Many people have asked me who inspired me to become a chef - and I can answer without a moment's hesitation that it was my grandmother - or "Grand Mère" as I called her. She played a huge role in my life. She was my idol, my role model, my very first mentor, as she would correct me by saying "cook", not a chef )as chefs are not always good cooks in her books).

Originally from Alsace, I grew up in West Africa and most of my holidays were spent in France with my family - away from my mother. I had seven siblings, so our holidays were a perfect opportunity for her to seize some quiet time and tranquil headspace by shipping all seven of us off to family.

I have rich and colourful memories of so many food dishes as a child. My Grand Mère always cooked on Sundays and the ritual started around 6am when she collected fat milk from our next door neighbour, Mr Muller's farm, and churned it into butter.

After that, she would bake sourdough bread, which we know as "miche de pain". It took hours to make! When the oven doors opened and the bread was placed on the table, we used to say, "the symphony of smell has begun". At around 10am I had the privilege of tasting the very first slice covered with freshly made butter and topped with cracked salt. The memory of eating that bread brings tears to my eyes.

Because I was so short, standing on top of an empty apple crate was the only way I could see and be able to admire all of my grandmother's talents, especially when she would, with the help of a cleaver, chop the head off of a recently caught rabbit. After she removed the offal she would pan-fry them in her freshly made butter.

The loins were pan-fried until pink, the legs stewed in a rich jus with handfuls of smoked streaky bacon, glazed baby onions, a reduction of good quality Bordeaux wine and some home made noodles with braised French lettuce.

All of this constituted our mid-morning feast - thick slices of bread, butter so rich and delicious, offal, cooked and seasoned to perfection and an aperitif of white wine such as Gewürtztraminer.

The rabbit ritual began. I would watch keenly - again with my eyes just making it over the edge of the table - while this giant of a cook prepared the rabbit dish. I've never quite been able to decide if I fell in love with the ritual or the tasty aftermath of the ritual... but I think it is probably a combination of both that made this particular dish a childhood favourite.

I have treasured these recipes all my life and in fact, the day my Grand Mère passed away she made me promise that I would serve this dish in my first restaurant as the "plat de maison", the dish of the house - and I did.

There is immeasurable value in that which cannot be tagged with a price.

To my Grand Mère - I salute you!