Sandra tries to make Roger tidy up in here once a week, but trying to keep this space in order is like slagging off Justin Bieber on Twitter, then attempting to hold back an army of inflamed online Beliebers with your bare fingers: futile. My day job is still being Roger’s PA so theoretically desk tidying is my responsibility. It certainly isn’t Sandra’s, she’s Managing Editor, far more senior and important than me. But then Sandra’s not a normal Managing Editor. No: Sandra is a ferociously cold fifty-five year old who dip-dyes her hair hot pink to prove she has a personality. After a particularly unpleasant run-in with her, Azeem suggested that Sandra’s heart was a small pebble she’d found on Farringdon Road, which she’d taken back to the office and shrink-wrapped in plastic with her precious laminating machine. He’s re-christened her The Laminator.
Sandra, meanwhile, has created her own nickname (bad form, surely, like laughing at your own jokes?). In an effort to prove to everyone at work that she’s closer to Roger than the rest of us – Sandra calls herself Roger’s ‘Office Wife’. That’s fine: OW suits Sandra just fine – as does ROW. Roger probably won’t marry again and certainly won’t marry Sandra, but Roger is kind and so he let’s her keep the nickname. And life is way too short to argue about who tidies Roger’s office, so she can keep that job too.
‘Parker – have a seat.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ I say, removing a brass trophy from last month’s Press Awards from the chair.
‘Is that yours or mine?’
‘Mine,’ I say, reading the plaque: Best Features Review – Arts & Leisure. ‘But I can’t do much with it. I’ll leave it in here.’
‘Nonsense, you should be proud of it. Use it as a paperweight?’
It’ll only antagonise Sandra, I think, as I cradle it in my lap. Still, I am proud of it, very much so.
‘What are you looking for?’ I say, as Roger pushes a pile of papers to one side, then starts shuffling through another.
‘Something you’ll like! Something with your name all over it.’
He doesn’t mean that literally. Nothing has my name on it, not when it comes to my other job. When I started writing our restaurant column, The Dish, after Fergus Kaye’s meltdown, Roger and I agreed the new column should be anonymous. Of course Jess sent me a long, ranty email telling me I was being a naive pushover and that I should always FIGHT FOR FULL CREDIT and INSIST IT’S UNDER THE LAURA PARKER BYLINE.
But Jess was wrong. Food critics aren’t like other critics: when our film critic, Henry, sees a film it’s the same film our readers will see. You don’t see Spielberg running round backstage at the Odeon re-shooting a happy ending just for Henry. But with food it’s a different story. A food critic whose face is known will never have the same experience as the average reader. On the rare occasions I ate out with Fergus and Roger, we’d be seated at the best table, and the chefs would send over Fergus-shaped treats: extra foie gras, free champagne. The pen is mightier than the sword (and the rolling pin). No – the only way you can do this job properly is if no one knows your name.
‘A friend at The Times sent it to me on the sly,’ says Roger, handing me a cream A5 card with gold foil edging. ‘Obviously we’re not welcome after last time . . . So all the more reason to go!’
If he wasn’t nearly thirty years older than me, I’d have a proper boss-crush on Roger. He’s bald, stout and looks his age: 62. If you didn’t know him you’d think he was a retired geography teacher who’d been kept awake three nights in a row with root-canal problems: not standard crush material. But Roger is a brilliant journalist – fearless, sharp and compassionate. Also, he saved me from my old life. And more than anything, he makes every day in this office fun.
‘What do you think?’ he says, leaning forward on his elbows. ‘Have you got to the bit about the sexy-punk aesthetic?’
‘Hold on . . . I’m counting the number of times they’ve used the word exquisite.’
‘And what a dreadful name!’
‘LuxEris – sounds like a cross between an exotic dancer and a hybrid.’
‘Perhaps I should have christened Gemma that . . .’
‘Oh dear – what’s she up to now?’
‘Threatening to go to Thailand for three months with some chap she met online five minutes ago. Her mother’s on the verge of having her locked up. Bet you never gave your parents this much grief.’
