Mr Pizza and All That Jazz

MR PIZZA

AND ALL THAT JAZZ

BY PETER BOIZOT

WRITTEN WITH

MATTHEW REVILLE

2014

Second Edition

Copyright © 2016 Peter Boizot. All rights reserved.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (Paperback) 978-0-9930112-2-1

ISBN (Ebook) 978-0-9930112-3-8

No part of this book may be distributed, posted, or reproduced in any form by digital or mechanical means without prior written permission of the publisher author, Peter Boizot, co-author Matthew Reville, or the publisher, Large Things Ltd.

Published by Large Things Ltd.

Designed and Set by SWATT Design Ltd www.swatt-design.co.uk

Co-written by Matthew Reville

Printed internationally by Ingram Spark

For more information, or to buy copies of this book please visit http://www.peterboizot.com/

I would like to thank my friend Matthew Reville for all his hard work putting into writing what has been an incredible life.

It has seen considerable success and embraced great changes as I swept through different stages of my time on the Earth.

I am lucky to have pursued things that were successful.

I am glad those businesses brought me unexpected riches.

I am proud to have invested that fortune back into things I love.

- Peter Boizot MBE

Foreword – Luke Johnson

I consider Peter Boizot to be one of the more remarkable entrepreneurs and philanthropists of our age. So many owe him a debt of gratitude – including me.

Peter introduced decent pizza to the citizens of London in 1965 by opening a restaurant in Wardour Street, Soho. Over the decades, the business he founded – PizzaExpress – has become the most successful British restaurant company ever. Branches are now proliferating all over the world – especially China. It is a dining institution, deeply loved by its customers. I was fortunate enough to take the reins from Peter in the role of Chairman in 1993, and help steer it through one of its greatest periods of expansion. I suspect that without Peter, and his magnificent invention PizzaExpress, my career would have been a great deal less exciting and rewarding.

For almost thirty years, Peter developed and shaped PizzaExpress, combining an outstanding product with stylish surroundings, brilliant economics and ingenious recruitment. Its formula of a simple menu, fair prices, interesting buildings and high service standards was unbeatable. The competition melted away, the legions of fans grew and grew, and for untold thousands PizzaExpress became a byword for an affordable and classy night out.

Meanwhile Peter continued to pursue his other passions such as jazz, hockey, Peterborough, the Liberal Party and St Catharine’s College, Cambridge. He also created the Veneziana pizza at PizzaExpress: every one sold has contributed to the Venice in Peril fund. Over £2 million has been raised so far. He has been a magnificent donor to those and other good causes close to his heart, and I think it is true to say that he has given away tens of millions of pounds over the decades.

Peter has also been an extraordinary host, throwing legendary parties at venues like Kettner’s and The Great Northern Hotel in his home town, Peterborough. His vast guest lists must have consumed many hundreds of gallons of champagne at Peter’s expense, enjoying his munificent hospitality.

The author is at heart a salesman and a dreamer, full of superhuman energy, a bon viveur and a man who is always working on various grand schemes. He has never really received the accolades he deserves for his pioneering work as a popular restaurateur, a charitable giver on a major scale, and someone who has added immeasurably to cultural life in Britain over the last fifty years. I hope this book acts as a reminder to many of all he has achieved.

This autobiography is his astonishing story and I commend it to you.

