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Jamie Oliver
Jamie Oliver in London last month. Photograph: Phil Fisk
Jamie Oliver in London last month. Photograph: Phil Fisk

Has Jamie's Ministry of Food worked in Rotherham?

This article is more than 15 years old
It's barely five minutes since Jamie Oliver was the cheeky chappie of TV chefery. Since then he's turned hoodies into kitchen gods, banished rubbish from the school menu and taught Rotherham how to cook. Is he hooked on sainthood or just an old-fashioned philanthropist?

Food blog: how much of a difference is Jamie making?

When Jamie's Ministry of Food screened on Channel 4 last month, a trail of newspaper columns and blogs flapped in its wake like discarded burger wrappers in a deserted shopping precinct. It goes without saying that most were wildly over the top. Some spoke out in favour of Oliver's mission to teach Rotherham to cook, one broadsheet writer acclaiming the series as 'the most powerful political documentary in years'. Others, including some readers of the Rotherham Advertiser, slagged him off for being patronising, for stereotyping northerners, for swearing too much, and for having a posh car. 'How much money did Mockney-boy get paid for this latest self-serving drivel?' wrote one visitor to a foodie website. 'What a phoney! Sainsbury's biggest profit margins come from the kind of processed foods he rails against - and yet he is still willing to endorse the company. The guy is an UTTER HYPOCRITE.'

This kind of hyperbole always gets on my nerves, but in this case it was especially vexing. Television, in its 21st-century reality show-inspired form, is manipulative, and rarely subtle. Taking it too seriously either way seems to me to be a little daffy. It's on screen, you watch it, you talk about it with your friends, and then it's over: gone, faster than you can say stir-fried beef with black-bean sauce.

Putting aside Oliver's human qualities for a moment, if a series claims to be concerned with effecting long-term change, as this one did, it's what happens after the cameras have gone that matters (usually, nothing). I'm from South Yorkshire myself, and highly sensitive to southern slights (you might say overly sensitive), but I decided to save my breath until I'd been up to Rotherham - and I mean a Rotherham now bereft of TV cameras, publicists and Jamie's shiny Land Rover. I wanted to catch his project - a walk-in centre on the town's main square offering advice and free cookery lessons to anyone who cares to sign up - on the hop. Would it be full of ex-steel workers basting chickens? Or would it be silent as the grave, a stage set in need of actors and a director?

All of which is a somewhat long-winded way of explaining how I come to be standing mournfully outside Jamie's Ministry of Food on the coldest day of the year so far. 'Closed' says the sign on the door. Oh no! But the lights are on, so I bang on a window. A woman in a red apron - who, it turns out, is Lisa Taylor, a non-cook who became the Ministry's manager after answering an ad in the local paper - appears. I explain who I am. Are you closed? I ask, heart sinking, fingers possibly gangrenous. Yes, she tells me, the Ministry is closed to the public this Monday afternoon, but only because a class is shortly to begin. This is how it works: during the week, it offers classes to students who have pre-booked their places, and who are moving through a 10-week course together, as a group. But on Saturdays, when people are not at work or school, the place operates as a drop-in, with demonstrations for as many as can crowd inside. Are the classes well attended? 'We could fill every one 10 times over,' she says. 'Especially the Wednesday nights, which are led by Mick the miner [Mick Trueman, one of Jamie's novice cooks in the series, is now a born-again home chef]. Anyway, come in. You're welcome to watch. Would you like a cup of tea?'

Today's lesson is led by 23-year-old Matthew Borrington, a bricklayer whom Jamie recruited to his original group after meeting him at Rotherham FC (Oliver went to the football club to illustrate, on a grand scale, the 'pass-it-on' principle, by which one novice learns one new recipe which he then teaches to two friends, and so on). Matthew works from 6am until 2pm, and then comes straight here to his students: Roger, a policeman; Steve, who owns a local pet shop; and Phil, a carer.

