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Knives and Spoons: A memoir of addiction, grief and the roots of family
From working in some of London’s most prestigious restaurants to scrubbing fat from kitchen floors, Alasdair Gill’s life as a chef has been a series of exhilarating highs and harrowing lows. But so too has his private life. Taking readers behind the swinging kitchen doors of London’s dining scene, he shows us the major contradictions in his life, from crossing paths with Anthony Bourdain and preparing dishes for the ultra wealthy to hiding in drug-fuelled kitchen dens and a wake-up call that nearly ended his life.
Knives and Spoons is a raw and honest look at the chaotic and often toxic world of professional kitchens, filled with fierce and unforgiving moments, but also a testament to the power of finding one’s craft and the long road to recovery.
Knives and Spoons is a raw and honest look at the chaotic and often toxic world of professional kitchens, filled with fierce and unforgiving moments, but also a testament to the power of finding one’s craft and the long road to recovery.
- GenresMemoir
301 pages, Kindle Edition
Published July 9, 2026
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Displaying 1 - 19 of 19 reviews
August 13, 2026
Świetnie napisane wspomnienia szefa kuchni zmagającego się z uzależnieniem. Sięgnęłam po tę książkę niewiele się spodziewając, głównie dlatego, że była polecana w jednej z moich ulubionych księgarni i początkowo wydawała mi się bardzo bourdainowska, wpisująca się w trend cool kucharza, jak z the bear, który jest autodestrukcyjny ale świetnie gotuje, a okazała się imponująco szczera i emocjonalna.
August 20, 2026
Low key I am getting real Gen-AI feelings from parts of this book. It's the chronic use of em-dashes, the repetitive sentence structures, and over-use of similes and metaphors that does it for me. I don't know, and I'll never be able to prove it. All I know is that as a high school literature teacher who spends my days trying to call out students for cheating in essays, you sometimes just get a feeling about a piece of writing.
I just used chat gpt to spit me out a short story in the vein of the one of the chapters (titled "Ketty Tuna"). Make your own comparison to the chapter in the book.
I don't know, it's just a thought.
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The bankers had rented a house in Hampstead that had been designed to look as if nobody had ever lived in it. Everything was grey, expensive and faintly hostile. Even the flowers seemed to have been selected by a divorce lawyer.
We were there to cook dinner for twelve men who spent their days moving money from one spreadsheet to another and their evenings explaining to women why they were too busy to have children. My partner, Eddie, had been a chef once. I had been a chef twice, which is the culinary equivalent of having been married twice: evidence of optimism, poor judgement and a recurring inability to learn.
We were both using.
Not romantically. There is nothing romantic about drugs once you have graduated from wanting them to wanting them merely to get through Tuesday. Eddie liked anything that could be snorted. I preferred whatever could be swallowed. Between us we had the chemistry of a minor pharmaceutical company and the emotional stability of a wet cardboard box.
The dinner was tuna. Expensive tuna. The sort of tuna that had been raised somewhere in the Pacific with a better pension than most of the people eating it. We dressed it with oil, salt and the sort of tiny green leaves that exist principally to make rich people feel they are eating healthily.
The bankers were drinking champagne and talking about markets.
Eddie disappeared for eleven minutes.
When he came back, he looked radiant, which was never a good sign.
We plated the tuna beneath silver cloches. The room had become warm with money and alcohol. Someone was explaining private equity to someone who had presumably survived without the explanation until that moment.
I carried the final plate out.
The client smiled.
Eddie pulled off the silver lid.
There, on the beautiful pink tuna, was a fine white dusting.
He stared at it.
I stared at him.
He looked at the tuna again, then at the bankers, who were all waiting with the grave anticipation of men expecting to be pleased.
Eddie smiled.
“Tonight’s special,” he said, “is called Ketty Tuna.”
Nobody laughed.
Then one banker did.
Then they all did.
And for one perfect, terrible moment, the room was united by the only thing London still has more of than money: the suspicion that somebody else has made a much worse mistake.
I just used chat gpt to spit me out a short story in the vein of the one of the chapters (titled "Ketty Tuna"). Make your own comparison to the chapter in the book.
I don't know, it's just a thought.
-----------------------------------------------------------
The bankers had rented a house in Hampstead that had been designed to look as if nobody had ever lived in it. Everything was grey, expensive and faintly hostile. Even the flowers seemed to have been selected by a divorce lawyer.
