Tom Kerridge, the Michelin‑starred chef turned “meat‑fluencer”, has opened up about the crumbling economics of British hospitality while sharing a venison chilli that he claims is “practically orchestral”. In a candid interview, the Marlow‑based cook‑writer – whose 2021 bible *Outdoor Cooking – The Ultimate Modern Barbecue Bible* cemented his status as a digital cooking celebrity – outlines why pubs and restaurants are teetering on the brink, and offers a home‑cook’s guide to a dish that showcases venison’s underrated depth.
The Rise of a Meat Fluencer
Kerridge’s journey began in 1991 at Calcot Manor, a classic posh hotel restaurant in Tetbury, where he was just 18. The culinary world was then dominated by French‑inspired fine dining, with “the best ingredients, all racks of lamb and fillets of beef”. The experimental spirit of the decade, however, opened doors for him to think beyond the traditional plate. A pivotal moment arrived at Adlards, a bustling Norwich eatery, where he first felt he “could do this”.
His breakout came at The Hand and Flowers in Marlow, a pub that defied expectations by becoming the first to secure a second Michelin star. The venue embodied his belief that great food need not require a formal dress code. “Wintertime walks across the Lake District, ending up in a pub with an open fire, that smell of crackling wood, beer and steamed puddings; summertime beer gardens; city‑centre pubs; London pubs, where loads of city workers are all stood outside, packed together like fish: all of them are amazing, and the one thing they all have in common is a sense that it doesn’t matter where you come from – irrespective of your educational background, financial background, they’re warm. Everybody understands how a pub works, and everyone’s welcome.”
By 2020 he was running three restaurants in Marlow, two in London (including the Corinthia Hotel) and one in Manchester. The arrival of Covid‑19 was “terrifying”. “We lost an awful lot of money: an event company we had closed, and the restaurant in Manchester ended up closing too – but everybody was in the same boat.” The pandemic forced a rapid shift to digital content, and his Instagram and YouTube channels blossomed into a “meat‑fluencer” phenomenon, blending skilful technique with approachable humour.
Crafting a Flavour That Stands Out
Now Kerridge is using his platform to highlight a different kind of crisis: the financial squeeze that is forcing 21 hospitality venues to close each week across the UK. “Six or seven years ago, a good restaurant might make 10 % profit – not big numbers but you could make that work. Now, a lot of great places are making a fraction of that, and some aren’t breaking even.” Food and energy costs have surged, business rates remain high, and the minimum wage and national insurance changes have hit a staff‑intensive sector hard. “The cost of employing a young person over the last four years has gone up by a third. There’s no way you can put those costs on to the punter – they just won’t go out, or they’ll go to other places that aren’t putting them on. Then it becomes a race to the bottom; a competition to see who can lose the least money.”
Kerridge is actively campaigning for a VAT reduction from 20 % to 10 % and broader business‑rate relief, arguing that without government intervention creativity will suffocate. “There’s no help, there’s no cavalry coming over the hill,” he warns, a sentiment that resonates with a sector desperate for a lifeline.
The Hospitality Battle and Calls for Change
While the policy debate rages, Kerridge also offers a practical antidote: his venison chilli. The dish, which “flies off his menu”, begins with a lesson that he insists every home cook should heed. “When making chilli or bolognese, roast the hell out of the mince before you do anything else. Do this on the hob: put the meat in a pan with a bit of oil, high heat, and roast it for much longer than you would ever have dreamt. Take it way past the point of just having a bit of colour. When it starts to leave its charred remnants on the bottom of the pan, don’t worry – the onions going in afterwards will deglaze all that with their natural juices. When it starts to look very dark – pretty nubbly and dry – again, don’t fret; it will rehydrate later when you add the stock. Don’t trouble yourself over whether it’s lean mince or not: you can sieve off the rendered fat after this first stage, then you get all the benefits of fattier meat with none of the grease.”
The resulting ragu captures the “flavour profile you get from a barbecue, or the outside bits of roast beef – that’s the bit everyone likes. And that’s what you’ll get from this ragu.” Kerridge’s favourite utensil for such depth is a cast‑iron pan. “This is absolutely chef‑proof,” he says, “indestructible.” The glossy Le Creuset look may be Instagram‑friendly, but a matte black, unvarnished pan is his tool of choice for withstanding the rigours of a professional kitchen.
The venison chilli itself is a marriage of tradition and innovation. “When you’re cooking in a classic brigade system, the sections are like a larder: you’ve got starters, you’ve got garnish, you’ve got meat and fish, you’ve got pastry. The meat is the lead section, where the most experienced chef is, because that’s where you land when you’ve learned to treat vegetables with love and respect. If you fuck up cabbage, it doesn’t cost a lot.”
Venison, he stresses, should not be confined to autumn. “it sits there with beef but it’s much leaner, so it’s harder in some ways, because there’s no fat content.” Yet it “takes on spice really well”, and after slow‑roasting the loin, creating a separate ragu, and finishing with chunks of salami, the final product is “practically orchestral”. The recipe balances bold spices – cumin, coriander, chilli powder – with the earthy richness of venison, brightened by lime zest and a surprising hint of dark chocolate. Served with creme fraiche and a sprinkle of grated chocolate, the dish delivers a depth that challenges the notion that venison is a seasonal curiosity.
Kerridge’s own upbringing adds a human touch to the narrative. “It was crispy pancakes and potato waffles, in a single‑parent family on an estate in Gloucester. We weren’t cooking tea every night. But my mum would do Sunday lunch, and she’d do it for everyone we brought back from the rugby club. She didn’t have any money – we never really had a joint; she just used to roast sausage meat and then do all the vegetables. There was always enough, and it was always delicious.”
Why it