The group has been together for eight weeks, and today Matthew is teaching them how to make chilli con carne. 'It's great,' he says. 'They're all men, and not one of them had cooked a thing before. Now they're dead keen, though we always have a bit of football chat, first.' But he doesn't only teach here. Matthew is a roving ambassador, involved with trying to persuade local businesses to start running pass-it-on classes in their workforce's lunch hours, and by going into schools. So his enthusiasm hasn't waned since Jamie's departure? 'Oh, no. It's as high as ever.' His new cooking skills have even helped him to bag a girlfriend. 'To be honest, it's better now the cameras have gone,' says Lisa. 'We can crack on - make it Rotherham's project, rather than Jamie's project.' When Rotherham Council takes over the Ministry from Oliver in a few weeks' time - it has agreed to fund it to the tune of £125,000 for another year, as part of its ongoing effort to tackle obesity and chronic poor health in the area - the scheme will employ two more members of staff, one full time, one part time, thus doubling its work force.

When the men arrive - Roger is stuck at work, so only Phil and Steve are present - I ask why they signed up. Phil wants to be able to cook for his partner, whom he looks after full time. Steve was becoming increasingly frustrated that, on days when it was his turn to cook for his children, all he could come up with was chicken nuggets and oven chips. 'My perception of this place,' he says, looking round at the ovens and work surfaces, 'was that it was a gimmick to go with a reality show. You didn't really see it that much on the series, did you? Then one of my customers told me what was going on, so I came in.' Steve's new skills mean increased marital harmony at home, and two children whose palates grow more sophisticated by the hour. 'The other day, I made chicken and leek stroganoff. I wasn't hopeful they'd like it, but they were full of praise.' He wipes a tear from his eye, which I sentimentally take to be one of pure happiness. But no, it's the onions he is chopping for his chilli. Still, onions or no onions, there's no getting away from the fact this group is an adult educationalist's wet dream, ticking so many boxes funding-wise that it is hardly surprising that Rotherham council is keen to back it financially. The local Tory opposition has accused the council leadership of swooning at celebrity's feet. But the only star here right now is Matthew Borrington, the inspiration for the Rotherham fans' latest chant. 'Pass it on, pass it on, pass it ON...' they sing. 'I like a sausage roll at the game,' he says. 'But these days, as soon as I put it in my mouth, I get so much stick, you wouldn't believe it.'

Before all this, I meet up with Oliver. This is the second time I have interviewed him: the first was when he was much younger (he is still only 33), and I can't say that I warmed to him. He was at the height of his 'bish, bash, bosh' phase and kept saying things like: 'I love it when the kitchen is pomp-pomp-pomp-pomp-POMP-ING!' Six years on, though, he is much improved: softer round the edges, more thoughtful, less arrogant, nice manners apart from all the swearing - and also (and perhaps this is the real reason I warm to him) mildly anxious, possibly even a little depressed.

When I ask where he is going next with his Ministry - surely he can't leave the story here - he sighs, and says wearily: 'Everyone wants me to leave it. Everyone in my life, except my wife. My mum, my dad, my colleagues. Everyone.' Why? 'They think it makes me unhappy. Which it doesn't. But these things I do are hard...' His voice trails off. 'Sleepless... worry. I've had shit for the last week [the attacks in the Advertiser, and elsewhere]. I'm more than big enough to take it, but I don't need journalists to pull me apart; I pull myself apart. Programme one [which introduced us to Natasha Whiteman, a single mother who, until the arrival of Oliver, fed her children exclusively on kebabs and chips] had to be like that - and, by the way, that's the truth. It was a snapshot of Britain. If you don't like the smell of shit on your own territory, tough. It's there. It's a mile from any of us.'

