewed Heston Blumenthal at his Fat Duck restaurant on the back of one of his brilliant ideas that some less enlightened souls might have called bonkers. He wanted patrons to put on headphones and listen to their own slurps and crunches as they chowed down on the Berkshire establishment's fabled dishes of snail porridge, and egg and bacon ice cream. While it was more fun than it sounds, I had no idea that behind this hugely likeable, dazzlingly imaginative and energetic success story lurked an array of problems that in November 2023 had him sectioned. To those who knew him better, however, his ADHD and bipolar diagnoses were less of a shock. Heston: My Life with Bipolar (BBC2) may have been yet another of those emotional journey films, but it was an unusually powerful and important one. Honesty is a prerequisite but, Blumenthal being Blumenthal, he took emotional frankness to a more extreme — you could say snail porridge — level, even playing himself in a reconstruction of the moment when he was injected with a 'whacking great syringe' and carted off to a psychiatric unit. • Read more TV reviews, guides about what to watch and interviews His inner circle, including his wife, Melanie, and the former Fat Duck head chef Garrey Dawson, spoke compassionately about his breakdown. Dawson recalled the moment when Blumenthal imagined that he could speak telepathically to his slobbery bulldog, Harry. Blumenthal is now heavily medicated, something that has added pounds, slowed his speech to a drowsy murmur and left him with a lingering terror that his creativity might be compromised. Yet this was no self-pitying wallow, more a determinedly bracing quest for understanding. He also wanted to make amends, notably with his chef son, Jack, who spoke on camera for the first time about growing up with a dad who was almost entirely self-absorbed and offered no sense that he 'gave a shit'. Their reconciliation was beautiful. Another sequence had Blumenthal looking back on a TV interview in which he barely stopped speaking for half an hour, his mind firing off like a Catherine wheel on every conceivable subject except the one they were meant to discuss (robots in kitchens, since you ask). The artist Sarah Graham, who also has bipolar disorder and was one of many excellent and engaging talking heads, was able to laugh about making a friendship bracelet for Vladimir Putin during a mental health episode; Blumenthal, for his part, thought he could single-handedly solve the world's water crisis. These lighter moments were important in a film with many dark ones, most notably the heart-rending chat with the mother of a vibrant young woman with bipolar who took her own life. Like many campaigning programmes, this didn't have a clear set of goals beyond the obvious one that we need to give more support to those who have a condition that affects more people in this country than dementia. The great chef clearly feels lucky to have had the means and loving support to come through. 'The peaks of my manic highs have shrunk and the depths of the lows have risen, but I am still Heston,' he said. Long may that be the case. Vive le chef. Vive le snail porridge.★★★★☆
The Guardian
a day ago
- Health
- The Guardian
Heston: My Life With Bipolar review – some of the most agonisingly honest TV in years
The diagnosis around which Heston: My Life With Bipolar revolves is so recent that, when we meet him, the doctors are still adjusting his medication. It was only 18 months ago that police, firefighters and a man with a syringe arrived at his front door to have him sectioned at his wife's request. 'She had to do it,' he says. 'Or I wouldn't be here.' He woke up in what he would learn was a psychiatric hospital and stayed there for two months before returning home with his new medications as one of the 1.3 million people in the UK living with bipolar disorder. Heston is Heston Blumenthal, of course, who made his name as the 'molecular gastronomist' who invented snail porridge, bacon-and-egg ice-cream, sardine sorbet and a plethora of other extraordinary dishes that made him and his restaurant the Fat Duck in Bray famous, kickstarted a career as a TV presenter and turned him into a world-renowned brand. The first third or so of the hour-long documentary chronicles him getting used to his diagnosis and wondering how much his hitherto-unsuspected condition – he thought attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder was the reason he 'always had something bubbling in his mind', as the Fat Duck's head chef, Garrey Dawson, puts it – has shaped his life. It is a condition characterised by mood swings. 'The lowest low is terrible and can include suicidality,' explains Dr Trudi Seneviratne of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, while the highs 'are terribly high' and can encompass psychotic delusions. But can the element of mania also be responsible for someone's artistry or creativity? And if so, can it be lost – must it be lost – in the pursuit of mental stability and safety? Blumenthal remembers years of elation without depression: 'Like a kid in a sweetshop … ideas rained down.' But from about 2020, the mood swings became more severe and he wrestled with the darker side of his condition. In the lead-up to being sectioned, he hallucinated a gun. 