However, I do not have any answers prepared about what vegetables I enjoy.
I simply did not think this would come up.
How stupid of me.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I reply.
‘Leeks, girl! What do you think about leeks?’
‘They’re nice in a soup with potatoes?’ I venture, in what I hope is an inoffensive response.
‘Bah!’ Mordred exclaims and throws his hands up, before disappearing back into the darkness of the unit beyond.
He is almost instantly replaced by Joanna Lumley.
‘Oh, hello there!’ Joanna Lumley says, with an apologetic look on her face. ‘I’m sorry about Mordred. We’re having a disagreement with our chief cook about some ingredients. It never puts him in a good mood.’
‘Oh, okay,’ I reply, still quite shocked that I’m holding a conversation with one of the biggest British TV stars in history.
My dad was always a big fan. He liked to watch the Lumley whenever possible, and certainly loved to sapphire his steel on a regular basis – especially at the weekend, when Mum was out with her sister. I bought him the complete box set of The New Avengers a few years ago for Christmas. I’ve never seen him look happier. All that Lumley, right there in his hands. It made his day.
And here she is, standing right in front of me.
I’m quite perplexed.
‘You’re from Nolan Reece’s new company, aren’t you?’ Joanna Lumley says.
‘Yes. Yes, I am,’ I reply, snapping myself out of the surrealism of the moment and holding out a hand. ‘Ellie Cooke.’
Joanna Lumley takes my hand. ‘Petal O’Hare,’ she introduces herself, throwing me for a loop.
She could be Joanna Lumley’s twin sister. She looks like her, and sounds like her.
I’m still half convinced it is her, and she’s just taken up a pseudonym so she can run her vegan foods business in peace, without everyone constantly asking her whether Ab Fab is ever coming back.
‘Do come in,’ incognito Joanna Lumley says to me, inviting me into the industrial unit.
‘Okay,’ I reply, still a bit off-kilter. Petal O’Hare is not what I was expecting at all. She’s tall, quite glamorous, and has the kind of skin I would kill for – even though I’m a good twenty-five years younger. All that vegan food must be doing wonders.
I follow her in through a small entrance lobby, and out into a broad, open space that’s half storage area, half industrial-sized kitchen – divided by one large wall that runs down the middle of the room. My nostrils are instantly struck by a combination of smells they may never recover from. It’s not that any of them are bad, it’s just that they are deeply intense, all thrown together like that. They are overwhelmingly vegetable in nature, which I guess makes perfect sense.
The storage area is full of bags, boxes and sacks of every kind of food ingredient that doesn’t owe its direct existence to farmed animals. There’s a bloke at the back offloading what looks like a sack of potatoes from another delivery truck, parked up just outside a set of flung-open double doors.
The separated kitchen area is a hive of activity. There are several people dressed in kitchen whites, all busying themselves putting together the ready meals that Veganthropy Foods are starting to become well known for. There’s an awful lot of cooking going on. Things are bubbling, baking, frying and blanching at a rate of knots, and it’s making me hot and sweaty just looking at it.
‘Apologies for all the noise and such,’ Petal O’Hare tells me as we walk past all of this. ‘Busy time for us. We have a large batch going out at the end of the week.’
‘Not a problem!’ I tell her airily, trying to ignore the strong smell of earthy vegetables.
‘In an ideal world, all of this would be better sectioned off,’ Petal continues, ‘but we’re still a small operation, and things are a bit haphazard at the moment.’ She gives me a smile. ‘We’re hoping to update and expand operations in the next year – which is why we’ve called you in, to hopefully help us get the message out.’
‘Absolutely!’ I reply, one eye twitching at the waft of garlic that’s just gone up my nose, as we pass by what I can only assume is a pot of the stuff on a large hob.
‘I’ll just call Mordred over, and we can go have a conversation in our back office,’ Petal says, before looking at where her husband is having what looks like a heated discussion with a man in a chef’s hat. ‘Mordred! It’s time for the meeting!’
