Bonding With Food and His Mom

HOUSES MEANT LITTLE to me growing up in Scotland and England. My family lived in around 20 of them, and some were decrepit rentals in trailer parks. The only residence of substance was public housing in the industrial section of Stratford-upon-Avon when I was 10.

My father had trouble holding jobs and was a womanizer and an abusive alcoholic, which often left my mother bruised and scrambling to make ends meet for us.

I was born outside of Glasgow, Scotland. As a guitarist, my father, Gordon Sr., dreamed of becoming a rock star. We came second, if at all.

Despite our serial moves, I was outgoing and made friends easily. Then we'd disappear and end up in another town a week later.

My love of food began in Stratford-upon-Avon. My mum, Helen, had a part-time job as a cook at a local bistro on a prominent street.

Before soccer practice and after matches, I'd help her prep by carrying goods from the car and peeling the vegetables. I looked forward to our quality time together.

Through all the strife, Mum was calm and collected. She had all four kids by 21. She told me early on, "Work hard, get your priorities right and everything will fall into place."

I was tight with my older sister, Diane, and my younger brother and sister, Ronnie and Yvonne. We all shared the stress of poverty and uncertainty. Between ages 12 and 15, I watched as Dad packed his guitar and amp and headed to far-off places for three or four weeks at a time. Mum had to deal with people chasing money. The family grew closer each time he left. Then there would be a wake of destruction when he returned.

After I graduated in 1982, I enrolled at North Oxfordshire Technical College. I majored in hotel catering but found I was much happier with my freedom in the kitchen. The first person to see my potential was Andy Rogers, head chef at the Wroxton House Hotel. I couldn't afford an apartment, so I lived there and worked four or five days a week.

After college, off I went to London and worked in a series of restaurants. My turning point was working for Marco Pierre White at Harveys, starting in 1987. For 2½ years, I wasn't interested in holidays or relationships. I just put my head down and dug in.

Today, my wife, Tana, and I and our six kids divide our time between residences in London and Los Angeles. In 2011, we bought our L.A. home, which is modeled on a 1700s Connecticut farmhouse. We renovated but kept it humble. In London, we moved into a four-story, 1970s townhouse in 2001, after converting it into a single-family dwelling.

The last time I saw my father, he was homeless. Toward the end of 1997, my brother gave me a number to reach him. I took out money to rent him a place and invited him to my restaurant for dinner on Jan. 28. On New Year's Eve, I heard he'd died. He never tasted my cooking.