We were there to cook dinner for twelve men who spent their days moving money from one spreadsheet to another and their evenings explaining to women why they were too busy to have children. My partner, Eddie, had been a chef once. I had been a chef twice, which is the culinary equivalent of having been married twice: evidence of optimism, poor judgement and a recurring inability to learn.
We were both using.
Not romantically. There is nothing romantic about drugs once you have graduated from wanting them to wanting them merely to get through Tuesday. Eddie liked anything that could be snorted. I preferred whatever could be swallowed. Between us we had the chemistry of a minor pharmaceutical company and the emotional stability of a wet cardboard box.
The dinner was tuna. Expensive tuna. The sort of tuna that had been raised somewhere in the Pacific with a better pension than most of the people eating it. We dressed it with oil, salt and the sort of tiny green leaves that exist principally to make rich people feel they are eating healthily.
The bankers were drinking champagne and talking about markets.
Eddie disappeared for eleven minutes.
When he came back, he looked radiant, which was never a good sign.
We plated the tuna beneath silver cloches. The room had become warm with money and alcohol. Someone was explaining private equity to someone who had presumably survived without the explanation until that moment.
I carried the final plate out.
The client smiled.
Eddie pulled off the silver lid.
There, on the beautiful pink tuna, was a fine white dusting.
He stared at it.
I stared at him.
He looked at the tuna again, then at the bankers, who were all waiting with the grave anticipation of men expecting to be pleased.
Eddie smiled.
“Tonight’s special,” he said, “is called Ketty Tuna.”
Nobody laughed.
Then one banker did.
Then they all did.
And for one perfect, terrible moment, the room was united by the only thing London still has more of than money: the suspicion that somebody else has made a much worse mistake.
September 24, 2026
As a teen, Alasdair Gill finds himself in kitchens more or less as something to do in between getting high with his friends, directionless after a mildly unsuccessful education experience. He describes in a calculated clarity the collection of odd folk who populate the hospo industry. Each kitchen a slightly different mix of outsiders, with various addictions and personality issues, more than willing to overlook these - what some would consider social deficits. But Gill continues to remain directionless while his appetite for drugs and alcohol grow. Falling in and out of situations he seems to barely have a grasp on.
Gill's writing is entertaining, crude in places, but such is the way of kitchens - and often, addiction. Each chapter is preceded by a recipe, handwritten (with a full recipe in typeface with steps at the end of the book) often related to some part of the chapter. One of the most delightful parts of this memoir was how Gill chose to write about food, apart from falling into cheffing, he does seem to deeply appreciate food. If this or is not related to the fact that his father was a well known food critic, I don't know. The parts about Gill's paternal side of this family are quite emotional. The story of his uncle Nick and the illness and subsequent death of his father, though I do wish that Gill had explored the theme of roots of family more.
And while Gill is unflinching in the description of his addiction, more seems to be paid to a particular odd character or two when sometimes the narrative yearned from something slightly deeper. Possibly in an effort to maintain the punchiness of the writing. Somehow I wish we got to spend more time with the rehab frisbee trio. Though I guess it could understandable to keep private.
A book for fans of The Bear.
Gill's writing is entertaining, crude in places, but such is the way of kitchens - and often, addiction. Each chapter is preceded by a recipe, handwritten (with a full recipe in typeface with steps at the end of the book) often related to some part of the chapter. One of the most delightful parts of this memoir was how Gill chose to write about food, apart from falling into cheffing, he does seem to deeply appreciate food. If this or is not related to the fact that his father was a well known food critic, I don't know. The parts about Gill's paternal side of this family are quite emotional. The story of his uncle Nick and the illness and subsequent death of his father, though I do wish that Gill had explored the theme of roots of family more.
And while Gill is unflinching in the description of his addiction, more seems to be paid to a particular odd character or two when sometimes the narrative yearned from something slightly deeper. Possibly in an effort to maintain the punchiness of the writing. Somehow I wish we got to spend more time with the rehab frisbee trio. Though I guess it could understandable to keep private.
A book for fans of The Bear.
August 3, 2026
I’ve spent the last month bogged down by the absolute monotony of Solace House then dragging myself through Katabasis and R F Kuang’s superiority complex. Knives & Spoons was a gasp of fresh air, which sounds bizarre because all the air Ali describes in the book is smoky at best and laced with narcotics.
Ali Gill can write. He has the rare gift that a lot of writers lack, he has a voice. A distinct voice that can deliver humour effortlessly and then after 5 chapters of laughter, that same voice can break your heart. A voice that can’t be taught, only enhanced by the life experience of the rarest highs and the lowest lows that get even lower when the surprise cellar door springs open.