He turns his angry gaze to us and starts to march over, cutting the poor bloke in the chef’s hat off mid-conversation.
Watching Mordred get nearer is what it must feel like to be stalked by an enraged, ambulatory hedge. Two fierce, burning eyes peek out from that wealth of grey, spiralling hair, which is bobbing and weaving all over the place now that he’s removed the top hat.
That can’t be sanitary around all this cooking, I think to myself. Unless Veganthropy Foods are marketing a vegan-cheese-and-hair pie, I think he should probably be wearing a hairnet.
‘Leeks!’ he roars as he draws ever closer.
Petal throws me another apologetic look. ‘Sorry, Ms Cooke . . . Mordred does get exercised about our ingredients sometimes, and he’s just discovered something online about leeks that has displeased him greatly.’
‘Oh,’ I respond, in a bit of a daze.
What on earth could have displeased him greatly about a leek? Leeks are possibly one of the most inoffensive things on the planet. It’d be hard for me to get angry about the existence of leeks, even if you threw one at my head. It’d be you I’d be angry at, not the leek. The leek would have become an unwilling ballistic weapon, a decision it would have had no choice in . . . being that it was a leek, and an inanimate object.
Mordred appears to have sidestepped this relaxed attitude towards leeks, as he truly looks incandescent about them when he reaches us.
‘We can’t have them, Petal!’ he roars at his wife, before turning to me again. ‘We just can’t have them, Viridian PR!’
I think he just referred to me as Viridian PR. He does know that’s who I work for, and not who I am, right?
‘Calm down, Mordred,’ his wife tells him, gently picking what looks like a small leaf out of his beard. ‘If we don’t want to use leeks any more, we don’t have to.’
Mordred points a large and meaty finger back over at the guy in the chef’s hat. ‘Montrose begs to differ!’
I see Montrose roll his eyes as he turns back to the frying pan in front of him on the stove he’s stood at.
‘Well, Montrose will just have to recognise that leeks are now unacceptable,’ Petal says, remaining calm and placid.
The angry hedge stares at me with great intent. It’s deeply disconcerting. I may never be able to visit the garden section of B&Q again. ‘And what say you, Viridian PR?’ he asks me.
‘I’m sorry?’ I splutter back.
‘Are leeks unacceptable?’
This is the second time he’s asked me for my opinion on leeks in nearly as many minutes. I’ve never felt so pressured to provide an answer about any topic in my life before.
‘Why would they be unacceptable?’ I venture, feeling as if I require more information before I am able to accurately give him what he wants.
Mordred shakes his head sharply, causing the beard to surge and undulate in ways inconceivable to science. ‘The moths, Viridian PR! Because of the moths!’
‘The moths?’
‘Yes! Alliumaris lepidoptera!’
‘Sorry, what?’
‘Alliumaris lepidoptera!’ Mordred repeats, the beard heaving.
‘Sorry? Is that a type of pot plant?’
‘No, Viridian PR! It’s a very special type of moth!’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes, of course!’
Petal steps slightly in front of her maddened husband, forcing him to move away from me a little. ‘Mordred has discovered a special species of moth that feeds on leeks, and is worried that if we use them in our recipe
s, we might be removing its food source,’ she explains.
‘That’s right!’ Mordred agrees, before pulling out his mobile phone from his jeans pocket. He thrusts the screen in my face – upon it is a picture of the single ugliest fucking moth I’ve ever laid eyes on. ‘Isn’t it a thing of wonder and beauty?’ he insists.
‘Um . . .’
What do I do here?
I suppose I had better lie and agree with him. I want his business after all.
However, I’m slightly afraid that, if I do, I will be telling a lie of such great magnitude that it will create a rip in the space-time continuum, plunging me into another universe – possibly one that does not contain leeks.
Alliumaris lepidoptera is a moth of such overwhelming hideousness that it fair takes my breath away. The damn thing is all hairy bits, nodules and feelers.
It’s like someone grabbed ‘disgusting’ and put wings on it.
