Pierre Gagnaire does not approach cooking like some warrior chief leading a battle of tastes in order to gain a few stars. He is a grandmaster and his art is culinary. In his restaurant in the rue Balzac, or at Sketch in London, he returns majesty to our plates. Not a word more. Everything is said when you sit at his table.
I remember the leather pencil cases we had at school. It evokes lead pencils, wood shavings, the smells of glue and rubbers.
One day I realised how much a smell could reveal other things. You can ruin someone else’s self-respect by breathing in a smell he has adopted. I adore the smell of leather, of wood, of stone. I return to the raw materials of smell. My own bag is old, bordeaux, deep purple leather. I love its sheen, its big buttons, and the wordless story it tells.
To associate the functional with art, to let them journey through life at their leisure. To dream over the intelligence of an object.