Contents

Foreword – Luke Johnson iv

Mr Boizot, Could You Tell Us What A Pizza Is? 1

I – EARLY LIFE 5

A (Not-So) Express Delivery 6

All About The Boizots 9

How Meeting ‘Monsters’ Created A Vegetarian 15

A King’s Education 21

My Rational Wartime Diet 28

II – A CONTINENTAL WANDERLUST 33

My First Italian Adventure 34

From The Sahara To The Students’ Union 39

The Birth Of A Salesman 44

Life On The Sea 47

A Working Beatnik Drifting Through Europe 53

An Entrepreneurial Spark 59

III – BRINGING PIZZA TO ENGLAND 69

There’s Not A Decent Pizzeria In London 70

Our First Menu 79

Turning The Dream Into Reality 86

‘D-Day’ 93

How To Make The Perfect Pizza 99

IV – THE BUSINESS EXPANDS 103

Adding Pearls To The Necklace 104

Mixing Pizza And Jazz 116

Howzat For A Sporting Friendship? 122

Hedging My Bets On New Investments 129

Protecting Priceless Soho 138

Expressing The Need For An Executive Team 142

V – THE NECKLACE TURNS INTO AN EMPIRE 147

Can Pizza Lead To Parliament? 148

Political Elections Are Like London Buses 156

Venice Is In Peril 161

The Pizza Veneziana 166

Celebrating Soho’s Splendour: Kettner’s 170

The Ultimate Wing Man 178

VI – ENJOYING MY SUCCESS 187

Moving Up In The World, But Helping Others Onto Their Feet 188

Swinging Swindon (And Other Squabbles) 194

Awards And Recognition 203

The Soho Jazz Festival 208

Befriending A Dictator’s Son 212

VII – POST PIZZA AMBITIONS 217

The End Of An Era 218

The Mozzarella Millionaire’s New Necklace 225

Working From Home 233

A Restaurant For My Father 239

VIII – MONEY HAS NO OWNERS 243

If You Are Looking For A Way To Lose All Your Money, Buy A Football Club 244

Rumours, Relegation And The Radio 251

Sponsorships And Spice Girls 259

A Very Posh Promotion 269

IX – NO REGRETS 275

The Final Jewel Becomes The Final Straw 276

How To Lose Millions Of Pounds… And Keep Smiling 281

Selling The Posh 286

Battling The Banks 292

Carry On Carrying On 299

Ron Simson 302

Introduction

Mr Boizot, Could You Tell Us What A Pizza Is?

Can you imagine that question being asked today? It is something that anyone could answer – be they a toddler or a teenager, a parent or a pensioner. The nation’s leading brains and biggest dunces would have no problem describing that simple, delightful food.

And yet, when London was in the throes of the swinging ‘60s, that very question was asked to me by a man whose job was to have his finger on the capital’s pulse. It was posed by a distinguished member of the Royal Automobile Club during my nerve-wracking interview to join the capital’s most exclusive members’ only club.

The year was 1967 – just two years after I had set up the first PizzaExpress, but 20 years after my love for pizza was born during a stint as an au pair in Italy.

The club was based on the forever fashionable Pall Mall. On face value it was a society for motoring enthusiasts, but in reality it was a peacock show: a chance to rub shoulders with the nation’s elite. On walking through their luxurious building, you could almost smell the heritage.

It was easy to imagine the Prime Minister meeting the head of the civil service in the opulent Great Gallery, while the biggest celebrities in the world wouldn’t look out of place against the art deco chic backing of the Brooklands Room. The RAC had 106 bedrooms for members to stay in – and every bed was filled nightly by a person worth knowing.

After I was led through that overwhelmingly impressive building to my interview room, I admit I was a little intimidated. I had come from modest, if comfortably middle-class, stock in the charming city of Peterborough. Although I had bluffed conversation with important and powerful people all my life, at this stage I was just a small businessman with a big dream.

But this was not the time to be quaking in your boots. After he asked me to explain what a pizza was, I looked deep into the interviewer’s eye and replied, with some gusto, about my love for that gastronomic delight.

I fervently explained how I was first exposed to the dish in its authentic form by the delightful Uzielli di Mari family, who I worked for between finishing school and being conscripted to the army.

I reminisced that I arrived in Italy as a skinny, vegetarian teenager, who chose a dull diet of Heinz baked beans and chips after I shunned my mother’s wonderful meat dishes. She was a fine cook, but when the decision was between eating a poor animal’s flesh or forsaking her best efforts, I’m afraid the latter won out every time.

But my negative nutrition was forever lost after I became exposed to that most delightful dish – pizza. It opened up a world of culinary opportunity for me. Pizza immediately became a food which was to nurture my body for many years to come. Since finding it I had put on a few healthy pounds to complement my six-foot-one frame.

Now it was my mission to share that splendid food with my fellow countrymen. By the time I had told him my story, I think he wanted to grab a slice himself.

Many have said that my love for pizza is infectious – perhaps that is the secret to my success. My family and friends quite rightly note that I can barely find my way around a kitchen, so I’m no culinary expert. But I know what I like, and I have ample bravado to think others will like it as well.

My enthusiasm won through, and I was offered that much coveted spot in the RAC. I am still a member to this day, and it’s just one of a number of things I have to thank pizza for delivering to my life.

PizzaExpress has grown into an international chain, with over 420 restaurants throughout the UK and others as far afield as Hong Kong and India. And yes, it is spelt as one word with no space marks… although most seem to spell it as two words!

Our growth was cemented in Italian culinary tradition – not easy when one is removed from that country by some thousand miles. But we looked to Italy for our initial inspiration, staff members and equipment.

