Andrew Hart - 1950-2023 — Louche Gastronomique

My dad died four weeks ago.

He was seventy three, and had been ill for a long time.
This is about him.

I’ve struggled to write something about Andy so here’s what I said on Monday at the funeral:

Andy's brother Chris was going to give the eulogy today, but sadly he isn't well and couldn't be with us. He was going to start by saying “early on in life I was quite attached to my brother”, which sounds like it's going to a dark place until you remember they were identical twins.

I've heard many stories over the years of the confusion that caused - the mix ups and outright pranks, many of them decidedly not funeral-appropriate. But that was Andy, always ready with a joke, and a flat out refusal to take himself too seriously.

He was a cheerful man, and he liked to share the things that made him happy. He taught me to cook, introduced me to wine, taught me to fish, took me scuba diving, encouraged me to play rugby, a sport he'd played for much of his life - ok so that last one didn't stick. But he made a spirited attempt. I can still remember bits of the bawdy rugby songs he taught me as a young child. I'm pretty sure he just thought it was funny. But then he somehow he got away with the excuse that it was because he couldn't remember any nursery rhymes.

Actually, I'm not sure he did get away with it - he was very lucky that Virginia shared his sense of humour. I'll always remember the long car journeys they spent firing terrible, terrible puns back and forth at each other. I guess I had to get it from somewhere.

There was a generosity of spirt to Andy that's hard to forget. I think he was always at his happiest when he was entertaining - that blend of caring for people, having fun, and yes, just a little bit of showing off. I'll always picture him with a smile on his face and a glass of champagne in his hand.

It was a love of hospitality that would eventually take him across the country and around the world. He trained as a chef and hotel manager in the seventies, working in hotels in Norwich, Scotland and London, eventually moving to Leamington Spa where he met Virginia, and then here to Darlington in the eighties. Passing on that passion for entertaining, he not only taught me about food, but eventually trained as a teacher, and became a lecturer at a High Peak college in Buxton.

Not long after moving to Darlington Andy joined the Territorial Army, becoming part of the Catering Support Regiment where he would cook for more people in more places than I can probably remember. At the very least, his work with Catering Support took him to Africa, Germany, Africa again, the United States, Cyprus, and across the UK. He'd always come back with stories, photographs, new friends, recipes, and on one occasion a backpack full of suspiciously large ants. I'm sure it was nothing to worry about.

We'll all have our own memories of Andy - the man he was, the things he did, the terrible jokes he told, and I'll never do justice to all of them. But one little one jumped out at me, something I'd almost forgotten from when I was a child. So I’ll finish by sharing it.

One morning I came into the kitchen and saw Andy there in the middle of the most amazing mess. He must have used every pot and pan we had. But he had a giant grin on his face, and in the midst of the chaos were a set of handmade easter eggs decorated with spun sugar.

No reason. It wasn't even easter. He just thought it would be fun.

That's how I like to remember Andy. That cheerful disregard for the rules, and a desire to make people smile.

Goodbye Andy, a lot of people are going to miss you.

There was a lovely turnout at the funeral. Friends, family, his army buddies. He left some fairly specific instructions for the arrangements, so he came in to Elgar (Nimrod) and went out to The Rocky Horror Show (There’s a Light).

Got to hand it to him - he’d nailed his own brand.