The first time I met Angela Hartnett - the newly annointed, or should that be basted, chef of the year - was at a seminar at her York & Albany posh pub in north London. As the attendees left the room she was there shaking hands. When she saw me, the scruffy hack, she gave a sigh, grabbed my tie and tightened it gently up the top button of my shirt so that I emerged a whole lot smarter than I had arrived. It was a typically disarming Angela gesture.

Her award this week will be one that, rarely in this super competitive world, will be met with universal pleasure. She is the hugely likeable antidote to the Marco and Gordon model of screaming machismo that has done much to damage the image of the industry.

Angela, the only female chef who comes close to matching the single name recognition status of "Gordon", "Heston" or "Marcus" has already won her first Michelin star. Her next big ambition is to nail the second star for Murano, a feat that no female British chef has ever achieved.

She owes her career to her mentor Ramsay and is unswervingly loyal to him. But she is now getting close to the stage in her career when she will have to face up to her "Marcus moment" and decide whether to strike out on her own. Some will say she is too nice and owes too much to her boss to make the break. But there is Sabatier steel running through this one, for all her down to earth jolliness. And there will be no shortage of backers, despite the credit crunch, if she really wants it.