'I was inquisitive,' he says. Now he wants to find an equilibrium and consolidate successes rather than seek more. 'Can you sit with mediocrity?' says Dr Nick Prior, a psychiatrist with bipolar disorder. Blumenthal thinks he can. He also wants to be 'a consistent, loving husband and father', which leads to a conversation with his son Jack, also a chef, that is one of the most dreadfully honest and painful things I have seen on TV in years. Pent-up emotions pour forth as Jack remembers 'just wanting relaxing conversation with our dad and not being allowed to have one … You didn't want to know anyone's thoughts. We'd have to hype ourselves up to come and see you … It was horrible and it was constant and there was nothing I could do to help you.' 'I'm so sorry,' says a horrified and tearful Blumenthal. 'I know,' says Jack. They hug, but it is not the wholehearted catharsis we have been conditioned to expect. It is awful. You can only hope that both men had enough influence over the final cut that its presence doesn't hurt them more. From there we step into the wider world and a postcode lottery for care. In the UK, you cannot get a bipolar diagnosis from anyone but a psychiatrist. There are 22 such professionals for every 100,000 people in Scotland, 17 in Wales and 16 in south-west England. The figures are indicative of the threadbare support that exists after diagnosis, too. Rebecca McLellan killed herself last year at 24, two years after her diagnosis, having begged for help that never came. Blumenthal meets her mother, Natalie, who shows him footage seemingly of Rebecca not being taken seriously at a crisis care unit. When she was later put on lithium, which requires careful supervision while it replaces previous medications, a further lack of help may have contributed to her death. 'Certainly, her suffering could have been less,' says Natalie, who even in her grief is so careful with Blumenthal's feelings and potential vulnerability that it fills you with awe. This is a standard-format documentary, but with a layer of skin removed. It probably serves the cause well and you hope Blumenthal doesn't regret it in times to come. It ends on a positive but realistic note. 'It's a process,' says his wife, Melanie, as they look to the future. 'But a good one.' Heston: My Life With Bipolar was on BBC Two and is available on BBC iPlayer In the UK and Ireland, Samaritans can be contacted on freephone 116 123, or email jo@ or jo@ In the US, you can call or text the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline on 988, chat on or text HOME to 741741 to connect with a crisis counsellor. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is 13 11 14. Other international helplines can be found at
Scottish Sun
02-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Scottish Sun
Michelin-starred restaurant to SHUT after 11 years as top chef trained by Heston Blumenthal teases ‘what comes next'
The reluctant chef "hated" receiving his Michelin star, but "reluctantly" held the accolade for nine years SHOCK CLOSURE Michelin-starred restaurant to SHUT after 11 years as top chef trained by Heston Blumenthal teases 'what comes next' LONDON'S 'best restaurant' has closed its doors a year on from celebrating serving up 'low-key' Michelin-star food for a decade. Shoreditch-based restaurant Lyle's is closing its doors after 11 years, despite being a fixture on the World's Best Restaurant List since its opening in 2014. Advertisement 5 Lyle's sported a pared-back decor and a back-to-basics approach to food Credit: Instagram 5 A fresh-faced James Lowe in his basic kitchen, with no origami-style tablecloth bonanzas Credit: Instagram 5 Heston Blumenthal sitting pretty at his Fat Duck restaurant - once named the best eatery in the world Credit: Channel 4 Pioneered by maverick chef James Lowe, the fiercely no-frills concept offered a set menu averaging around £50 - radically cheap in the world of fine dining. Despite the pared-back approach, SquareMeal's restaurant guide named it the best in the capital last year. Even more impressively, it placed at number 33 on the World's 50 Best Restaurants list in 2021. Heston Blumenthal-trained restaurateur James Lowe's announcement that his Shoreditch-based restaurant will close on May 18 has sent shockwaves through the culinary world. Advertisement Read more TORN APART Once-thriving shopping centre loved in the 90s to be demolished and transformed His partner, JKS Restaurant Group, will hold onto the site as they signed a twenty-year lease in the Tea building, and potentially will open another fine dining restaurant. Legendary chef Lowe will part ways with the group to work on an 'exciting upcoming solo project,' with more details to come soon. Despite Lowe's aversion to mainstream TV appearances, the restaurant was frequented by A-listers such as Jake Gyllenhaal. In an extended farewell to its fans, the restaurant will serve up a carousel of its most popular dishes over the next few weeks before closure. Advertisement The no-frills eatery 'reluctantly' received a Michelin star 18 months after opening in 2014. Impressively, Lowe has no formal training, and this was reflected in his no-nonsense, more 'affordable' approach to fine dining. He told Squaremeal how his sous chef said he was the 'most miserable chef to ever win a star.' When the news came, rather than jumping up and down with glee, his response was 'Oh, this is awful.' Advertisement People are going to expect Michelin dining and be like, 'Where are the tablecloths?' 