Marco jets off to another Planet

Their biggest, most audacious venture, however, may surprise anyone who has pigeonholed MPW and Adam as caterers to the great, the good and the groovy. They've been drafted in by MPW's friend of 15 years, Robert Earl, to help salvage Planet Hollywood .

While MPW isn't comfortable with the suggestion that he's going to 'save' the restaurant, and points out that 'the London one is packed almost every night. They do 2,000 covers on Saturday nights sometimes,' the company as a whole clearly does need a bit of help.

Back in October the glitzy theme restaurant received a $30-million cash infusion to keep it operating while a pre-packaged plan for bankruptcy was negotiated with its creditors. This was the second time in two years that the company had been declared bankrupt. The collapse of tourism after the 11 September attacks was cited in the bankruptcy proceedings - many of Planet Hollywood's restaurants are in top tourist locations.

At one time Earl owned 40 restaurants around the world, with another 40 operating as franchises. He's slimmed down the operation so that it now owns just ten, with 25 franchises. 'We are confident we are taking the necessary steps to revitalise our Planet Hollywood operations,' he said in a written statement.

Earl seems to regard the London Planet Hollywood, which he owns outright, as an important flagship. He drafted in MPW to help out, who, in turn, pulled in his new best friend, Adam, to help him. White will do the menu, and Adam will be running the new basement nightclub, Planet Rock.

'I'm a great believer in the fact that you should sidestep,' says MPW. 'When people think they have pinpointed you, you should sidestep and move on. Having three Michelin stars was like being the heavyweight champion of the world - everyone wants to fight you. Well, I don't want to fight everyone any more.'

MPW now wants to be regarded as an altruist as much as an entrepreneur, wants to touch all levels of society with his bars, clubs and restaurants. 'Who says a burger or barbecued ribs can't be good?' he says.

But with a recession looming, isn't this a bad time for expansion? 'The Chop House did 250 covers the other night. This is the time to expand. There's more opportunity. Everything is cheaper. Expand in a recession. Consolidate in a boom time,' he urges. During the last economic slump, MPW pushed his prices up instead of down. 'Everyone else lowered their prices, did fewer covers, made less money and they all went out of business. I raised my prices, did fewer covers but made money... and survived.'

He's surviving rather well by the look of things. MPW cuts quite a dash these days. A big, dandy, grizzly bear, his uniform is an astrakhan-collared overcoat made from a heavy, check tweed. His wrestler's chest is swathed in pinstriped Savile Row. 'I have 50 suits,' he says. The wild hair is still styled via a hedge backwards, falling in oily, Byronic curls from under a rakish Lock of St James's homburg. The overall impression is impressive - imagine a burly but feral boulevardier in the style of Barry Humphries, and you won't be too wide of the Marco.

Dining with him at Drones is like watching an etiquette schizophrenia case study. He orders a red wine, perilously swishes it around in a vinous wall of death act, before tasting. 'Very nice, thank you,' he says to the sommelier, sounding like a choir boy.

He salts his soup so vigorously and repeatedly it must have the buoyant viscosity of the Dead Sea. When the waiter comes to collect his empty dish, MPW puts the bowl to his lips and slurps the dregs. There's more elegantly cantankerous theatre to come. When we are approached by a kindly waiter who is offering to feed my parking meter for me, MPW snaps at him and tells the lad never to ask a customer for money. 'It's only a couple of quid, for f***'s sake,' he says, shooing the poor boy away. 'Just get it out of the till.'

Such behaviour may be shocking and amusing, but it is this short-fused, pernickety obduracy and entertaining level of tablecloth histrionics that has made MPW one of the most feared, loathed, admired, famous and infamous personalities on the London restaurant scene. And, of course, the most successful.

Is he scary? Yes, a bit. But he's also mellower these days. He cooked his last meal on 23 December 1999, and he reckons he's become a nicer guy since. 'What should have been a sad day wasn't,' he says of that last day in the kitchen. 'Finally walking out of the restaurant was like walking out of prison. I could spend more time with my family, children and friends.'

Is he a better person now? 'Yes, definitely. When you spend 90 to 100 hours in a kitchen, six or seven days a week, you become a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde character. It doesn't bring out the best in you. When you're young, you don't feel it so much. But once you hit 35... I wasn't seeing enough of Mati [his wife] or my children. And I was miserable.

'Winning the three stars was very exciting,' he continues, referring to the Michelin awards he earned for The Restaurant at the Hyde Park Hotel and The Oak Room. 'But defending them was pretty boring. I got to the stage where I had the top awards in everything. So what did I have left to prove?' He was never happy in the executive chef role, either. 'I always felt a bit guilty when I wasn't there,' he says. 'When you are charging those prices and your name is above the door you must be behind the stoves.'

So, in a bold move, he phoned up Michelin and told them they could have their stars back. 'I was tired of being judged by people who know less than me,' he says. 'You've got a man from Michelin, 29 years old, who's never spent more than six months in the kitchen. I win three stars and think: "Hold on, what have I won? How can I take this award seriously?"'

To show off his new values, MPW takes me to Planet Hollywood for lunch. 'I would come here even if I wasn't a friend of Robert [Earl],' he says, munching magnanimously on a chicken wing. Adam, who has got himself a similar fur-collared coat to MPW's, looks on admiringly, declaring MPW 'a genius' and likening him to Glenn Hoddle: 'Once he was a player, now he's a manager.'

As we leave, bellies full from too many beers, ribs and char-grilled prawns (excellent, by the way), MPW pauses outside, winks conspiratorially at Adam, then stabs the lit end of his Marlboro into a nearby Planet Hollywood balloon and bursts it with a bang loud enough to startle passers-by. Looks like he's already got the place popping.