Jeremy King does not usually go in for fighting talk, in the same way that the Dalai Lama tends to avoid a bar brawl. The man behind London’s most beloved restaurants is known for his overawing cordiality and calm; a relaxed rigor, even among the heat and tumult of a fiery kitchen.
To see him shimmer across the marbled floor of the Wolseley—a bastion of civility that makes the Ritz next door look like … well, anything but the Ritz—is to observe some high priest of sweetness and light at work. (A private joke with Joan Collins here; a kind recommendation to a lost Texan there.) But today, as he fights for control of the restaurant group that bears his name, King has his dander up. “If you wish to avoid a war,” he says, “then don’t start a battle.”
