This is the interview with the Independent editor in the posh restaurant referenced at the start of the Gigwise interview "Sex, Drugs and a lot of Soul" which I posted here yesterday: http://www.amywineho...wise-interview/
When GQ Met Amy Winehouse
"They tried to make me go to rehab, I said no, no, no..."
These are the first two lines of "Rehab", the opener to Amy Winehouse's wonderful new album, Back To Black. On the evidence of my dinner date with the punk jazz singer, however, she might have been better off saying "yes, yes, yes". In the course of my labours for this magazine, I have had a few difficult assignments, but none quite compares with my evening with the Diva of Camden Town.
To start with: she was a bundle of nerves when she arrived at London's L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon. She said that she'd never been to a place so posh, and announced she didn't want anything to eat. "I'm going to the gym later," she said. As the evening developed, however, I found it increasingly difficult to believe that Amy's twilight hours would be spent on an exercise bicycle. The rapid fashion in which she consumed three glasses of champagne, for example, was not, as far as I know, consistent with any recognised fitness programme. And it soon became clear that there was another matter on her mind that demanded pressing attention.
I had put down Amy's distracted state simply to the unease at the formality of the surroundings, plus the awkwardness of having dinner with a stranger. I tried to disarm her by saying how marvellous she looked. She's certainly very striking: her Siouxsie Sioux make-up, hair extensions, the flamboyant tattoos and her eye-catching décolletage create an appearance that perfectly matches her edgy, doesn't-give-a-damn personality and gives more than a little authenticity to the raw power of her music.
Ms Winehouse's latest album is packed full of emotion, confession, accusation and reflection, delivered in a singing voice of breathtaking clarity and range. That night, however, she was somewhat less voluble. Every few minutes she glanced at her mobile phone to see if a text message had arrived. It transpired that she had had a bust-up with her boyfriend, Alex, with whom she has been together for around six months. "It was my fault," said Amy. "I am difficult if I am drinking. I can be a cruel person." She told me that, a few nights earlier, a girl had approached her, told her how much she liked her music, kissed her on the cheek and then said to Alex, "She's f***ed." Amy's response was to punch her in the face. And when Alex intervened, he got a right-hander, too. "If I have 20 units, I can get violent, particularly if I am unhappy. Apart from that, I am the model girlfriend," she said. While she was understandably reluctant to discuss the specifics of their contretemps, she hinted that it was something to do with an ex-boyfriend called Blake. She has his name tattooed over her left breast: I hesitate to suggest that might be the trouble right there.
By now, I had worked out that this was not shaping up to be an easy gig. Amy wouldn't even touch so much as the amuse bouche (a bouche-full of foie gras with some amusing foam, since you ask). I didn't know what to do about the food: for one, I was starving, and also this was a restaurant review. Amy has been the subject of press gossip about her eating habits: certainly her weight has yo-yoed. I tell her that I, too, am a light eater: as soon as it's light, I start eating.
So while my guest sank her champagne, I set out on a solo dining mission. The eponymous Joël Robuchon is a six-star Michelin chef, under whom the young Gordon Ramsay learnt, and this split-level concept restaurant almost next door to the Ivy is his late-in-the-day attempt to crack the London market. On the ground floor is a casual, counter-based area where tapas-style dishes are offered; on the first floor (where we were) is a more starchy dining room; and on the top floor is a bar. Everywhere, there are black and white tiled walls, black marble counters and, in the restaurant, there's low-level muzak which sounds like the noise from someone else's iPod. The auguries are not good for M Robuchon: on this site have opened and closed a good handful of previous ventures in recent years, a result of either the ley lines or some voodoo coming from the Ivy.
Undeterred by my guest's non-compliance, I dived in. For a starter, I chose langoustine fritters with basil pistou. This arrived in record time, three small crustaceans wrapped in paper-thin tempura batter with a dab of black sauce. The dish was carefully arranged, the effect rather ruined when the unfortunate waitress, clearly affected by the nervousness radiating from our table, smudged the pistou. This didn't matter, and the whole shebang disappeared in a delightful few mouthfuls. According to the menu, this Lilliputian dish was priced at 30. Not £30, but 30. I was trying to work out what would have been the right price for three langoustines: 30 euros? Surely not. 30 Dinars? Possibly. 30 Yen? More like it. But no, it was indeed 30 quid. So when Gordon Brown talks about keeping inflation under control, someone should mention the £10 langoustine.
The main course, lamb cutlets with fresh thyme, was more realistically priced at £20. The five mini chops were expertly cooked, and served with a small pot of potato purée, and had the advantage of not distracting my attention from the more interesting confection opposite. The daughter of a cab-driver father and a mother who went on to get a degree in pharmacy (they separated when Amy was nine), she has always been something of a handful. Kicked out of state and stage school - "I was bored and disruptive" - Amy's only ambition was to be a roller-skating waitress. She was spotted singing with the National Youth Jazz Orchestra, and now, at 22, with two albums, a Mercury Music Prize short-list, and two Brit nominations, she has a world of possibilities ahead of her. "There are not many people my age," she said, "who know what they're going to be doing for the next ten years." I wasn't sure whether she thought this was good or bad, because she also said she is afflicted by boredom. "Drinking is something to do," she said, adding that, when she's not working, she goes to the pub and plays pool. I suggested that, given that her songs are often painful in their honesty, maybe she also goes looking for trouble. "Every bad situation is a blues song waiting to happen," she said, "but I'm romantic. I fall in love every day. Not with people but with situations. The other day, I saw a tramp polishing his shoes. That just gripped my heart."
There are, it seems, few things that Amy won't write about: painful break-ups, her battle with addiction. I imagine the tramp will get his place in musical posterity. It was only 9.30pm, I thought I had had my dinner (but I couldn't be sure) and Amy was so anxious to go looking for Alex that I thought it only fair to release her from this agony. She skedaddled pretty sharpish, and as I made my way home, I wondered whether she would be able to patch things up. Given the circumstances, I thought she'd been a trouper to turn up at all. And I recalled what she said about every bad situation inspiring a song. "He tried to make me eat my dinner, I said no, no, no."
Where they ate
L'Atelier de Joël Robuchon, 13-15 West St, London W1. joel-robuchon.net
Price
£50 for one
What they thought
"Expertly cooked dishes albeit in Lilliputian portions"
Originally published in the January 2007 issue of British GQ.
Simon Kelner is Editor-in-Chief of the Independent.
Source: http://www.gq-magazi...ew-simon-kelner
