Jeremy Lee: A Life In…

Jeremy Lee has been happily ensconced in the kitchen of Quo Vadis, on Dean Street in Soho, since 2012. The Dundee-born chef’s career reads like a potted history of the evolution of British food, as our country has gone from relative backwater, to one proud of its culinary history.   

From cooking at Bibendum with Simon Hopkinson, to running the Blueprint Cafe at the Design Museum, when it was perched on the bank of the Thames, and most enduringly his time at Quo Vadis itself — in all of these establishments Jeremy has become famed and loved for sending out plates overflowing with generosity.  

Among the labyrinthine rooms of Quo Vadis — a space he refers to as resembling an “ocean liner”, with its plush red leathers, art nouveau brass fixtures, and warren of dining rooms — he’s developed a cuisine that feels explicitly British, and wonderfully timeless. For a luxurious dining experience it’s incredibly homely. The food is honest, ingredient-first, very precisely not more complicated than it should. It is equally the perfect place to have just a couple of oysters and a glass of white wine, as it is a boozy and long three course lunch, a pie or a pork chop, or a towering, gleeful meringue. 

For the first in our new editorial series, A Life In…, where the great and good expound on the defining moments of their creative lives, we joined Jeremy for lunch of a martini and a smoked eel sandwich, and let him regale us with stories of a life spent in kitchens; from his mum’s cooking in Dundee, to his favourite cookbooks, and those famous meringues. 

On Growing Up…  

I grew up in a house to which food was central — which, back in the early 1960s, was quite unusual. In those days, eating out simply wasn’t part of life in most of Britain. There were very few restaurants in small towns, garlic could only be found in Italian delis, courgettes were incredibly glamorous things, and ratatouille was the height of sophistication. It’s extraordinary to think how foreign all that once seemed. 

My parents were both dyed-in-the-wool Dundonians. It was a curious, creative household. Mum adored food. She loved feeding people and she was a proper Scottish cook, the kind who could turn out a perfect mince and tatties and a rice pudding that could make you weep. It was local, seasonal cooking before anyone used the word seasonal. We didn’t think of it as anything special; it was just normal life. 

Scotland was also full of new influences then. After the war there had been an influx of Italians and Poles, and their delis and cafés introduced us to olive oil, tomatoes, and Parmesan. It was intoxicating. It planted the seed that food could be both local and worldly, and that good ingredients mattered more than anything else. 

“Back then, cookery books weren’t glossy things with photographs. You had to use your imagination. There was no flicking through them, you read them, as you would a novel.”

On Elizabeth David…  

Elizabeth David, Jane Grigson, and Claudia Roden, those books were our culinary education and their recipes quietly filtered into our meals as we grew older. It was sophisticated stuff for a Dundee household in the 60s, but it broadened our horizons. 

I’d grown up sitting beside Mum while she cooked, reading whatever books were lying around. Back then, cookery books weren’t glossy things with photographs; they were purely text, sometimes with a little drawing. You had to use your imagination. There was no “flicking through” them, you read them, as you would a novel. 

On Moving to London…  

I started cooking in Scotland, in a beautiful old manor house in Angus, a place with an extraordinary history, dating back nearly a thousand years, through Viking raids, Saxons, Romans. You could feel the past there, and it was a marvellous setting for a young cook, full of atmosphere. 

Then after my apprenticeship, one of the chefs pushed me to head to London, and I arrived at a moment when the restaurant scene was just beginning to wake up. 

Back then, Britain’s food had a terrible reputation, and not entirely unfairly. There wasn’t a single ingredient we couldn’t overcook or destroy. But in little pockets, the odd restaurant or home cook, something new was stirring. People were rediscovering produce, simplicity, flavour. 

When I first came south, the culinary landscape was shifting fast: nouvelle cuisine was in vogue, all tiny portions and towering presentations; then came “fusion”, which was worse; then “modern European”, and eventually “modern British”. That was the first to feel honest, a sense that we might reclaim our own food rather than borrow someone else’s.

“Working at the Design Museum, overlooking the Thames with those huge skies, we tried to figure out how to turn regional British home cooking into something worthy of serving in a restaurant.”

On Making It…  

I was catering a dinner in a banker’s house in Holland Park for about thirty guests — it was pure chaos — and afterwards I was told we’d been given a tip of a thousand pounds, which in those days was an unimaginable sum. The hosts invited me out to dinner as thanks, and took me to Bibendum, which had just opened. 

