Bill Granger, the chef who lit up a room like a Bondi Beach sunbeam

Following the death of Australia’s superstar restaurateur, Kathy Lette bids farewell to the long-time friend she helped introduce to London society – a ‘gastronomic love god’ who single-handedly reinvented how the British do brunch

Chef Bill Granger’s recipe for success was ‘home-cooked food in a restaurant environment’, says Kathy Lette (Getty)

Way back in 2009, a mutual friend asked me: “Bill Granger is moving to London. Will you take him under your wing?”

“Of course,” I replied, feeling all big-sisterly and worldly-wise.

Shortly afterwards, Bill and Natalie came for lunch, in true Aussie style, bringing a plate of food. I’d been dining in Bill’s airy, communal-table-dominated cafe in Darlinghurst, Sydney, since the early Nineties, so it was a joy to finally meet the gastronomic love god.

And he could not have been more charming. When he strolled into my kitchen, in a fresh, white T-shirt, all tousled blond hair, cackling like a kookaburra, well, it felt as though a Bondi Beach sunbeam had just lit up the room.

But as for me taking Bill under my wing? Ha! Bill simply took flight. London society was instantly beguiled by his deliciously self-deprecating wit, laidback attitude and magical way with an egg whisk. Bill’s obituaries all mention how he popularised avocado toast, the millennials’ favourite brunch item, but as long ago as 2002, The New York Times anointed him “The Scrambled Egg Master of Sydney”.

The son of a butcher, Bill was an autodidact – a word he clearly taught himself. And yet, with no formal training, he went on to create a culinary empire. With help from his business-savvy wife, Nat, the Grangers now own 19 restaurants from Australia to London, Korea and Japan.

Bill also made five cookery series, viewed in more than 30 countries, and his 14 cookbooks have racked up over a million sales worldwide.

A terrible cook (I use my smoke alarm as a timer), I was worried Bill would not want me on his human menu. But when I confessed that the last time I’d baked was when I fell asleep on the beach, and that I thought “aspic” was some posh ski resort in the Colorado mountains and “blancmange” the highest point in the Swiss Alps – he gave that lovely coruscating laugh of his, then gently pressed his cookbooks into my hands. “Give it a whirl, Kath.”

And Bill’s approach to cooking proved so welcoming and inclusive that those precious copies are now food-splattered and butter-stained, being so well thumbed in my kitchen.

Friends have been getting in touch to share grief. “This is heart-breaking,” Nigella Lawson texted this morning. “He was a wonderful man, who made life wonderful for others, too. It seems inexcusable that such a life force has been extinguished.”

“Gutted!” Jason Donovan emailed. “So sad … and that he died on Christmas Day, when food is the centre of our lives.”

When Natalie broke the terrible news of Bill’s illness a few months ago, Jason and I cycled down to the hospital together to leave gifts (Jason’s magnificent bouquet of native Aussie flowers totally eclipsing my comedy koala socks).

But Bill did love a laugh. It was one of his many endearing qualities. Chefs may be in the hospitality industry, but the one thing they never seem to entertain is doubt. Most appear to be puffed-up, pretentious tantrum-throwers, with a tendency to whip themselves up into a souffle of self-regard.

Bill was their antithesis. His recipe for success? Home-cooked food in a restaurant environment.

He also knew that what comes out of a person’s mouth is just as important as what goes into it. I once rang him in a fluster, perplexed by a recipe. “What the hell is a braise? ‘Braise yourself, darling’ sounds like Australian foreplay.”

Although frantically busy in his own kitchen, the ever-gracious Bill took the time to explain with gentle encouragement and great enthusiasm. Bill made cooking accessible, celebratory and, above all, fun. His whole approach was quintessentially Australian.

In fact, when Bill’s restaurant Granger & Co opened in Notting Hill Gate, it became the unofficial Aussie embassy and headquarters of the “Gumleaf Mafia”. Expats gathered here to share a giggle at the charming idiosyncrasies of the Poms, especially the dining habits of the upper class: Bill felt sure you should never allow a dog to eat at the table, no matter how good his manners.

How I’m going to miss him greeting us with that warm, cheeky smile. Even when queues snaked around the block, Bill always made room for his compatriots.

As recently as January, he was awarded a Medal of the Order of Australia, in recognition of his contribution to tourism and hospitality. But he could have won it solely for his reinvention of brunch.

As I type this I’m eating a commemorative slice of avo on sourdough, with Bill’s trademark lime juice, olive oil, coriander, drizzle of dressing, hint of chilli and twist of ground pepper, salted – at the risk of sounding as corny as one of his delicious corn fritters – in tears.