5 Lyle's creator, James Lowe, isn't a food snob and opened immensely popular ASAP PIZZA during lockdown Credit: Instagram 5 Lyle's restaurant was at the forefront of the burgeoning Shoreditch restaurant scene Credit: Google Restaurant loved by celebs and royals has to close after it's infested with rats Nevertheless, consistently flooded throughout the decade for "singular" chefs' culinary delights. Advertisement Although James insisted that there was 'nothing vaguely rock and roll' about his "edible day dreams", which shunned 'wishy washy concepts', after receiving the star, footfall increased 35%. Of the closure, James said: "I couldn't be prouder of everything that we've accomplished at Lyle's over the last eleven years. 'I love what we've done, how we've grown, adapted and learned. I want to say an enormous thank you to all members of the team, past and present, It's been a privilege to have worked with so many brilliant people. 'Lyle's has also allowed me to work with some of the best fishermen, artisanal producers and farmers in the UK. Advertisement 'To evolve our food alongside them has been a journey that's kept me inspired year after year. I'm looking forward to what comes next.' Lowe didn't elaborate on the reasons for the closure, but comforted his legions of foodie fans, saying that a 'personal, independent' project was in the works - and more details would be released soon. This comes as a slew of other fancy kitchens are closing their doors, with Great British Menu Chef Scott Smith announcing his Michelin-listed restaurant, Fhior, is closing just yesterday. Despite rising through the culinary ranks at lightning speed, he shunned TV work, preferring to focus on just serving up what the Times described as 'restrained, elegant food in an airy, austere setting.' Advertisement After splitting with John Ogier, the partner he originally opened Lyle's in 2021, he invited world-famous chefs such as Sota Atsumi from Maison Paris and Daniela Soto Innes of Cosme and Atla New York City to guest star at Lyle's over the years. Fascinatingly, the darling of the British food scene had little interest in food as a child and subsisted almost exclusively on bacon. He told SquareMeal: 'There was always the joke about how the kid who only ate bacon started cooking and opening a restaurant.' After graduating from university, he secured a place on the British Airways pilot training scholarship scheme - but then 9/11 happened and the training was deferred a year. Advertisement Desperate for cash, he worked as a waiter in East London's Wapping project. This decision proved transformative, and he pivoted from the cockpit to the kitchen. He said: 'I was working front of house, but got on very well in the kitchen. 'Everyone was driven, passionate and a bit nuts, I learnt on the floor.' Advertisement After having one of the most 'mind-blowing meals of (is) life' at Heston Blumenthal's iconic 'bonkers' restaurant, the Fat Duck, he secured a day's work experience at the three-Michelin-starred restaurant. At the end of his shift, he begged for a job, but the chef said they were fully staffed. Stubbornly, he simply pitched up every day until they relented. After a five-year stint at St John Bread and Wine, he achieved his dream of opening a restaurant by the age of 30. Advertisement Initially, his 'back to basics' approach was labelled 'boring' and made fun of as a pretentiously East London hipster. Gradually, the food spoke for itself, and after the shock Michelin star, the maverick consciously made the spot as 'anti-Michelin' as possible. He blasted the music louder, cut the size of the menu and refused to pomp and fluster that usually accompany high-end dining. Honouring the restaurant's tenth anniversary last year, he told ResturantOnline: "The principle of the restaurant has remained - honesty, transparency, humility and built to last. Advertisement "The places that really inspired me were The Fat Duck, The River Cafe, but they are all around 30 years old now. He hinted that Lyle's might be in trouble confessing: "I had in my head that 10 years in things would be supersmooth, that we would have a strongly established culture and wouldn't worry about day-to-day trade or getting people in, but that's naive. "Even saying that, I feel stupid - stuff keeps happening, the cost of living, changes to salaries, we are down in numbers every month on last year. "Maybe I should have done that TV stuff that people said I should have done. Advertisement "I've always said, you'll know the 4resturant's in trouble if you ever see me on weekend TV." He never did succumb to the lure broadcast, sticking to his guns. But sadly he the restaurant has become another casualty of the pressures on the hospitality industry.