Walking into that dining room, with those high ceilings, the old Michelin building glowing with light, I thought, “this is what it’s all about”. Simon Hopkinson was cooking there then, and he was extraordinary. His food was elegant, unshowy, impeccable. He’d never have called himself a “chef” in the grand sense, he was simply a cook, but the sophistication of his taste, combined with Terence Conran’s sense of design, was mesmerising.  

Lunch there could be surreal: you’d see Francis Bacon at one table, Elizabeth David at another. It was glamorous and lively, full of noise and energy, not at all like the hushed temples that fine dining used to be. It was a great place to work.  

After that I worked with Alastair Little, who was similarly influential, one of the first to bring a truly modern sensibility to British food. Eventually I opened a tiny restaurant of my own in Islington, which was gorgeous but too small to survive. Then Terence Conran came calling and asked me to open a restaurant at the Design Museum, which he’d just opened at Tower Bridge. I said yes instantly. 

Working there, overlooking the Thames with those huge skies, we tried to figure out how to turn regional British home cooking into something worthy of a restaurant. 

On British Food…  

Throughout those years you could feel our food culture was changing. Alastair Little and Simon Hopkinson had broken down the old barriers. Restaurants were no longer stiff or silent; they were lively, sociable, glamorous. People were drinking pink champagne, listening to good music, talking loudly. There was a sense of excitement and of being part of something new. 

Then came Fergus Henderson and St John. When that opened, it changed everything. Fergus ripped up the rulebook. He cooked British food with absolute conviction. The critics adored it, though at first the public hesitated. Then the art crowd embraced it, Anthony Bourdain declared it the best restaurant in the world, and suddenly everyone got it. 

It wasn’t just about the food. It was about community — chefs, farmers, producers, writers, all feeding into each other. It was the moment Britain finally believed its own produce was worth celebrating. 

“The eel sandwich came into existence simply because we had all these eels and this wonderful sourdough bread to use up. I first put it on a menu in the 90s and it's never left. It’s been a fixture since, a sort of happy squatter.”

On Quo Vadis…  

At first, I tried to do far too much. We had a daily changing menu which was a disaster. It took time to understand what Quo Vadis wanted to be. It’s a grand old restaurant with an incredible history, but it couldn’t live in the past. We had to honour that heritage while being completely present. So gradually we pared things back. The food became simpler, lighter, more seasonal.  

We now change the menu monthly, which gives us time to test new dishes and keep things fresh. There’s always a balance between keeping favourites and avoiding fatigue. You can’t rely on one dish forever. 

And people’s appetites have changed. They want lighter food, vegetable-led dishes, things that taste bright and fresh. We spend more on vegetables than on meat or fish. It’s not a gesture towards vegetarianism, just a reflection of what tastes right. 

On Eels…  

My cooking has always been guided by what was arriving from our producers, the boxes of vegetables, the fish, the fruit. That’s how the smoked eel sandwich was born. We originally wanted to do a truffle sandwich, but truffles were too dear. The eel sandwich came into existence simply because we had all these eels and this wonderful sourdough bread to use up. I first put it on a menu in the 90s and it's never left. It’s been a fixture since, a sort of happy squatter. 

On Meringue…  

Our meringue was pure serendipity. We’d been making puddings for the restaurant downstairs and were asked to cater a party upstairs. Someone combined meringues, fruit, cream, custard, ice cream, the works, and piled it all on a tray. It looked completely unhinged, like a knickerbocker glory that had exploded. People adored it. 

Over time we refined it into something almost elegant: soft, coffee-coloured meringues with a crisp outer shell and a chewy, marshmallowy centre, loaded with seasonal fruit. It’s ridiculous and joyful in equal measure. 

We deliberately keep the main menu low on sugar and cream so the puddings can be exuberant. There’s a lovely nostalgia to it all, the puddings of childhood, the comfort of being fed something sweet and silly. I think that’s why people respond so warmly. 

On Staying Inspired…  

Quo Vadis is over a century old. It has the air of a great ocean liner. I sometimes think of it like one of those grand Cunard ships from the 1920s: elegant, sturdy, full of stories. When we refurbished it, we kept that spirit alive — the red leather, the art deco detailing, the sense of timeless glamour. Working in this building keeps me very inspired.  

But what really keeps me going are the people, all the young cooks coming through. We love finding raw talent, people who walk in and say, “I’d love to work here.” That’s the greatest compliment you can give. We can teach them the rest.  

Soho itself still hums with life. There’s so much inspiration right outside the door. If you’re bored here, you’re the boring one.