So will he try to expand the concept, roll it out across the country, keep nagging the relevant government departments, as he did so successfully with school dinners, or is he just going to walk away? He has already started on his next series for Channel 4, a road trip across America with - or so I'm guessing - the obligatory recipes for grits and fried green tomatoes. 'OK,' he says, as if trying to muster the energy to detail the full horror of what lies ahead. 'Are we small? Yes. Is it the tip of an iceberg? Yes. But in Rotherham, 1,700 people have attended demonstrations in the last month. We can give measurable results. We can monitor age, ethnic minorities, whatever. Rotherham is going to pay for it for another year. Other councils are queuing up [to replicate the idea]. So now, we have a new fucking problem. Everyone wants a ministry of food, 'cos they're great. So we say: go on, then! And then they say, well, we're not sure we want a government ministry of food. So I think: oh, yeah. What would a government ministry of food look like? So then I realise: I've branded it as Jamie's ministry of food. Ask Bradford if they want a government ministry of food, or a Jamie's ministry of food, and they'll say: Jamie's. But I've got enough staff, and enough worries, already.' Right. So... 'So what we've done is, we've started a non-profit making business, and I am paying two or three people who know about franchising, and the reason for that is that I have started something, and I have to continue it, otherwise it will turn into complete dogshit. I will just have to do a roll-out.'

This commitment makes me want to clap, but the trouble with Oliver is that, when he thinks aloud, he gets muddled. Also, though he might not know it, he is a moral relativist to his very marrow. He tells me that he has no faith in the ability of local or central government to run with his idea. 'The reason the Ministry is working in Rotherham is because we went up there and interviewed 30 local boys and girls, and we're not fucking stupid. If they [local government] did it, can you imagine what the staff would look like? You could have anyone getting a fucking job! You've got to understand food, love food, and understand people skills. So, I am going to have to charge councils for this. If I can charge them, that's fine. But it's still another business I've got to look after.' All of which is fair enough, even if it does sound a bit, well, grand. But then he says: 'I can't stop thinking about all this. I'm not an academically bright person. I think about everything like my dad's pub [Oliver's father, Trevor, is an Essex pub landlord]. Go to Pret A Manger or McDonald's and ask them: have you got an inspiring boss? They'll say: yes. I know the bosses of those companies and they're fucking inspiring. They're really shit hot. They're visionary. Look at what they've done. Fucking hell!' Eh? What McDonald's does, Jamie, is sell cheap, low-quality food to poor people and children - and that's what you're supposed to be against.

He was thrilled when some journalists acclaimed his Ministry of Food series, but he does not agree with their analysis that what people eat has more to do with their social class than anything else. 'I've been to some tough places, Sicily and Soweto, and I've seen happy people eating like kings as rich as anything. One of the most memorable meals I've ever eaten was with a road sweeper in southern Italy. Did he eat like a king every day? Yes. Was he happy? Yes. Equally, I know City boys, who are as miserable as shit, and who eat like Natasha.' He uses the example of Claire Hallam, one of the Rotherham women whom he taught to cook, who previously ate at least a dozen bags of crisps a day and who did not know what boiling water looked like. 'I know Claire. She's not thick. But she is ignorant, in the nicest possible way. No one taught her when she was a kid. Not at home, and not at school. No mentoring.'

Was he shocked by what he found in Rotherham? 'Well, I did have a rant about it. It was... it confirmed that there is a new type of poverty. They've got walls, they've got heating, they've got a rain-tight house; they've got a plasma screen, a Sky box, mobile phones and Nike trainers. But they'll sit on the floor and eat out of Styrofoam boxes seven days a week. There's an oven in there that's quite good, but that never gets used. There's a new type of poverty, and it's fucking knowledge poverty. If you are on the dole, you can live quite good. You don't pay council tax, you don't pay rent, you get various other bits and pieces, too. So if you are wily, you can have central heating and eat well.' This is not to judge, nor to minimise the difficulties women like Natasha face. 'There are deep social problems out there. But there were [middle-class people] in the series who complained that they couldn't pass it on because they were too busy. That has nothing at all to do with money, and it's a load of bollocks.'