Knives and Spoons has it all; mollusc shaming, the expression ‘pig minge’, bomb threat level spinach, a frisbee of upmost value and my favourite simile of all time, “. . . sort of like a chair in an old people’s home that electronically tips out your nan.”
Ali has lived, laughed, loved and done a lot of drugs. But he has also lost. The chapter dedicated to his dad, A. A. Gill, was beautifully written and shone figs in a sentimental light that they’ve probably never been shone in before.
Ali is brutally honest with tales from his years of addiction but never self-pitying, he documents his rock bottom description of suicidal idealisation with complete clarity and humanity. One of the most beautiful recurring moments throughout the book was his friendship with Jay, who I was rooting for from the start but sadly feared the outcome and shed tears when it came.
Knives and Spoons is a very powerful memoir. Although it may have not converted me onto a path of complete sobriety, I did ghost a local landlord who invited me to a lock-in with free substances and unlimited alcohol in favour of reading through the night. And that’s a start.
All the compliments to the chef.
All the Michelin stars ever.
Elastic. Golden. Alive
Ali Gill can write. He has the rare gift that a lot of writers lack, he has a voice. A distinct voice that can deliver humour effortlessly and then after 5 chapters of laughter, that same voice can break your heart. A voice that can’t be taught, only enhanced by the life experience of the rarest highs and the lowest lows that get even lower when the surprise cellar door springs open.
Knives and Spoons has it all; mollusc shaming, the expression ‘pig minge’, bomb threat level spinach, a frisbee of upmost value and my favourite simile of all time, “. . . sort of like a chair in an old people’s home that electronically tips out your nan.”
Ali has lived, laughed, loved and done a lot of drugs. But he has also lost. The chapter dedicated to his dad, A. A. Gill, was beautifully written and shone figs in a sentimental light that they’ve probably never been shone in before.
Ali is brutally honest with tales from his years of addiction but never self-pitying, he documents his rock bottom description of suicidal idealisation with complete clarity and humanity. One of the most beautiful recurring moments throughout the book was his friendship with Jay, who I was rooting for from the start but sadly feared the outcome and shed tears when it came.
Knives and Spoons is a very powerful memoir. Although it may have not converted me onto a path of complete sobriety, I did ghost a local landlord who invited me to a lock-in with free substances and unlimited alcohol in favour of reading through the night. And that’s a start.
All the compliments to the chef.
All the Michelin stars ever.
Elastic. Golden. Alive
August 9, 2026
Fantastic read! Reminds me of the frailty of human existence. Loved it.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
While some will be familiar with food critic AA Gill’s writing for The Times, fewer likely know of the two chefs in his immediate family; brother Nick and son Alisdair. Alisdair’s book may seem to be about the culinary arts, anchored by his journey from Kitchen Porter to Head Chef. Indeed there are many recipes (actually, for me, too many). However, the main course (sorry…) here is really family, relationships and the shadow cast over them by addiction.
There’s no shortage of books about addiction and recovery. Indeed, Gill senior wrote one of the better ones, “Pour Me”. Alasdair wastes no time introducing us to his own drink and drug dependencies. Aged 26 working with a small number of other barely functional addicts at a restaurant called the Plum Gate in London’s east end, his constant need for drink and drugs has to be funded somehow, and restaurant kitchens are one of the few places an addict can do both. His description of daily kitchen service is visceral with a side of dark humour.
Gill’s masterful turn of words elevates what could easy be just another sordid treaty in self-pity into something genuinely engaging. He’s unrelenting in acknowledging his bad choices and terrible behaviour, but slowly the focus moves from junkie porn to his friends, family and how he managed to get sober.
After falling out of education – “like closing a book I’d never read” – with no idea what to do with his life, his real education comes in substance abuse living in a squat in Kensington Gardens. By a “miracle” (his words) he gets a job washing dishes at The Delaunay in Covent Garde. The only thing that matters in his life is his next fix, but the relentless hours and demands of the job bring “it’s own quiet ecstasy” and a lifelong relationship is formed. Addiction costs him jobs but also forces him to find new once in a line of work chock full of people just passing through.
