Gary Rhodes bites back

A workaholic, his day starts at 4.30am with 250 sit-ups in his home gym; he's rarely back from work before 10pm. He's been with his wife, Jennie, for 29 years and they have two sons, Samuel, 19, and George, 17, but he only went on holiday for the first time 10 years ago. When the children were growing up, the only time he took time off was when Jeanie had a Caesarean. And he says he's never seen eating in his own restaurants in case customers think: "He ought to be cooking."

No wonder he believes cooking should be a serious part of the national curriculum today. While he is full of admiration for Jamie's School Dinners, he thinks we're missing the point. It's not just what they eat at lunchtime; children should be learning to cook. The key is to make it fun, more like a chemistry lesson. Hence his involvement with Focus on Food, a Royal Society of Arts-backed initiative which brings cooking demos into schools.

"Recently I went to a boys' school and I said: 'Today we're going to make a goat's cheese and spinach quiche.' You've never seen faces like it: the glummest look. But as the demonstration went on, the spirit in that room changed. For months afterwards the schools contacted us saying: 'You won't believe what happened with those lads. They were struggling but now they're standing strong against their peers.'"

He wants to turn it into a TV series. "Sorry, I'm just obsessed about this. I say to Jennie every single day, 'Make me Prime Minister tomorrow and I'll change the attitude in this country.' Because, you know, the greatest social point in the world is the dinner table."

This democratic attitude feeds into Time to Eat (he admits many of his earlier books ended up unread on the coffee table). "I want to show you that with what you've got sitting in the home, you can create stunning little dishes." With two teenagers who hurl open the fridge and yell, "Dad, there's nothing to eat!", he has to be more realistic. Last night he ended up cooking the classic Rhodes toastie - gammon, a touch of mayonnaise, strips of Gouda. "The book is part of an education for my sons, if that doesn't sound too pompous."

Whippet-thin, he's fanatically neat. His life is scarily compartmentalised: he doesn't allow his wife to wear jeans; he and his sons have a room at home where swearing and laddish behaviour is permitted but outside that room Good Manners are essential at all times. And there are persistent rumours that he doesn't eat - apart from the odd biscuit. A psychologist might have a field-day.

The reason he actually first started cooking was because he grew up with a single mother. The family moved from London to Kent and, when Rhodes was six, his father, a caretaker, ran away with the woman next door, sold the family house and subsequentlydisappeared from Rhodes's life. By 13 he was cooking his little sister's meals, doing the washing, ironing and babysitting.

He's still in tune with women. According to this paper's restaurant critic, Fay Maschler, Rhodes has the most female-friendly venue in London - Rhodes 21. Not only is the 45-seater dining room designed by Kelly Hoppen but Rhodes offers a varied menu of tasting dishes.

Today dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, Rhodes looks more like a businessman than a chef. The spiky "do" is not so spiky (he used to have to get up an hour early), and he collects art (Jack Vettriano and John Miller). But you have to admire his drive. After catering college, he was involved in a terrible accident. He and two friends jumped out of the way of a tram in Amsterdam - Gary collided with a Transit van. The back of his skull was smashed; he had to have brain surgery. His skull is still flat (which may explain the hair obsession) and for a long time he lost his sense of smell, which is disastrous for a chef. Earlier this month he even hinted at greater long-term damage, which he'll cover in his autobiography.

Among proper foodies, Rhodes is seen as the man who really knows what he's doing. His dishes are lighter and healthier these days; he's a huge advocate for British produce. And he cooks at his restaurants most nights - rather than trying to crack the American market like some other gastro barons one might name. I found him genuinely likeable, but he's the one without a mainstream TV show. You can understand him being chippy.

His fans express surprise that Rhodes has never gone it alone (his backer is still the contract catering company, Gardner Merchant). He says when he first graduated he longed to train with French master Albert Roux at Le Gavroche (as Marco Pierre White did) but as a working-class boy he couldn't afford to do an unpaid apprenticeship.

I tell him my dream TV programme would be called The Single Woman's Fridge (shamefully, mine is full of vodka and wilting vegetables). But Gary is positively messianic. All I need to do is take the overripe tomatoes and turn them into soup, with a tin of chopped tomatoes, meatballs and spaghetti.

Seeing my startled look, he adds with the hint of a smile: "I don't go home and start cooking veal joues or knocking up little Madeira glaces."