The Guardian
16-03-2025
- Entertainment
- The Guardian
‘It's part of who I am': Heston Blumenthal on the bipolar diagnosis that saved his life, his journey of self-discovery – and how he finally emerged from his family's shadow
Heston Blumenthal, one of Britain's greatest chefs, lives in a small village in Provence. When we meet, on a weekday morning in February, he is in the Hind's Head in Bray, a stone's throw from his very famous restaurant, the Fat Duck, which turns 30 this August. Blumenthal is in England to test dishes he hopes to recall to an anniversary menu – a kind of Greatest Hits of the Duck. 'But it's a backbreaker,' he says. 'You start off with the old recipes and you realise they're not up to scratch – we've moved on. So we're tasting, tasting, tasting.' Yesterday, Blumenthal cooked four pieces of turbot, each at a minimally different temperature, to nail the dish. 'At this level, those incremental differences make a massive difference,' he goes on, looking briefly bemused. 'It's been hard.' Much else has been hard for Blumenthal recently. In November 2023, he was sectioned in France following a week-long manic episode and given a diagnosis of bipolar II disorder. He spent 20 days on a psychiatric ward and a further 40 days at a clinic. Blumenthal describes the ward as 'a bit like a prison'. For many days prior to hospitalisation he had been unable to sit still and his mind raced. He had begun talking for hours at a time, often through the night, and he would become irritable when his wife, Melanie, whom he married earlier that year, could not find a way to respond. 'He locked himself within his own universe,' Melanie told me later. 'And to get in? Good luck.' Melanie eventually left for respite at her parents' home, a two-hour drive away, and Blumenthal remained in Provence alone, experiencing symptoms of psychosis. In a phone message sent after Melanie left, Blumenthal told her he was in possession of a gun, and he began to suggest arrangements for his funeral. Of the gun he says, 'It felt real, but there was nothing there, I was hallucinating… And then I started talking about death.' When Melanie received Blumenthal's message, she phoned the town's mayor, who had helped arrange the couple's wedding and who now agreed to organise medical help. Blumenthal recalls being at home when a policeman knocked on his back door. 'You have to climb over a wall to get to it,' he says. 'I'm thinking, 'What are you doing here?'' Another policeman arrived soon after, followed by several firefighters, a doctor and his assistant. (They had knocked on the front door for 40 minutes, but Blumenthal had been unaware.) When the doctor told Blumenthal he required hospital admission, Blumenthal refused. He sat on a sofa, immovable. At one point he pointed out his OBE medal, which was on display nearby, as well as several photos of a meeting he had with the Queen. Eventually he was restrained. 'I was sort of fighting them,' he says. 'Then I saw the doctor take out a whacking great needle and I thought, 'Heston, let go. Just let go.'' Blumenthal's memory of these events is not completely reliable. He recalls coming to on the psychiatric ward, heavily medicated, unaware of his exact location or of the date. 'I only realised later that I missed a whole day,' he says. He describes his memory from the period as 'blocked'. Blumenthal's mood has stabilised since the episode, in part due to medication, which has caused him to gain weight. Much of the past year has involved him trying to recall the details of his hospitalisation and the events leading to it, of which he's still unsure. Blumenthal describes himself as 'a walking experiment,' and he has approached his diagnosis with curiosity, as if he were on an adventure of self. ('I can't stand not knowing how things work,' he has written.) Still, I'm surprised to discover he is unfamiliar with some of the factors that might have contributed to his illness. 'It's something you're born with,' he says of bipolar II disorder at one point, though this is only partly true, and then, 'I don't think you develop bipolar,' which is incorrect. (One psychiatrist told me, 'People tend to have a genetic predisposition to it, and they then may develop it or they may not.') When I ask him to describe the characteristics of the episode that resulted in his hospitalisation, he takes out his phone and addresses an AI assistant called Gemini. 'Gemini,' he says, 'what are the characteristics of bipolar II disorder?' I'm not sure if he does this because he doesn't know the answer, or because he wants to give an answer that is as precise and specific as his recipes. The phone responds, 'Bipolar disorder is a mental illness that causes unusual shifts in mood, energy, activity, concentration and the ability to carry out day-to-day tasks.' We both stare at the phone, which he is holding in his hand between us. 'Characteristics of bipolar disorder,' it goes on. 