After explaining how he gave up vegetarianism after eating too many sausages “to grant myself another meaty mulligan” he changes tack and devotes a chapter to his Uncle Nick. Nick Gill was an early celebrity chef feted by the Roux brothers, Charles and Diana and even Delia Smith whose stratospheric success was followed by a terrible collapse that culminated in a prison sentence, drug use (both voluntary and involuntary) and ultimately a disappearance which remains unresolved 30 years later. Gill admits he can’t fathom why he’s still there but Nick isn’t – the chef he admires “whose food I never tasted”, “the family I miss, without ever meeting”.
Gill goes on to describe his father and the impact his death from cancer in 2016, and his own slow, unsteady steps into sobriety, facilitated by his mother (former Home Secretary Amber Rudd) and unexpectedly influenced by his father. Gill discovers that addiction and dyslexia have hereditary elements, his father gifting him an “unwanted heirloom”.
The book closes with an unflinching insight to the recovery process and quite chillingly, how virtually all of those alongside him in that process lapsed and died. Gill remains candid in his self assessment, facing the identity crisis that confronts most recovering addicts like “an adult toddler”, understanding that whilst his identify as a drunk was “a shit one… I kind of knew what it was”.
By the end, Gill is facing responsibility – “it doesn’t give you wind in your sails; it gives you the anchor”. There’s fatherhood, and a superb story of having to list his former addictions to a midwife. He’s also running a successful private catering firm and best of all employing his step brother so that he too can become a chef. His sobriety is something his dad barely saw – “He missed it. It’s fucking classic of him”. But the resurrection is underway, and that’s what matters most.
There’s no shortage of books about addiction and recovery. Indeed, Gill senior wrote one of the better ones, “Pour Me”. Alasdair wastes no time introducing us to his own drink and drug dependencies. Aged 26 working with a small number of other barely functional addicts at a restaurant called the Plum Gate in London’s east end, his constant need for drink and drugs has to be funded somehow, and restaurant kitchens are one of the few places an addict can do both. His description of daily kitchen service is visceral with a side of dark humour.
Gill’s masterful turn of words elevates what could easy be just another sordid treaty in self-pity into something genuinely engaging. He’s unrelenting in acknowledging his bad choices and terrible behaviour, but slowly the focus moves from junkie porn to his friends, family and how he managed to get sober.
After falling out of education – “like closing a book I’d never read” – with no idea what to do with his life, his real education comes in substance abuse living in a squat in Kensington Gardens. By a “miracle” (his words) he gets a job washing dishes at The Delaunay in Covent Garde. The only thing that matters in his life is his next fix, but the relentless hours and demands of the job bring “it’s own quiet ecstasy” and a lifelong relationship is formed. Addiction costs him jobs but also forces him to find new once in a line of work chock full of people just passing through.
After explaining how he gave up vegetarianism after eating too many sausages “to grant myself another meaty mulligan” he changes tack and devotes a chapter to his Uncle Nick. Nick Gill was an early celebrity chef feted by the Roux brothers, Charles and Diana and even Delia Smith whose stratospheric success was followed by a terrible collapse that culminated in a prison sentence, drug use (both voluntary and involuntary) and ultimately a disappearance which remains unresolved 30 years later. Gill admits he can’t fathom why he’s still there but Nick isn’t – the chef he admires “whose food I never tasted”, “the family I miss, without ever meeting”.
Gill goes on to describe his father and the impact his death from cancer in 2016, and his own slow, unsteady steps into sobriety, facilitated by his mother (former Home Secretary Amber Rudd) and unexpectedly influenced by his father. Gill discovers that addiction and dyslexia have hereditary elements, his father gifting him an “unwanted heirloom”.
The book closes with an unflinching insight to the recovery process and quite chillingly, how virtually all of those alongside him in that process lapsed and died. Gill remains candid in his self assessment, facing the identity crisis that confronts most recovering addicts like “an adult toddler”, understanding that whilst his identify as a drunk was “a shit one… I kind of knew what it was”.
By the end, Gill is facing responsibility – “it doesn’t give you wind in your sails; it gives you the anchor”. There’s fatherhood, and a superb story of having to list his former addictions to a midwife. He’s also running a successful private catering firm and best of all employing his step brother so that he too can become a chef. His sobriety is something his dad barely saw – “He missed it. It’s fucking classic of him”. But the resurrection is underway, and that’s what matters most.
Review of advance copy received from Publisher
This is what happens when someone throws Kitchen Confidential, a mountain of cocaine, unresolved trauma, chef whites soaked in fryer oil, and the world’s most hostile dinner service into a blender and hits purée.
I mean that as the highest compliment.
