Gordon Ramsay was in typically forthright form this weekend when he dismissed the idea of “Mounjaro menus” or “Ozempic tasting menus” – smaller, scaled-down restaurant dishes for people on weight-loss drugs – as “absolute bulls***”. He blamed diners for eating too much food in the first place.
“There’s no f***ing way we’re giving in to the Mounjaro jab...” he told The Times in typically robust fashion during an interview to promote his protégé Mat Abé’s new restaurant, Bonheur, which opened last week in Mayfair. “The problem is with them [the diners] for eating too much in the first f***ing place! There’s no way that we’re coming in with an Ozempic tasting menu to make you feel like less of a fat f*** by 10.30 in the evening.”
Ramsay clearly doesn’t get it – telling people to just eat less doesn’t work. If people could simply turn down the “food noise” and not eat as much, we’d all do it without fat jabs. But there’s a reason why 2.5 million people in the UK are on weight-loss injections – and it’s not because we’re all weak.
I’m one of the most determined people I know, but like many, I’ve struggled with food issues. After my two pregnancies, I gained 16kg (around two and a half stone) and ate with wild abandon. I was comfort eating, happy eating, and sad eating, all at once. I was dealing with raising my two children alone after my partner died by suicide, as well as the stress of caring for my elderly father.
I’ve always had an addictive personality, which makes issues around food hard to beat. I would binge eat, often late at night – jumbo packs of my kids’ sweet treats were the norm. I had an insatiable appetite, even for healthy food like Greek yoghurt with banana, bags of cashew nuts, whole packs of vegetarian cocktail sausages, and oversized portions of spaghetti alle vongole. The more food I stuffed down, the less overwhelmed I felt.
Sometimes I’d have to act so fast on my feelings that I’d grab some ice cream from the freezer and eat the whole tub in one sitting. I craved sugar – something that often happens to people who give up alcohol, as I did 20 years ago after spiralling into addiction in my early twenties.
Food noise was constantly chattering in the background. Overeating became a habit; it was second nature. I couldn’t put on the brakes. I’d always been slim, but the weight crept up. Clothes didn’t fit like they used to. My baggy boyfriend jeans felt tight, I could no longer zip up my old dresses, and on holiday, I refused to wear a bikini, skulking around in a kaftan instead. I tricked my brain into thinking it was OK. My face looked plumper and younger – and I told myself I didn’t want to be a slave to the “skinny girl” aesthetic. After having my two daughters, Lola, now nine, and Liberty, seven, I thought: who cares anyway? I don’t have time for a romantic relationship.
My wake-up call came when my GP told me my cholesterol levels were dangerously high and that I needed statins. I asked her to give me six months to reverse it.
I was Wegovy-curious. At that point, not many people in the UK were using it, but I’d heard it was Hollywood’s newest secret. Weight-loss and diabetes drugs such as Ozempic and Wegovy (semaglutide) and Mounjaro (tirzepatide) are known as GLP-1 receptor agonists. When the GLP-1 receptor is activated in cells in areas of the brain and body that control hunger (like the hypothalamus), it reduces cravings and food intake, leading to lower blood sugar and gradual weight loss.
Mums at the school gates started whispering about “being on the pen”. A drug that could help me feel fuller for longer and suppress my appetite sounded like exactly what I needed. Even though I had one health condition related to my weight, I still didn’t meet the full BMI criteria of 30-35, at which point a person is considered obese. My only hope was to access Wegovy privately through a doctor.
I was nervous the first time I jabbed myself in the stomach, unsure what would happen. When would I stop feeling hungry – and would it take away the pleasure of eating?
Within a couple of weeks, the food noise I’d battled for years was so mild I could ignore it. After about four weeks, it had disappeared completely. I no longer found myself raiding the fridge for another chunk of cheese, and at children’s parties, I became one of those mums I’d always envied – the ones who didn’t dive head first into the crisps and cake. I stopped fantasising all day about what I’d have for breakfast, lunch, and supper.
That gave me the headspace to focus on the emotional, physical, and spiritual changes I needed to make. It took about six or seven months to return to my pre-pregnancy size, and since then, I’ve managed to stay on track. I try to eat within an eight-hour window – from midday to 8pm – and I avoid sugar and ultra-processed foods wherever possible. But the food noise never disappears completely. When I’m stressed, I still reach for caramel wafers – but instead of eating the pack of eight, I stop at two.
I stayed on a low dose so I didn’t have side effects, and when I reached my old weight, I microdosed, tapering off the drug over two months to avoid relapse. It was a way to reset my mind and body – and it worked in a way no faddy diet ever had.
Telling people just to eat less in the first place is tone deaf. If people could simply control their food addiction, we’d all do it without fat jabs
Mini-menus can really help with a new eating regime, which means Ramsay might regret dismissing the idea. A Bloomberg Market Intelligence survey earlier this year revealed that more than half of weight-loss drug users in the US were dining out less, and UK restaurants will need to adapt their menus to this new way of eating if they want to keep customers coming through the door.
“Mounjaro menus” are a growing trend in the US – and they’re becoming increasingly popular here, too. Not everyone on Ozempic, Mounjaro, or Wegovy wants to tackle two full tasting menus at Bonheur: £195 for five courses, £225 for seven, and à la carte at £165 for three. That’s why some chefs are creating mini “Mounjaro menus”. It’s actually a thoughtful idea – and a sign of the times.
Heston Blumenthal has created a specific “Mindful Experience” tasting menu, with reduced portion sizes to cater to diners with smaller appetites, at his three-Michelin-starred restaurant, The Fat Duck, in Bray, Berkshire. Meanwhile, Antony Worrall Thompson is developing “sharing menus” at Grill Off the Green in Kew, to make dining out less overwhelming.
After six months, I succeeded in bringing my cholesterol levels back to normal. I felt comfortable in my own body – no longer overweight, or hiding in baggy clothes. Today, I feel better and stronger, and have finally found a way to process my feelings rather than eat them.
So yes, it might sound ridiculous to Gordon Ramsay. But for many of us, it’s not as simple as “just stop eating as much”. Many of us genuinely appreciate smaller portions and a different kind of dining experience. That shouldn’t be something we’re made to feel ashamed of. We aren’t weak or lacking willpower. Taking weight-loss medication isn’t cheating – and Ramsay’s jab-shaming isn’t helping. In fact, a creative, delicious “Mounjaro-friendly” menu might be exactly what keeps people coming through his doors.
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