‘It’s certainly a very interesting-looking . . . thing,’ I eventually reply. I think I’m on safe ground with that.
‘Hmph,’ Mordred says. ‘It’s a wonderful creature of the earth, and we cannot take away its food source!’
Mordred is clearly delusional. Because the moth really is a truly hideous-looking thing – and regardless, I doubt very much that they’re going to kill the silly thing off just by using leeks in their recipes. Any creature that looks this atrocious must be tough enough to adapt quite easily to other food sources, if needs be. And just how many leeks do Veganthropy Foods use anyway? I had a look at their website, and could only spot leek and potato pie in the list of their products.
I totally understand the concept of making food that doesn’t use animal products, or ones that don’t hurt them in any way, but this might just be taking things a bit too far.
What’s next? Not using tomatoes because a passing earwig once fell into a bowl of soup and drowned?
Mordred and Petal O’Hare clearly take their veganism extremely seriously. To an almost ridiculous extent in Mordred’s case.
I had better be careful here. The boots I’m wearing are made of leather, and I had a ham toastie for breakfast. If the angry hedge smells either on me, it may attack.
‘Shall we go and have a chat about what PR services we can provide for you?’ I say to them both, steering things back on to a track that does not involve leeks, or the insects that feed upon them.
‘Yes!’ Petal agrees, clapping her hands together.
Mordred looks almost disappointed by this. It’s quite clear who is the businessperson in this relationship.
‘Do come on through,’ Petal tells me, walking towards a door at the rear of the industrial unit. I follow along again, with Mordred bringing up the rear. This is as unnerving as it sounds. Mordred would loom even without all that hair and beard.
Petal leads me through the door into a small room that is more lounge space than office. There’s a small desk parked over in one corner with a laptop, a kettle and some cups on it, but most of the room is taken up by a couple of old, battered-looking chesterfield sofas, with an equally antique coffee table between them. On the coffee table is a small hotplate, on which rest three bowls, all covered with white cloths.
Hmmm.
‘Please, sit down,’ Petal bids me. ‘Would you like some herbal tea?’
‘Um. Is it hemp?’ I ask, in a worried tone.
‘No. Jasmine and chamomile.’
‘Then yes, please.’
I park my bottom on one of the chesterfields, while Mordred sits on the one opposite. As Petal makes the tea I try not to look directly at the angry hedge (because that way probably lies moth-related madness), and instead look down at the coffee table, where I get a closer look at those three bowls.
I’m no Nostradamus, but I feel quite sure that the contents of the bowls are going to be a part of my very near future.
Lovely.
Petal brings over a cup of sweet-smelling tea and puts it in front of me, before squeezing herself next to her enormous husband on the other sofa.
Both of them then stare at me intently.
It’s something they are extremely good at.
I take it that this is my cue to start my pitch for Viridian PR’s services, and I open the folder on my knees.
‘Well, first of all, thank you very much for inviting me here today,’ I begin. ‘I’m excited to be here, to share what excellent promotional services we can offer you.’
‘That all sounds lovely, Ms Cooke. But first, it’s time for the butternut,’ Petal says.
‘Pardon me?’
‘The butternut,’ she repeats.
‘The butternut,’ Mordred echoes.
‘The butternut?’ I also say, feeling a bit flummoxed. I have a whole spiel prepared here, why must I be interrupted with random vegetables?
Petal leans forward and whisks off the white cloth on the bowl to my left. Underneath, I see that the bowl is full of small brown cubes, covered in grit.
‘We have traditions here, Viridian PR,’ Mordred tells me, folding his arms.
Petal lightly biffs him on the shoulder with her hand. ‘Her name is Ms Cooke, Mordred. Try to be nice.’ Then she faces me again. ‘When we were in the Amazon basin, we picked up a lovely local custom that the indigenous people have had for centuries.’
‘Did you,’ I reply in a flat tone.
‘Yes indeed. We share our food before any conversation. As a way of welcoming you into our home and our livelihood.’
‘Right.’
‘So please . . . enjoy the butternut. It is replete with vitamins A and C, along with being an excellent source of fibre and potassium.’