This book grabbed me by the throat from page one and screamed “YES CHEF” directly into my nervous system. It’s chaotic, filthy, self-destructive, hilarious, heartbreaking, and so aggressively accurate that I think every ex-hospitality worker will have at least three stress flashbacks while reading it.
The kitchen food chain section at the start BROKE me. Absolutely destroyed me. The fake Latin taxonomy of kitchen staff? I was wheezing as I remembered everyone I’d ever worked with and how accurately it described them.
The breakfast chef (scramblius maximus) whose weakness is being “likely to be a serial killer.” The pastry chef (precisis sugarbitch) who’s “the neurodivergent cousin of the chef de partie” (bigdickus disgruntlus). The floor manager (cuntus wankertits) thriving in their natural habitat of “drinking at the bar” while suffering from “limited allies.”
It’s so viciously specific that you instantly know these are real people the author’s absolutely fought in a walk-in fridge at 2am.
And if you’ve ever worked in a kitchen, you KNOW this is documentary-level realism.
It felt like I was there.
Right there in the kitchen.
Oil and sweat soaking through my uniform, four separate cuts bleeding profusely from my knuckles, pots clattering all around me, someone screaming "where the FUCK is the fucking OREGANOOO?", grinding my teeth while checking the clock until my next cigarette break, all while someone cries in the walk-in and another chef's one minor inconvenience away from a complete psychological collapse.
I was having actual flashbacks.
Like that time we all got drunk after dinner service and decided we didn’t want to be trapped in a car on the way back to the shared flat, so naturally the logical solution was travelling ON TOP of the car like a group of sleep-deprived raccoons in chef whites.
Or that time I moved a plate approximately 0.2mm and the head chef Lost. His. Shit. Started throwing plates at my head while screaming that I was a failure and he was going to strangle me if I didn't get out of his sight this instant.
Ah yes. Hospitality.
The best of times. The blurst of times.
It doesn’t feel polished or sanitised or like someone carefully curated their Bad Boy Chef Stories™ for publication. It feels like being cornered outside a pub by a chef holding a cigarette and multiple catastrophic life decisions while they tell you things that should stay between them and their therapist.
It’s aggressive. Blunt. Self-deprecating. Funny in the way only profoundly broken people can be funny. One minute you’re laughing at kitchen warfare and feral chef behaviour, and the next it casually guts you with the reality of addiction, burnout, self-loathing, and trying to survive an industry that eats people alive for sport.
Oh, and there are recipes???
Under all the screaming and chaos though, there’s real vulnerability here. The author never glamourises addiction or kitchen culture, even when he’s making it hilarious and making you pine for the good old days. The book understands that kitchens are simultaneously addictive, toxic, exhilarating, cruel, life-affirming, and totally incapable of producing emotionally stable adults.
Thank you to Pan Macmillan for the ARC
I mean that as the highest compliment.
This book grabbed me by the throat from page one and screamed “YES CHEF” directly into my nervous system. It’s chaotic, filthy, self-destructive, hilarious, heartbreaking, and so aggressively accurate that I think every ex-hospitality worker will have at least three stress flashbacks while reading it.
The kitchen food chain section at the start BROKE me. Absolutely destroyed me. The fake Latin taxonomy of kitchen staff? I was wheezing as I remembered everyone I’d ever worked with and how accurately it described them.
The breakfast chef (scramblius maximus) whose weakness is being “likely to be a serial killer.” The pastry chef (precisis sugarbitch) who’s “the neurodivergent cousin of the chef de partie” (bigdickus disgruntlus). The floor manager (cuntus wankertits) thriving in their natural habitat of “drinking at the bar” while suffering from “limited allies.”
It’s so viciously specific that you instantly know these are real people the author’s absolutely fought in a walk-in fridge at 2am.
And if you’ve ever worked in a kitchen, you KNOW this is documentary-level realism.
It felt like I was there.
Right there in the kitchen.
Oil and sweat soaking through my uniform, four separate cuts bleeding profusely from my knuckles, pots clattering all around me, someone screaming "where the FUCK is the fucking OREGANOOO?", grinding my teeth while checking the clock until my next cigarette break, all while someone cries in the walk-in and another chef's one minor inconvenience away from a complete psychological collapse.
I was having actual flashbacks.
Like that time we all got drunk after dinner service and decided we didn’t want to be trapped in a car on the way back to the shared flat, so naturally the logical solution was travelling ON TOP of the car like a group of sleep-deprived raccoons in chef whites.