'Manic episodes: abnormally elevated or irritable moods, increased energy and activity, racing thoughts, decreased need for sleep, inflated self-esteem or grandiosity and risky behaviours. Depressive episodes: persistent, sad, empty or irritable feelings, loss of interest or pleasure in activities, significant weight loss or gain, insomnia or hypersomnia, fatigue or loss of energy, feelings of worthlessness or guilt, difficulty concentrating or making decisions, thoughts of death or suicide.' The voice stops. Blumenthal puts down the phone. I ask if he experienced all of these characteristics. 'All of them,' he says. 'And you know, after the hallucinations… Hold on a second.' He picks up his phone again and asks, 'Can hallucinations occur in bipolar?' 'This is for informational purposes only,' the phone answers. 'For medical advice or diagnosis, consult a professional. Yes, hallucinations can occur in bipolar disorder. Hallucinations are a type of sensory experience where someone sees, hears, smells, tastes or feels things that aren't actually there. In bipolar disorder…' He puts the phone down again. It is not known exactly what causes bipolar II disorder, but there is a checklist of things that might increase a person's chances of developing the illness, and we begin to talk through the list together, a kind of process of discovery. 'Recreational drugs?' I ask. 'No,' he says. 'Stress?' I say. Blumenthal has talked previously of the remarkable effort required to maintain a restaurant of such high standing, while simultaneously running a culinary empire involving several other restaurants, cookbooks, television shows, a well marketed collaboration with Waitrose that ended in 2023 following reports of Blumenthal's 'unpredictability', and various public appearances. (There was a time in the 2000s when his outsized celebrity saturated food culture to such a degree that triple-cooked chips, a Blumenthal creation, became a pub standard.) He has described receiving his third Michelin star, in 2004, as 'like a pat on the back and a knee in the groin'. The chef Juan Mari Arzak told him at the time, 'Once you've got three stars, there's no turning back.' Blumenthal opened the Fat Duck in 1995, with the financial and emotional support of his first wife, Susanna, who he calls Zanna and with whom he has three grownup children. In the restaurant's early days, he barely slept. Zanna called him 'the lodger', referring to the fact he was rarely at home. (The couple divorced in 2017, after 28 years of marriage; he has a much younger daughter from another relationship.) 'On a good day I'd be up by 5am and still prepping at 2am the following morning,' Blumenthal has written. He snatched sleep in 20-minute bursts, 'usually curled up on the restaurant's pile of dirty laundry' which was 'softer than the kitchen floor'. Several behaviours from the time have resurfaced as potential evidence for previous bipolar episodes. He never seemed to need much sleep. He became quickly impatient at trivial things. He frequently became suddenly energised, often 'vomiting' ideas, many of which led nowhere, though some of them, you would imagine, landed on the menu at the Fat Duck. He also became so irritable that on three separate occasions he 'bit the corner off' an iPhone, and he regularly broke other objects. At his wedding in 2023, he threw a speaker across an empty room because a guest had put on a techno playlist instead of the music designed for the event. And yet 'even in the anger I felt good,' he says, and 'It didn't last very long.' Once, while perfecting a recipe for crème brûlée, Blumenthal created three distinct versions, each of which had merits. 'I rushed upstairs to try them out on Susanna and get her opinion, oblivious in my excitement to the fact that to do so, I had to shake her awake,' he wrote in 2008. 'It was 2am.' In 2017, he was diagnosed with ADHD, a disorder unrelated to bipolar, which he believes has allowed him to hyper-focus on specific tasks. Running the Fat Duck was a high-wire act, but 'It never got to the point where things became unsustainable, in terms of living every day.' He has described the restaurant's first two years as 'bedlam and chaos'. And yet he recalls the time fondly. 'At the beginning of the restaurant, my routine was very regular. I was boxed in a little kitchen, peeling tomatoes one day, making stock the next. You can't escape the routine: doors open for lunch at noon; at 7pm they open for dinner. Deadline, deadline, deadline.' He adds, 'I've realised more and more that I've had many episodes over the course of my life, but I think being in the kitchen somehow contained it.' Blumenthal is aware now that maintaining regular routines can help manage bipolar episodes. But not having enough sleep can be causative, and 'I didn't have enough sleep for years,' he says. He moved to France, in 2019, in part to rebalance his life – to escape what he describes as 'the hamster wheel'. So 'yes' to stress. We return to the checklist. 'What about childhood trauma or abuse?' I ask. 'A stressful event, a problem with a relationship, a death?' 'My dad died a few years ago,' he says. His father, Stephen, died in 2011. 