‘I’m just glad the Internet didn’t exist when I was nineteen,’ I say. ‘Besides, Mum would have banged me to rights.’
‘True, Jane would have. I suppose Elizabeth and I both spoiled Gemma . . . guilt. Still, I can’t understand where she gets this stubborn, rebellious streak from.’
‘Oooh, stubborn and rebellious – I couldn’t possibly imagine! Are you sure she’s not adopted?’
He sits back in his chair and laughs. ‘OK, she probably is mine. So then: what do you reckon – make this the main review for April?’
‘You’re quite sure you’re happy for me to—’
‘Both barrels, Laura. Besides, it might actually be good.’
I snort my response.
‘So what’s the diary looking like?’ he asks.
‘I’m doing a noodle place tomorrow and an Italian pop-up on Wednesday – Thursday?’
‘There is one condition though.’
‘Go on . . .’
‘I’m coming with.’
2
Roger hardly ever comes with me when I review a restaurant. Partly because he’s too busy meeting power-list types, in clubrooms women are forbidden to enter if they’ve ever owned a pair of trousers. Partly because he has cholesterol problems, and partly because if we ate out together more, he’d blow my cover.
I’m delighted he’s coming though, and looking at this press release again back at home, I can see why:
Ivan Marekov and Erek Van der Velten are proud to announce the opening of LuxEris – their extraordinary new haute-casual dining experience. The visionary restaurateurs bring their unique brand of gourmet cuisine + sexy fun back to the capital, taking possession of the basement of The Needle – the 7th tallest building in the Square Mile.
LuxEris marks the dynamic duo’s first joint venture with Executive Head Chef Jonn Zavragin who will oversee the kitchen team and an eclectic menu of global small plates. Diners at the 300-cover venue will enjoy exquisite industri-glam interiors by Ardaskian and signature cocktails curated by Denmark’s legendary mixologist, Nils Iversen.
‘Our philosophy of regional, seasonal, cutting-edge, luxury ingredients has found the perfect match with Jonn’s uniquely exquisite sexy punk-aesthetic. Where better to combine our dynamic visions than London – capital of street food, edge and glamour?’ says Marekov.
‘The concept of what defines Modern Luxury in the 21st Century is at the core of our brand’s DNA,’ adds Van der Velten. ‘And Eris is the ninth biggest planet in our solar system. We couldn’t think of a more fitting name for our ninth branded baby.’
‘Food is the new rock’n’ roll,’ says Zavragin. ‘I can’t wait to take it to the next level in the city that brought us The Clash and the Sex Pistols.’
We look forward to welcoming you to the new shining star in the VanRek™ portfolio.
Additional info:
The VanRek™ brand operates eight upscale eateries globally: Abu Dhabi, Beijing, Beverly Hills, Dubai, Hong Kong, Moscow, Las Vegas and London.
VanRek’s™ first UK brand extension, the high-end burger and cocktail joint, Carnivacious, launched in Chelsea in Autumn 2013, to five-star reviews.
Press enquiries – Petronella at Gilded PR
Five-star reviews, my arse! I gave it two – out of twenty – and only because the waiter was trying so hard. £45 for a burger, £8 extra for truffle fries? Mind you, they could have charged double and no one would have blinked an eyelid – no one in that place could move a single facial muscle.
The only critic who did give their last restaurant a glowing review was Petronella’s boyfriend, goo
d ol’ Fergus Kaye, in the Daily Metro: a thousand-word rave about the beautiful front-of-house girls. Of course they were beautiful, VanRek™ only ever employs models as waiting staff. Judging from their raw floppy patties, I suspect their chefs might be models too, or actresses; anything but actual chefs.
LuxEris sounds exactly like the sort of place my flatmate would like. Amber is deeply glamorous, and utterly peculiar about food. One week she’s hard-core vegan, eating cashew cheese and mainlining liquid kale, the next she’s filled the fridge with grass-fed steaks and will sigh loudly if I try to introduce a packet of sausages that didn’t cost £14. When I first moved in she had a total freak-out after I left a carton of eggs and some tomatoes tucked on the kitchen counter. I tried to explain that putting them in the fridge does them no good – but Amber doesn’t like looking at food and it’s her immaculate flat, we live by her OCD rules. Fair enough, cheap rent, and it meant I could still live in this great mansion block after I moved out of Rachel’s spare room. So now I keep eggs and tomatoes on my bedside table and a basil plant by my window; makes me look like a weirdo, but it’s not like I’ve had to explain myself to a constant stream of gentlemen callers these last three years.
