I haven't yet tasted Richard's Corrigan's food, but having read through his book 'The Richard Corrigan Cookbook' I'm looking forward to the day that I do. Richard's restaurant, Lindsay House, is a starred Michelin restaurant in Soho, and the next time I'm in London I'll make it my first port of call. He was over in Dublin to launch his book - which is subtitled 'from the waters and the wild' - and to appear on the Late Late Show, so I took the opportunity to meet him in The Shelbourne while he was here.

Interviews arranged like this tend to be rather formal, stilted arrangements, where two strangers meet and then one tries to elicit useful information from the other in the allotted time. Thankfully Richard Corrigan is eloquent and has firmly-held opinions which he was happy to share. My first impressions were of a young man at ease with himself; affable and with an gentle charm. He'd done several interviews already by the time I met him, so as is the way of these things, much of our early exchanges were made up of basic information about himself and his book. He's a Meath man who has learned his trade in various countries, moving from his first job in a local Meath hotel, to Belgium and the Netherlands, before making London his home. I decided to break cover and tell him that I'd had a restaurant for years, in the hope that the camaraderie of a shared experience would make our conversation less publicity oriented and more about his philosophy of life, living and food.

I thought it was telling that the final paragraph of his introduction to his cookery book ends with the line 'I love to see simplicity on a plate.' Now that's a philosophy of food that I can completely subscribe to and it made a perfect starting point. I asked him why he liked simplicity. 'I think it comes from a basic intelligence I was given as a kid, an honesty about the way I approach things, an honesty with the food. It's always been my policy; I don't like things painted up to be a pretty picture when they're not.' That's something that's hard to disagree with and what follows from this is his insistence on only the freshest and best ingredients prepared as carefully and imaginatively as possible. He holds another principle with which I agree whole-heartedly; he believes in foods in their season. It's part of the joy of it, he argues. Just because you can get asparagus all year round doesn't mean you have to have it. Local, home-produced food in its season is part of the pleasure of the kitchen and a way of being part of the natural cycle of things. For example enjoying the autumn for its fruits, berries and mushrooms makes it an appealing time of year, not just a run-up to winter. Which is why his book is divided by season; the recipes in each section reflect the time of year and use whatever foods are in season. Unusually there are sections too on wine and cheeses designed to reflect the season, which make a nice adjunct to the recipes.

We spoke about his youth in Co. Meath as part of a large family on a small farm and his almost idyllic rustic childhood. They may well be bucolic clichés, but his memories of making their own butter and digging their own turf, picking apples and gathering nature's fruits are the sort of formative experiences that bind you firmly to the earth. His mother baked bread daily, and although their diet wasn't gourmet, it was an honest diet of plain, wholesome food. He told me of his first visit to a restaurant called the Kirwan Arms at the age of twelve. 'I decided then that that was what I wanted to do, work in a restaurant. I went there again after I'd finished school at fourteen and asked for a job, not expecting to get one. The chef, Ray Vaughan, said I could start on Monday.' He laughed, and remembered all the pots he'd scrubbed and potatoes he'd peeled before being allowed near even the simplest starter. We talked of game and wild foods like pheasant and rabbit, all part of his early formative years. 'My father was great man for getting all kinds of game, especially salmon.' I can't help feeling that this closeness to the life and death cycle in the country has had quite an impact on his ideas about cooking, he appears so rooted in the countryside. I tried to get a recipe from him for roasting wild rabbit, but he maintained that wild rabbit could not be roasted successfully. 'Keep the roasting for the farmed rabbits.' The afternoon piano playing in The Lord Mayor's Lounge made talking a little hard, so we adjourned to the Horseshoe, where I continued to be abstemious with a Virgin Mary and Richard had a pint of Guinness. 'I'm not crazy about Guinness, but when I'm home I like to drink it.'

If simplicity and honesty are the things that he aspires to, he's not short on likes and dislikes. 'I like people to be who they are, I hate the idea of wealth destroying someone's personality, I hate pretension. I don't look for praise - I have customers at the top of all walks of life including the Prime Minister, but I don't come out of the kitchen to shake his hand. I'm not going fishing for compliments.' We talked of other restaurants and Richard has strong views on these too. Anything with even a hint of pretension had him repeating the same phrase, 'I hate bullshit.' His clarity of vision in a world where fashion changes tastes continually is refreshing - he's a man who knows very clearly where he's going and how he intends to get there. Fashion is something he seems to see as a mirage, something that deflects a chef from being true to his ideals for the sake of a passing caprice. We spoke of some of the trendier restaurants in Dublin and talked of how their approach was changing ideas about food. Again he reiterated his insistence on simplicity and honesty. 'There's places in Dublin these days with that North American approach to food - places who go in for the stack it high, pile it on, add a load of flavours, and it's a big lie. We all know it's a lie. That's not how we do it. Our approach is simple; just hard work and honesty.'

Increasingly there are well-trodden paths for successful chefs to follow, other than being in the kitchen. Becoming a TV personality is an obvious one, but not one Richard intends taking. Going down the road of being a celebrity chef is something abhorrent to him. 'I won't do that bullshit. I'm a working chef, not a personality chef. I've been offered a TV show on BBC2, but I turned it down. I'm not in it for the money either, I don't intend to make a fast buck and retire early, I intend to be doing this for years to come. I'm a self-made man. I used to say at one stage that I owe my lack of success to nobody.'

Certainly his approach has convinced London diners and critics alike. Lindsay House got the best review of any restaurant that I've ever read by A. A. Gill; Richard was described by the Guardian as 'one of the most outstanding culinary talents of a generation' and then he got his Michelin star in 1999. The back of his book has a list of paeans of praise from nearly every major food reviewer in the UK. There's something rather refreshing about the fact that this apparently simple country boy with his insistence on plainness and honesty has wowed the London sophisticates. I asked him the obvious question. 'Any thoughts on opening a restaurant here in Dublin?' A mix of emotions crossed quickly across his face while he searched for an answer. 'No. No, I don't think so. I've got the sort of restaurant that I want now and I've got the sort of customers that I like. My life is in London for the foreseeable future.' More's the pity, Dublin could do well with Richard Corrigan and his no bullshit credo.