Profits have never been my driving force, but I am lucky to have earned a lot of cash over the years. The money I did earn helped me explore my other great passions. I’ve never had a business mantra (and never even drew up a single business plan). I simply followed what I am passionate about. If, like me, you are lucky enough to find something you love doing, that is the day you retire from ‘work’ – or at least its literal definition.

Don’t get me wrong, I have put in long hours and tried my utmost throughout my life, but as this book will show, I have had a hell of a good time doing it. It often hasn’t felt like work at all.

But I will get into those things in more detail as the chapters move on. For now, I shall sum things up by saying I am pleased to live in a country today where nobody will ever again have to answer the question, What is a pizza?.

CHAPTER I:

EARLY LIFE

Quite fittingly, my life reads like a good cook book.

There are nine chapters to my life’s story – just like there are nine stages to making the perfect pizza. Those stages of making a pizza share similarities with the stages of my life.

For example, in the ‘cook book’ of my life, one must consider the formative years that created the building blocks of my character that would guide my choices in adulthood. The first step towards a successful life is making sure your preparation is right. This can come from a number of sources – education, experiences or family.

Similarly, the first step to making the perfect pizza is preparing the ingredients. If the foundations of the dish are not correct, it’s impossible for the pizza to come out right. One must not rush to the oven before preparing the ingredients correctly.

1

A (Not-So) Express Delivery

I came into the world in an upstairs bedroom on 59 Lincoln Road, Peterborough – then the very last home on the street. The date was November 16, 1929 and I tipped the scales at a mammoth 11 ½ pounds. That must have been one hell of a big push for my dear mother, so if you will excuse the pun I can’t have been much of an express delivery.

I was such a big baby that my mother was ill for two months after I was born. There were complications during the birth meaning she was bed-ridden and had to have her appendix removed. Her mum (Granny Culshaw) looked after me while she got back to fitness. In time, she was able to come back to the family home.

I was the first child of Susannah and Gaston Boizot, and they spoilt me rotten. I enjoyed a very comfortable adolescence and never went without. Well, excluding my teenage years of course, when food rations began to be imposed on us all during the Second World War.

My first family home was in Lincoln Road, the main street in the area of Peterborough called New England. It was the heart of the city before later post-war expansions that saw Peterborough replace its vibe of a lovely, large market town for one of an industrial, small city. But I have always loved Peterborough and its people, and despite my international adventures, always kept an anchor in the city.

After my birth, it was not long before I was christened. Photographs do not exist of the day, but I am told it was a packed house in Paston Church for the service by Cannon Lethbridge. I have remained a good Christian in the Church of England for all of my God given 84 years, and the good lord willing I hope to go on serving him for many more years.

My darling mother fed me well, from breast and elsewhere. Despite being a committed vegetarian, I am not ashamed to say she gave me a good portion of raw liver when I was an infant. This was very normal in those days, as it was recommended by the medical profession for iron intake.

We stayed in that house on Lincoln Road until I was two years old, and then the family moved to Stilton, a village famed for its cheese, five miles south of Peterborough. But we didn’t last long in the sticks and soon moved back into the city centre, to a brand new house on All Saints Road, a stone’s throw from Lincoln Road.

It was a fairly up-market house, but the thing that excited me most about the move was that my grandparents lived just a few minutes’ walk away on Harris Street.

They were my mother’s parents, and the pair of us would go to see them most days. It was a great thing to have your extended family members so close – and that is something I fear our community lacks these days.

There was also a church on our road, a good bonus for our Christian family. But I believe that was a lucky co-incidence rather than a planned operation. My father went to church regularly, and would take me along every Sunday.

Our new home was called Alberta House. The builder of all the new homes had spent some time in the States, and decided to give American names to all of the houses. It had three bedrooms – a sure sign another would soon join our little brood… and so it was no surprise when my darling little sister, Mary Clementine, was born when I was seven.

The houses were all built in rows back in those days, which gave me plenty of neighbours to befriend – a treat for any small boy. The neighbours were very sociable, and it would actually be a challenge not to make friends.

All the children would play in the streets and in the local parks, which are still there but see much less use from the local youngsters. They seem to stay indoors watching television and playing computer games nowadays, which is a shame. Kids should be active, they should be outdoors exploring.