Oliver sounds heartfelt when he talks about all this, and it is moderately plucky to speak of about plasma screens and dole money in the same breath as the need for what he calls his 'do-gooding'. Such a conjunction is unfashionable these days; most commentators either focus on poverty and ignore the plasma screens for fear of weakening their own liberal arguments or, in the manner of Richard Littlejohn, they see only the plasma screens and so are able to walk guiltlessly away from issues such as child obesity, muttering the words 'feckless' and 'benefit culture' as they do so. Sometimes, in fact, Oliver sounds so quaint, he could be some non-conformist member of the Temperance Movement circa 1853; all he needs are a set of mutton-chop whiskers, and a good line in Bible quotations.

And yet... oh, and yet. There is still the problem - and it is a big problem - of his ongoing commercial relationship with Sainsbury's, which puts him in an invidious position every time he criticises the culture of cheap, bad food (earlier this year, Sainsbury's was furious when he criticised it for failing to appear at a public debate about chicken farming; he later wrote an open letter apologising to its staff). Wouldn't it be better now to walk away from this deal?

Apparently not. 'If they sacked me... you saw what happened in January. That isn't the behaviour of someone who gives a fuck if they are sacked or not.' He then adds: 'I never really got to the bottom of that, but I was told not to talk about it, so... My contract is up in June, and I'm led to believe that they might sign me up again.' So why not tell them thanks, but no thanks? 'I promise you, I'd never work for a competitor.' But all supermarkets, basically, are the same. 'Sainsbury's is in my heart. It came from humble beginnings, it came from a small shop, and an element of that still lives and breathes. Our shortfall is that we are not savage and shouting about what we are already doing. We are quite conservative and nice, you know. Really. Being able to work with a supermarket in these times is a pleasure because all of them are doing the clean up, even the bad guys.' So, he never has any dark nights of the soul thinking about it? 'No, not at all. I know that they know I am a pain in the arse, but the people at the top are really good, and they love food, and when I started that wasn't the case. If I had shares [in Sainsbury's], I'd keep 'em.' He doesn't ever feel guilty then, given all that he knows about supermarkets (like, say, the way they have collectively driven down farmers' prices)? 'No, I don't. Nine years. It's the longest celebrity endorsement ever, swiftly followed by Gary Lineker [who does ads for Walker's crisps]. The only sexy thing [about giving it up] would be getting some time back.'

This speech is disorientating, especially his use of the word 'our' as though he is a store manager, or a press officer. It is so at odds with his commitment to projects like Fifteen, which trains young people, often with challenging backgrounds, to become chefs; with his campaign for school dinners, which he pushed so high up the political agenda that universal free school meals are to be piloted in two local authorities (if this improves children's health, it will be extended across England; Scotland, meanwhile, is to offer free meals in all its primary schools); with his clarion call for a new Ministry of Food. As he says himself: 'I get my hands dirty. While everyone else knocks out their 20 shows a year, I spend two years making four programmes.' Last August, he told the Edinburgh Television Festival that Jamie's School Dinners cost him personally £350,000. I know he has to earn a living, but he is supposed to be worth £25 million, and counting. His shows are screened in 106 countries. People are queuing round the block to eat at his new restaurant chain, Jamie's Italian. His books sell by the shed-load. And then there is all the other... stuff

In the days after I meet him, someone sends me - why? - a Jamie Oliver Nintendo DS game. A week after that, I read that he is to open two new restaurants at the Jumeirah Golf Estates in Dubai. So what motivates him most: making money, or changing the world? 'Do I like working around incredible people? I do. I blossom. They give me permission to be better than I am.' So we can take it that he would be an excellent Pret A Manger manager. He laughs. 'I have 100 employees now. My wage bill is £5m. I have to make money. At the same time, I could retire. Money doesn't really turn me on. Doing things properly and being successful is important to me. But I don't think an extra million quid would make a difference either way. It's not about being good. I don't think I am any nicer than any nice person I've ever met.' His final word on this? 'I am a freak of nature.'