Or that time I moved a plate approximately 0.2mm and the head chef Lost. His. Shit. Started throwing plates at my head while screaming that I was a failure and he was going to strangle me if I didn't get out of his sight this instant.
Ah yes. Hospitality.
The best of times. The blurst of times.
It doesn’t feel polished or sanitised or like someone carefully curated their Bad Boy Chef Stories™ for publication. It feels like being cornered outside a pub by a chef holding a cigarette and multiple catastrophic life decisions while they tell you things that should stay between them and their therapist.
It’s aggressive. Blunt. Self-deprecating. Funny in the way only profoundly broken people can be funny. One minute you’re laughing at kitchen warfare and feral chef behaviour, and the next it casually guts you with the reality of addiction, burnout, self-loathing, and trying to survive an industry that eats people alive for sport.
Oh, and there are recipes???
Under all the screaming and chaos though, there’s real vulnerability here. The author never glamourises addiction or kitchen culture, even when he’s making it hilarious and making you pine for the good old days. The book understands that kitchens are simultaneously addictive, toxic, exhilarating, cruel, life-affirming, and totally incapable of producing emotionally stable adults.
Thank you to Pan Macmillan for the ARC
Review of advance copy received from Netgalley
2.5 - I like a food memoir and I knew this one would also be about the author's battle with drugs and alcohol addictions, but I didn't expect the writing to be so... crude. I am no prude but the amount of profanity felt too much and gratuitous, and I found it distracting and irritating, especially as some felt misogynistic and classist:
"When she grinned at us, she displayed her blackened teeth, easily countable on one hand".
"Kevin had strolled into the Kremlin, declared himself leader and tied it off by calling Putin a little puff".
"I was now being accused of shagging Viv, the five-foot, mono-toothed Italian gremlin who looked like she hunted Smurfs for a living".
"His girlfriend was absolutely getting railed in a damp tent by some white bloke with dreads".
And much more... A minor character is called Mental Matt.
He writes at length about his food critic dad (including a moving chapter about his death from cancer), but is quite evasive about whether this was helpful when he got his first job, writing that"By some miracle I landed a job at The Delaunay, kind of London restaurant royalty".
He credits his mum with getting him the help he needed and sending him to a cooking school in Ireland and to rehab, but while he mentions she works in politics, he doesn't mention she is Amber Rudd (yes, the deportation targets minister...)
I wished he had been a bit clearer about his privilege, and how much that helped both his career and his recovery. I found the story interesting and he writes very sincerely when talking about his addiction, but the writing didn't do it for me.
Free ARC sent by Netgalley.
"When she grinned at us, she displayed her blackened teeth, easily countable on one hand".
"Kevin had strolled into the Kremlin, declared himself leader and tied it off by calling Putin a little puff".
"I was now being accused of shagging Viv, the five-foot, mono-toothed Italian gremlin who looked like she hunted Smurfs for a living".
"His girlfriend was absolutely getting railed in a damp tent by some white bloke with dreads".
And much more... A minor character is called Mental Matt.
He writes at length about his food critic dad (including a moving chapter about his death from cancer), but is quite evasive about whether this was helpful when he got his first job, writing that"By some miracle I landed a job at The Delaunay, kind of London restaurant royalty".
He credits his mum with getting him the help he needed and sending him to a cooking school in Ireland and to rehab, but while he mentions she works in politics, he doesn't mention she is Amber Rudd (yes, the deportation targets minister...)
I wished he had been a bit clearer about his privilege, and how much that helped both his career and his recovery. I found the story interesting and he writes very sincerely when talking about his addiction, but the writing didn't do it for me.
Free ARC sent by Netgalley.
Review of advance copy received from NetGalley
Knives and Spoons by Alasdair Gill is a raw and unflinching story of cooking and addiction, two things that have clearly had a huge influence on the author's life. The author grew up hearing about food and cooking from a young age, as the son of food writer A.A. Gill he was exposed to a variety of cuisines and met many chefs and food personalities. As well as being a writer A.A. Gill was also an alcoholic in recovery, and his son Alasdair unfortunately inherited that genetic predisposition. The author is very open about some of the lowest moments of his life, and some of the stories he tells of active addiction are gut wrenching, but he also speaks about his sobriety, and there is a more optimistic tone , especially in the latter part of the book that left me feeling hopeful. Of course the book also recounts Gill's time spent in some of the best (and some rather less salubrious ) kitchens in London, and how that lifestyle contributed to his addiction. Scattered through out the books are illustrated notes of recipes that look to have been lifted directly from the chef's notebook, so I was glad to see that the recipes were collected and included at the back of the book.