It was a busy area, and you would bump into many familiar and friendly faces just popping to the nearby shops. There was a Co-Op at the top of the road, handy for picking up sweets, and a wonderful fish-and-chip shop on the nearby Dogsthorpe Road. It was a vibrant, communal place where people would pop in to pick up some grub but stick around to catch up with people from the neighbourhood.

I don’t doubt that the friendly spirit of that quaint fish-and-chip shop sowed the seeds for me to push my own restaurants as a social hub later on in life.

2

All About The Boizots

My wonderful parents, Susannah and Gaston Boizot

A lot of people ask me where the family name ‘Boizot’ originated from. My father, though raised in England, came from northern French stock. It is a name I am proud of: bold and brash, with a touch of flamboyancy. It has caused many people apprehension as they stumble to work out how to pronounce it. I tell them they should say Boy-zo, but in reality is should be Bwa-zzzzz-eau. But that is a bit too much of a tongue twister for the English, so Boy-zo it is.

I previously mentioned my sister, and early on in this book I feel I should make a public apology. For three quarters of a century, Mary Clementine Boizot has had to put up with people calling her ‘Wendy’. The nickname, which she detests, was one I gave her as a baby and proved harder to shake off than a bulldog with his molars adjusted to the death grip.

I was a fairly precocious child, and took to reading from a very early age. When I was six years old, my mother was due to give birth to her second baby. When my future sister was patiently waiting to be born, her soon-to-be godmother Monica Leverett gave me a copy of J.M. Barrie’s book Peter Pan.

Monica never had children of her own, but was a maternal figure to hundreds (if not thousands) of children in Peterborough as headmistress of Fulbridge Infants School. Being a wise teacher, she had given me the book because I shared the same Christian name as the main protagonist. With mother and father fawning over the baby bump, what better present to give an attention-hungry child than a book where the swashbuckling hero shares his name?

I became fascinated by the story. As a fellow ‘Peter’, I fantasised that the book was a description of my own adventures. As I’m sure you are aware, the book’s leading lady is Wendy Darling. The name struck a chord with me, and in my fantasy world I needed to find a Wendy to join me on those imaginary adventures to Neverland.

When my sister was born, she was officially registered as Mary Clementine Boizot by our parents. She was named after a family tradition, and became the fourth generation of Clementines from my father’s side. However, this heritage didn’t cut the mustard with me – who has ever read about the adventures of ‘Peter and Mary Clementine’?

No, I needed a Wendy, and I felt my sister could play that role. I simply refused to call her anything but Wendy, in the hope that she could help me to achieve my rightful position of being the real life Peter Pan.

The nickname caught on fast; everybody called her Wendy. It was taken on by parents, grandparents and family friends and years down the road by teachers and even future generations of Boizot family members.

Sometimes she finds this quite irritating, understandably, and often reminds me that her name is not Wendy but actually Mary Clementine. But to me and most others, she will always be Wendy.

While I do have some apologies to make for naming her after Peter Pan’s companion, she does have to count herself lucky that she wasn’t born a boy… or else she would have ended up as Captain Hook!

Saying that, maybe I’m also the lucky one not to have a brother. I’m not sure that would have gone down well due to my competitive nature. Having a brother would have meant two boys competing for my mother’s attentions, and that just wouldn’t do. So, all in all, I was very happy to have a sister.

Most family holidays were to nearby Fenland towns like Snettisham and Hunstanton. They felt terribly exotic at the time, but in hindsight they were very close. However, our money was earmarked for more functional things, and I remember one mooted holiday to Cromer being rejected by my father because it was too posh for us. Such was life.

My father Gaston was born in London but moved as an infant to Peterborough, then in ‘Northamptonshire’ but since rebranded most likely for marketing purposes to be in ‘northern Cambridgeshire’. He was raised there not by his parents, but by his extended family. I never talked to him much about it, but the family was not close to that side of grandparents.

He was a wonderful man. He was better known as ‘Gus’ to everyone who met him, and people of all ages loved him. He was a charismatic story teller, and would pluck the most fantastic stories out of some creative side of his mind where others just had dormant grey matter.

He would often talk about things like rabbits that disappeared down plug holes in the bath. I didn’t appreciate his skills until I got a little older and was able to watch him with my younger sister, and her little friends, who would rush to sit on his knee as he told some far-fetched story about monsters while relaxing in his living room armchair. My mum said he was like the Pied Piper.

My father was a true Peterborian. He was a pupil at the excellent Deacon’s School in Peterborough, which is now known as Thomas Deacon Academy. After finishing school at the age of 14 he went straight into the Union Insurance Company on Priestgate,