'And I lost my mum and my sister in the same week. That was about five years ago. My mum died on my birthday. My sister died two or three days before that. I've only just thought about this now, that there's an element of trauma.' Blumenthal's mother, Celia, died of cancer on 27 May 2021, after the death of his sister, Alexis. Blumenthal was in France, unable to return to the UK. 'She was bipolar,' he says, of Alexis. This is the first time Blumenthal has spoken about his sister's diagnosis. 'But she didn't believe she was bipolar. To me it's an illness. And you can fix an illness. You can do it with meds. But also, I say now that it's part of who I am. I'm learning more and more about that. I'm more self-aware. And I'm able to sleep now, eight hours minimum.' I ask to hear more about his sister. 'You could write a book about her life. She had several car crashes in South Africa. She smashed her hips. They fixed all of that up badly. She was on all sorts of painkillers. I think her body just gave in.' (Alexis was found dead at her home. A postmortem was inconclusive about the cause of her death.) I ask if either of his parents were diagnosed with bipolar. 'I think my mum could have had it,' he says. 'That's something Melanie and I have talked about since the diagnosis. She could have had it.' Blumenthal remembers his mother as a frequently angry woman who struggled to offer parental love. 'I grew up being called useless and stupid,' he says. 'I don't even remember if she was aware of it. It had a big effect on me, but also in the positive, because I wanted to prove to the world I wasn't stupid.' He considered it normal for his mother to blow up at the slightest infraction. Whenever he made a mistake, he expected her to lash out verbally. He adds, 'Cretin was another word.' I ask if his sister suffered the same behaviour. 'My sister and my mum fought massively,' he says. 'This was in the press. They had a fight on Thame high street. Someone took a picture of it. It was in the Mail. Let me try…' He picks up his phone and searches for the story. 'Manhunt for Heston Blumenthal's sister' he says, paraphrasing a headline. 'Four-year campaign of rage against the pair's 70-year-old mother, Celia.' He reads on. 'Heston Blumenthal's sister was given a suspended judgement for slamming their mother's head against a car…' This happened in 2017. Alexis had been living on and off with their mother. It was reported that she had already punched Celia several times while shouting, 'I'm going to kill you.' Alexis was given a 10-week suspended prison sentence. The events, which Celia described in court reports as 'verbal and violent abuse', were blamed on Alexis's drinking. 'I tried to get involved to help,' Blumenthal says. 'But I couldn't, not being there.' I ask him to describe his father. 'He was calm as anything, my dad. I think he had to be because my mum was a massive character.' Whenever the couple argued, Blumenthal's father would remain quiet until his wife's anger blew over. 'My dad used to say that I was brought up in a war between the two of them.' Blumenthal recalls his family history matter-of-factly and without self-pity. 'It's funny,' he goes on. 'She never acknowledged anything I did.' When he published his bestselling The Fat Duck Cookbook, in 2008, his mother announced, 'That's not a cookbook.' He recalls his mother once visiting the restaurant. 'I had a sous chef called Gary at the time. Mum ordered some cod and said, 'I want Gary to cook this, because Heston can't cook fish.'' He shakes his head. 'We had one or two stars by then.' For a while in adulthood, Blumenthal considered his mother's treatment a form of abuse. But recently his opinion has changed. 'I think it was her way of caring,' he says. After she died, Blumenthal returned to the UK to clear out her home. He found a cabinet filled with news articles about him and his work, and he took this collection as proof of her love. 'But she could never say she was proud of me, which was an interesting thing. It was like I was in competition with her. I don't know why. And obviously I can't talk to her about it now.' I ask how Blumenthal's own children have reacted to the diagnosis. 'Well, my son went, 'Hello…' He didn't seem very surprised.' Blumenthal's son, Jack, is now a chef. 'They're a good barometer. They tell me, you know, if I'm sounding good. And they haven't shown any signs of bipolar.' Blumenthal was born in 1966 in London. His father was a businessman who suffered financial ups and downs. His mother was a secretary who often worked alongside her husband. For a time, the family lived in a basement flat at the address 1 Hyde Park. They had relatives in South Africa, where they would visit, and on at least one occasion Blumenthal and his sister accompanied his grandmother, the family matriarch, on a trip to the US. But he struggled at school. A curious boy with interests different to his peers, he found it difficult to fit in. 'It was a comfortable life,' Melanie told me later. 