Oliver believes passionately in the idea of 'pass it on'. He tells me that he hopes the phrase will pass into the language as shorthand for 'you know, coming over and learning to make spag bol'. In his mind's eye, he sees one man teaching his neighbours to make 'parmesan chicken breasts with crispy posh ham' and then - presto! - suddenly the whole of Britain can make it. I don't think this is patronising, but it is naive. In Rotherham, talking to Lisa, and to the men, it is clear that Jamie's Ministry is now working as a domestic science room: no one is passing anything on apart from Lisa and the other teachers. They are running what used to be called home economics lessons and, in this sense, perhaps Oliver's series was just so much televisual faffing. Rather than visiting single mothers at home, and inspecting their chocolate collections, he should just have hot-footed it to Ed Balls, the fast-blinking education secretary, and demanded to know why cooking is not part of the core curriculum. Whatever else I think about Oliver, he is right that this is not about money so much as skills. Since the series was aired, some people have made the point that the working classes have always eaten bad food; they could not afford to do anything else. By way of proof, they like to quote The Road to Wigan Pier by George Orwell, with its angry descriptions of cheap, sweet and processed foods, consumed by the weary as the best way of filling up fast.

I am not sure that this is entirely fair. Soon after my visit to Rotherham, I read Round About a Pound a Week by the Fabian, Maud Pember Reeves; first published as a political pamphlet in 1913, it is about the working poor of Lambeth. The poor were poorer in 1913 than they are now, in absolute and relative terms, and an account of what they had to spend on food is enough to bring furious tears to the eyes. But still, they knew how to make stew and dumplings. When people link social class and food, I always think of my grandmothers, both of whom were working class and left school at 13, and one of whom - my paternal grandmother, having been widowed too young - was always poor. They could cook because they had been taught to. Neck of lamb stew might not be the loveliest dish in the world (though my brother has a Proustian reverence for it even today), but it is cheap, filling and it doesn't give you heart disease. No, this is all about education, and if our mothers and fathers can't teach us, someone else is going to have to. It's great that Jamie's Ministry is teaching adults to cook but, in the long term, there is a problem with this. Jamie's name, as he has pointed out, lends the project a certain something.

What happens when this ceases to be the case? He knows that his celebrity might not last forever. 'I've been on screens in Britain for 11 years,' he says. 'But most people get spat out in three...' TV chefs, like tinned tomatoes, have a shelf life. This is why the government has got to act. The government has got to make sure that children learn to cook. Full stop.

But change, however it is ultimately accomplished, is urgent. On this, at least, surely we are all agreed. On the train to Rotherham, I looked up from my book to find that a family of four had installed itself in the seats beside me. It was lunch time. Their lunch consisted of a family-sized bag of chocolate Minstrels, and several bags of crisps - and something told me that this was not a half-term treat. The little girl - she was about six - smiled at me, to reveal a row of tiny black pegs. Oliver, whose wife is expecting their third child, grasps this urgency, for all that he is so privileged, for all that he owns - if my eyes do not deceive me - an Aston Martin (I saw it when, as preparation for our meeting, I visited the Essex farm where he lives, and where he shot his bucolic At Home series). Will he return to this subject with another film, the better to agitate the people in Westminster? He looks anxious again, as tired as old bones. 'I dunno. There's no rules with me. I'm basically a fucking lunatic. I mean, I promised the public I'd follow school dinners until it was done, and now it looks like I might be fucking 50 before it is.' He sends me home with a plastic bag. 'That's for you, babe.' Inside, is a recipe for a beef stir-fry and everything I need to make it: sesame oil, spring onions, best organic steak - the lot. It's all from Sainsbury's, but I try not to mind too much.

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