I found myself compulsively reading this book, I genuinely did not want to put it down so immersed was I in the kitchen chaos that the author so effectively brings to life on the page , and there was a darkly humorous streak throughout that I really enjoyed - the opening chapter had me wheezing at the descriptions of the various members of the kitchen brigade.
Dark, brave and brilliant this is a book to devour.
I read an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own.
I found myself compulsively reading this book, I genuinely did not want to put it down so immersed was I in the kitchen chaos that the author so effectively brings to life on the page , and there was a darkly humorous streak throughout that I really enjoyed - the opening chapter had me wheezing at the descriptions of the various members of the kitchen brigade.
Dark, brave and brilliant this is a book to devour.
I read an ARC courtesy of NetGalley and the publisher, all opinions are my own.
August 23, 2026
Having just finished the final season of The Bear, I went into Knives and Spoons expecting a book about kitchens, chefs and the madness of working in restaurants. And while Alasdair Gill gives us plenty of that, the book turns out to be about something much more complicated and personal.
Through stories from his time in professional kitchens, Gill writes candidly about addiction, family, grief and the difficult road to recovery. There is plenty of chaos, dark humour and kitchen mayhem, but what stayed with me was how honestly he writes about the consequences of addiction and the people affected by it.
Some people might put the book in parallel with Kitchen Confidential, but I wouldn’t. While Anthony Bourdain writes primarily about restaurant culture, chefs and the madness of professional kitchens, Knives and Spoons uses the kitchen as the setting for a much more personal story about addiction, grief and rebuilding one's life.
That said, you will find Anthony Bourdain meeting a young Alasdair Gill in this book. An unexpected encounter that leaves a lasting impression on the young chef, it is definitely something to look out for.
I particularly enjoyed the way food and cooking run through the story without becoming the entire story. Each chapter is named after a dish and begins with a handwritten and illustrated recipe. Kitchens can be demanding, toxic and destructive spaces, but for Gill, cooking also becomes something that gives him purpose and eventually helps him find his way back.
Raw, funny, uncomfortable and deeply personal, Knives and Spoons is ultimately less a book about being a chef and more a story about finding your way back to yourself.
Through stories from his time in professional kitchens, Gill writes candidly about addiction, family, grief and the difficult road to recovery. There is plenty of chaos, dark humour and kitchen mayhem, but what stayed with me was how honestly he writes about the consequences of addiction and the people affected by it.
Some people might put the book in parallel with Kitchen Confidential, but I wouldn’t. While Anthony Bourdain writes primarily about restaurant culture, chefs and the madness of professional kitchens, Knives and Spoons uses the kitchen as the setting for a much more personal story about addiction, grief and rebuilding one's life.
That said, you will find Anthony Bourdain meeting a young Alasdair Gill in this book. An unexpected encounter that leaves a lasting impression on the young chef, it is definitely something to look out for.
I particularly enjoyed the way food and cooking run through the story without becoming the entire story. Each chapter is named after a dish and begins with a handwritten and illustrated recipe. Kitchens can be demanding, toxic and destructive spaces, but for Gill, cooking also becomes something that gives him purpose and eventually helps him find his way back.
Raw, funny, uncomfortable and deeply personal, Knives and Spoons is ultimately less a book about being a chef and more a story about finding your way back to yourself.
Review of advance copy received from Publisher
want to know how many times I cried reading this book? the answer is 4.
three of those were genuine sadness, the fourth was happiness, because there's hope on the horizon for Ali Gill.
he has been through the wars and this book doesn't just reflect that, it's ripped my heart out and made it bleed for him, and I can only commend him for making it to where he is now.
he writes in such a way that I felt like I was right there with him through every chapter and I've never felt such peace but also somewhat validated after finishing this book, because working in hospitality really is fucking hard, and it is the people around you that can make or break it, never mind what's going on in your personal life.
I could not recommend a memoir more than I possibly could with this one, spectacular work, chef.
the chapters that had me weeping like a wee baby:
- 5 (wood pigeon salad with chanterelles and a walnut dressing)
- 8 (truffled egg toast)
- 15 (lapin à la moutarde avec escargots)
three of those were genuine sadness, the fourth was happiness, because there's hope on the horizon for Ali Gill.
he has been through the wars and this book doesn't just reflect that, it's ripped my heart out and made it bleed for him, and I can only commend him for making it to where he is now.
he writes in such a way that I felt like I was right there with him through every chapter and I've never felt such peace but also somewhat validated after finishing this book, because working in hospitality really is fucking hard, and it is the people around you that can make or break it, never mind what's going on in your personal life.