'But I think not so much love.' When Blumenthal was 16, he visited L'Oustau de Baumanière, a three-star Michelin restaurant in Provence, with his family. He fell in love with the food, but also the restaurant's theatre: the waiters in bow ties, the mustachio-ed sommelier, the chirruping of grasshoppers. It was 1982. Blumenthal's mother had been a fine cook. She 'made good use of the pressure cooker,' he has written. But he 'grew up in an era when Britain's gastronomic reputation was at an all-time (and largely deserved) low.' When he returned to the UK, he began to experiment in the kitchen, sometimes making dishes for dinner parties organised by his parents. For a while he worked odd jobs and cooked at the weekend, 'trying to reproduce whatever had caught my imagination,' on further trips to France, where he was 'banking flavour-memories, developing a set of reference points'. He opened the Fat Duck with almost no experience of working in a kitchen. And yet his approach, which mixed scientific precision with avant-garde flair, was almost immediately successful. Several of his early dishes – including snail porridge, and bacon ice-cream – were controversial, and instantly became culinary and cultural touchpoints. The New York Times once said of him, 'There appears to be no culinary shibboleth that Mr Blumenthal will not challenge, and no limit for his search for a better way.' Blumenthal never considered the possibility of receiving three Michelin stars. 'I thought maybe one day I'd get one,' he says. 'That was it.' Asked if he has ever strived to be great, he shakes his head, replying, 'I wanted to be… I guess I wanted to be understood.' A couple of weeks after I meet Blumenthal in Bray, I speak to him again on Zoom. He is back in Provence with Melanie, who is sitting alongside him. I want to ask about his use of cocaine, rumours of which had been relayed to me since our first conversation by friends and acquaintances, who had worried for Blumenthal's safety. (One chef told me, 'Nobody seemed to be sorting him out.') When we first met, Blumenthal had denied the use of recreational drugs, despite it perhaps being a factor in his illness, and I had wondered why. Now he is reticent. I sense he is embarrassed, perhaps at the fact people had been talking about him. But he then appears to give in. 'There was an element of self-medication,' he says. 'And I realised it wasn't helping at all.' (He does not say how long it took him to realise this.) He mentions the actor Stephen Fry, who also has bipolar II disorder, and who once relied on cocaine and alcohol to combat sudden and severe mood swings. (Fry used cocaine to upswing from depression and alcohol to calm the highs of mania; Blumenthal did not drink.) He goes on, 'It's a classic thing with bipolar. You don't allow yourself to say, 'I'm not OK.' And there is this automatic thing to try to self-medicate.' A psychiatrist will tell you that cocaine, a stimulant, can mimic behaviour commonly experienced during a manic episode, while adding that people with bipolar are more likely to engage in reckless behaviour, including drug-taking. In a later voice note he adds, 'It was never a party thing,' and then, 'The problem is: what goes up, must come down.' On Zoom, Melanie says, 'It's a part of the condition. When you are in crisis, you are so sure you are healthy, that everything is OK.' She looks at Blumenthal and then back at me. 'That's why we also arrived at this point. He didn't want to see a doctor. Nothing.' Blumenthal says, 'I wouldn't face up to it. It was nonsense to me.' I ask Melanie what it was like to be aware that Blumenthal was unwell while he couldn't accept it. 'I felt stupid,' she says. 'Would you say you felt lost?' Blumenthal asks. 'Well, I was lost, yes. But I was more feeling out of power. I couldn't bring comfort to him. He was not sleeping. He was barely eating. Everything was escalating.' Blumenthal has to join another call, so I continue the conversation with Melanie, who moves to a second office. 'This was happening a year ago,' she says, referring to previous manic episodes. 'But it would stop and he would be OK. Then from September or October everything became more intense.' Blumenthal was due to finalise some paperwork relating to the estate of his parents. And he was planning a belated celebration of the lives of his mother and sister, whose ashes he had only recently received. In the midst of the organisation, it 'became difficult to get Heston's attention,' Melanie says. 'He was full of anxiety. I could see it was at this point that everything starts to accelerate.' Melanie sensed Blumenthal's loss had become too much to bear. During his manic episode, she asked her father, who once worked as a manager of mental health centres in France, to visit for a few days, in an attempt to seek early help. When he arrived, he knew immediately that something was wrong. He and Melanie also noticed that Blumenthal was speaking more and more about his family. 'Heston said to my dad, 'I've lost my mum, I've lost my sister,'' Melanie says. She supposed it was an effort to explain away his behaviour, which had become increasingly erratic. It was as though Blumenthal had not yet processed his grief, Melanie thought. And, now, here it was, the past exploding into the present. During our first conversation, Blumenthal told me he was admitted to hospital on 12 November. 