‘Yes, it is. The butternut,’ Mordred again repeats, like this is some kind of religious ceremony – which, given just how vegan these two clearly are, it probably is.
Have you eaten butternut squash? It tastes like a depressed potato.
I gingerly pick out one cube of the orange squash and hold it in front of me, examining it. The cube is covered in what looks like sea salt and rosemary.
It’s mid-morning, for crying out loud. I want a cup of coffee and a croissant, not a cube of lightly seasoned vegetable.
Lightly seasoned vegetables have no business existing in the morning. Unless they’re baked beans, though they hardly qualify as a vegetable.
Nevertheless, I’m here to impress, so I pop the cube in my mouth and give it a chew. There’s a moment where my brain and my stomach both rebel against this rude intrusion of vegetable matter on to my morning body clock, but once the shock is over, the cube of butternut doesn’t taste all that bad. Okay, the texture is still relatively unpleasant, but the seasoning does make it taste pretty nice.
I swallow the squash and smile. ‘Thank you.’
Both Petal and Mordred simultaneously nod at me slowly. ‘You are welcome,’ they both intone, like a pair of Cistercian monks.
‘From looking at the slight dryness in your hair, you could probably benefit from a bit more vitamin E,’ Petal adds, staring at my head.
‘Really?’ I reply, my hand involuntarily touching a couple of ends that I desperately hope aren’t that split.
‘Yes indeed. I thoroughly recommend more butternut in your life, Ms Cooke.’
‘Um . . . okay,’ I say, not sure if having sleeker hair is really worth having to eat any more of the depressed potato.
‘Do continue with your presentation,’ Petal then encourages, holding out her hand with her palm open.
So, with the rather odd aftertaste of butternut squash in my mouth, I proceed to outline – in as much detail as possible – what services we can offer Veganthropy Foods. And for a good fifteen to twenty minutes my life becomes sensible again. It’s something of a relief. Petal asks me a lot of pragmatic questions that I am actually able to answer, thanks to the amount of research I’ve done, and I’m able to sell Viridian PR to the both of them in a way that reassures them that we are a company now dedicated to promoting environmentally friendly businesses. Pet
al is the one with all the technical questions, bringing up things like sales figures, marketing impact, messaging formats, and so on – while Mordred is clearly more interested in the moral and emotive aspects of the meat-free food industry.
They present quite the united and challenging front to me during the conversation, but I am more than up to that challenge, I am pleased to say.
Mordred even starts calling me by my actual name, which must be one hell of a breakthrough, given the man’s personality type.
It’s only when I start to talk about their new lines of food that things start to deteriorate.
‘Would you like to try some of our newest recipes?’ Petal asks. ‘We’ve selected a couple for your enjoyment.’
Ah . . . the other two bowls. I’ve been trying to ignore them as much as possible during my spiel, but there they are, just waiting for my attention to turn back to them. Which is now happening, whether I like it or not.
‘Um . . . yes, I suppose so,’ I respond, affecting another one of my pleasant but entirely false smiles.
It’s not that I don’t want to eat vegan food per se . . . I just don’t want to eat vegan food at 11.30 a.m.
Petal whips off the cloth over the middle dish. Underneath it is a bowl of crispy chicken strips.
Well, they look like crispy chicken strips, anyway – I’m sure they aren’t actually chicken, otherwise these two have a very strange sense of what animal-friendly foods are.
‘These are our new Tofu Crispies. A wonderful snack for everyone,’ Petal assures me.
Oh, spectacular. Tofu.
I guess I wasn’t going to get out of today’s visit to a vegan food company without tofu at least getting a mention – but here I am about to actively engage in the consumption of it.
I’ve managed to avoid tofu for my entire life – a fact I am immensely proud of – but here it is, just waiting for me to try it, and I have no way of getting out of the experience, save for faking some kind of seizure.
I sigh internally, pluck a Tofu Crispy out of the bowl, and bite off one end of it.
Going Green Page 9