I could not recommend a memoir more than I possibly could with this one, spectacular work, chef.
the chapters that had me weeping like a wee baby:
- 5 (wood pigeon salad with chanterelles and a walnut dressing)
- 8 (truffled egg toast)
- 15 (lapin à la moutarde avec escargots)
Review of advance copy received from Éditeur
Thank you to the publisher for sending me a copy of Knives and Spoons in exchange for an honest review.
Knives and Spoons isn't just a chef's recollections of making a living in some of London's finest restaurants. Yes, the setting plays a huge part in his story, and there are plenty of mouth-watering food descriptions (which is always what I'm looking for). More than that, this is an account of Alisdair Gill's battle with addiction, something that was enabled by his kitchen environment, and how he broke free from a dark path and got his life back. His stories of drug dens and detox are truly horrifying.
On the food side of things, Gill's insight into kitchen life is fascinating. Although it's not always the most wholesome environment, he shows us the real people behind Michelin-starred restaurants and the life-affirming power of good food. Fans of Kitchen Confidential and The Bear will want to get their hands on this, although it makes the latter look quite tame.
Knives and Spoons isn't just a chef's recollections of making a living in some of London's finest restaurants. Yes, the setting plays a huge part in his story, and there are plenty of mouth-watering food descriptions (which is always what I'm looking for). More than that, this is an account of Alisdair Gill's battle with addiction, something that was enabled by his kitchen environment, and how he broke free from a dark path and got his life back. His stories of drug dens and detox are truly horrifying.
On the food side of things, Gill's insight into kitchen life is fascinating. Although it's not always the most wholesome environment, he shows us the real people behind Michelin-starred restaurants and the life-affirming power of good food. Fans of Kitchen Confidential and The Bear will want to get their hands on this, although it makes the latter look quite tame.
July 15, 2026
I hadn’t heard of Alasdair Gill before I picked this book up, but damn, I’m a massive fan now. This incredible and chaotic memoir was really reminiscent of the books and stories of Anthony Bourdain and Marco Pierre White, both equally good chefs and storytellers. His sense of humor was a welcome balm too, helpful to balance well against the more intense, heavy moments. I was honestly really moved by how incredibly vulnerable he was, especially opening up about his struggles with addiction and grief, with emotional self-reflection. This is a new must-read for foodies, fans and anyone who can identify with his journey.
Oh, and those little handwritten recipes and drawings scattered throughout? The cherry on top.
Thank you to NetGalley, Pan Macmillan, and Alasdair Gill for an ARC of this book. This was an honest review of my reading of this ARC.
Oh, and those little handwritten recipes and drawings scattered throughout? The cherry on top.
Thank you to NetGalley, Pan Macmillan, and Alasdair Gill for an ARC of this book. This was an honest review of my reading of this ARC.
June 17, 2026
I have a thing for chef bios. If I had my time again I would definitely go into hospitality - the kitchen stories are scary but also alive. This one goes dark quite quickly with Ali’s drug and alcohol dependency.
Ali writes well and seems self aware retrospectively. There are no happy endings here - just work and sticking with the steps.
Plus, the best thing is real recipes for each chapter - which is quite mad in itself. In honour of the Ballymaloe culinary school I will give the soda bread a go. Thanks Ali.
Ali writes well and seems self aware retrospectively. There are no happy endings here - just work and sticking with the steps.
Plus, the best thing is real recipes for each chapter - which is quite mad in itself. In honour of the Ballymaloe culinary school I will give the soda bread a go. Thanks Ali.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
Review of advance copy
Book isn’t published yet BUT it IS on audible!!!! And the audiobook is very good and read by the author.
I rated this 4 stars but I am not sure if this is showing up on goodreads as I had to add a source as to where I got this book and audible wasn’t an option.
I rated this 4 stars but I am not sure if this is showing up on goodreads as I had to add a source as to where I got this book and audible wasn’t an option.
August 2, 2026
An unexpected delight. Excellent.
Read
August 14, 2026Book club choice
September 17, 2026
Everything i love all in one place. Chefs! Addiction! Greif! Oh the grief! Figs!!!! Sensuous descriptions of food! Transporting metaphors !
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