'It was 11 November,' Melanie says now, 'which was his sister's birthday.' Blumenthal met Melanie in 2021 in Val d'Isère, where Melanie was working. She met neither of his parents or his sister. Of Blumenthal she says, 'His memories [of family] are changing at the moment. He's starting to remember more and more things.' I ask how it felt to have made the decision to have Blumenthal sectioned. 'I would say I'm working on it,' she says. 'I have massive guilt. Sectioning someone is removing their freedom. It is me saying he wasn't able to take care of himself.' She has worried that onlookers would suppose she was attempting to take control of his life. 'But they don't know.' She adds, 'You think, 'Is he going to understand?' I hope he understands.' Blumenthal does understand. 'It's kind of forged us closer,' he told me of their relationship. Of his current self he said, 'You could argue that I'm grieving for where I was before,' and yet he is coming to accept his new situation: more calm, more balance, more patience. 'There's no breaking things,' he added, and less 'vocalising of ideas.' At the Fat Duck, he has surrounded himself with old colleagues he has worked with for many years, in an attempt to recover a kind of professional stability. And he is returning to the restaurant more frequently now than he has done over the past 20 years. Blumenthal calls me the next morning, while I am taking my young children to school. When I call back he is eager to clarify points from our previous conversations, particularly around his use of cocaine, which he is worried will make headlines. For a while we talk politely around the subject of perception – how his story is likely to be received by a public that has until now associated him with a kind of culinary genius – and I sense his nervousness. Before we hang up, he says, 'I have been very open with you.' It is an effort, I think, to reiterate his vulnerability, and perhaps an attempt to influence what comes from our discussions. But then he seems to relax, and I feel his anxiety ease. He had earlier told me that 'to open up is difficult, especially for men,' and yet he seems to relish the responsibility of becoming a kind of spokesperson, to spread the word of his experience, to inform others. Our call lasts five or so minutes. As a parting line he says, 'Perhaps it is just better to be honest.' The Fat Duck celebrates its 30th anniversary with the return of the à la carte menu ( If you have been affected by any of these issues, call Samaritans on freephone 116 123 or contact Mind
Yahoo
28-02-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
Blumenthal becomes bipolar charity ambassador
TV chef and restauranteur Heston Blumenthal said he was back in the kitchen and "thinking more clearly" as he takes on an ambassadorial role with a charity following his bipolar disorder diagnosis. The 58-year-old said since he spoke publicly he had received thousands of messages from others living with the condition. Blumenthal runs a number of award-winning restaurants, including the three Michelin starred The Fat Duck in Bray, Berkshire. He has become an official ambassador for Bipolar UK, having been diagnosed with the condition in 2023. According to Bipolar UK, the mental health condition is an episodic disorder characterised by sometimes extreme changes in mood and energy which has the highest risk of suicide of any mental health condition. "I laughed out loud after receiving a message from a woman who told me that during a manic episode she thought the TV was talking to her," Blumenthal said. "The reason I laughed out loud was because I experienced the same thing." Famous for his experimental dishes such as snail porridge and bacon and egg ice cream, Blumenthal said medication initially dulled his culinary imagination. He was diagnosed after being admitted to hospital in November 2023 and said he was now more involved with the The Fat Duck than for years. "When I first came out of hospital the medications were so strong I was zombified - I had no energy at all," he said. "As my medications have been changed and my levels of self-confidence and self-awareness have gone up I realise my imagination and creativity is still there. "It was at levels that were so extreme before... looking back I can remember during my manic highs I was interrupting myself with ideas." Bipolar UK estimates more than one million adults in the UK have bipolar disorder, about 30% more than the number of people with dementia. But it is estimated at least 500,000 people are undiagnosed. "It's an honour to have Heston onboard as an ambassador," Simon Kitchen, chief executive of Bipolar UK, said. "We hope that his experience will encourage more people to seek help if they are struggling with their own diagnosis or are in the process of seeking one." You can follow BBC Berkshire on Facebook, X, or Instagram. Fat Duck regains three Michelin stars Bipolar UK NHS: Bipolar disorder