On which note, I should text Russell back. He’s in a pub near Marble Arch and wants to meet up later. If I don’t see him tonight I won’t see him till Sunday; but I don’t want a late night on a Monday; besides I don’t want to be the girl he calls after the pub – I need to establish healthy ground rules.
Amber’s out with her boyfriend, so I take my computer and curl up on the sofa with a large glass of Malbec and Amber’s miniature schnauzer, Annalex. Amber’d go mad if she saw me drinking red wine on her Winter Snow sofa (try telling Amber’s interior designer it doesn’t snow much in summer). Still, I’m pretty house trained – well, more so than Annalex. Poor dog is so confused about her identity (Amber insists on styling her as mini-Amber) – she’s now on antidepressants and poops in protest at every new outfit.
Right: Google, let’s see what you’ve got: ‘chef Jonn Zavragin’. Looks like he should be playing lead guitar in Whitesnake. And what is it with chefs and crap tattoos?
Oh, but actually . . .
James Beard Award 2011 . . . Michelin star at 30 . . .
Impressive . . .
Executive Head Chef/Proprietor of The Big Z in Caesar’s Palace and Jonn’s in Chicago . . . new range of salsas, second biggest brand in the market . . . star of US hit show Jonn’s Kitchen . . . Married to the Victoria’s Secret model, Consuela Fonesca . . . hobbies include playing guitar, listening to hip hop, collecting vintage Harley Davidsons.
Far too much on his plate to be opening another restaurant, there’ll be no quality control.
Right: www.LuxerisLondon.co.uk . . . What is this music? Sounds like a porno.
LuxEris is . . . Senso-pleasure – Life-stylish – Eater-tainment
Ridicu-wank . . .
LuxEris operates a strictly no reservations policy . . .
I suppose that’s marginally better than being put on hold for an hour, only to be told you can get a table at 4.30 p.m. in June 2023. Any reviews on TripAdvisor yet? Ah yes, a handful of five stars, all using the word exquisite, now who could possibly be behind those?
One more quick background check . . .
Eris (dwarf planet): 9th biggest body in the solar system, largest of all the dwarf planets . . .
Since when was Pluto only a dwarf planet? No one told me it had been demoted. Ooh, but look how tiny it is compared to Jupiter, Jupiter’s gargantuan! Space is amazing! Space is distracting . . . Which planet’s the closest to Earth again? Venus, that’s right. How is it that I can remember the exact springiness of the focaccia in that tiny bakery in Lucca eleven years ago, but I can’t remember basic science facts?
Eris (Greek mythology) – Daughter of Zeus and Hera . . .
That Zeus, what a player! He’s fathered more love children than Hugh Grant. Ah, and Hera was his baby-mama and his sister: class. They should do a Jeremy Kyle Greek Gods special.
Eris . . . the Goddess of chaos, strife and discord . . .
Chaos, strife and discord? Did they not check that on Wikipedia first?
Surely that’s just asking for trouble?
3
I’m not a morning person; not really a midday one either – I tend to be at my best any time after lunch. In Manchester we started work at 8 a.m. – and one of the countless terrific things about working for Roger is that we don’t start till 10 a.m. – a luxury on a day like today.
Last night I went to a new Italian in Bermondsey with Sophie who lives opposite. She’s the only person apart from Dad and Jess I’ve ever told about my column – partly because I trust her like family, and partly because she’s the perfect dinner companion: she runs her own dessert company, adores food, and if I don’t know the name of some obscure sea vegetable, she just might.
After supper (let down by fussy starters, deeply un-Italian) we came back for a bottle of wine at our local. We ended up laughing about whose ex was worse (hers = fat bloke who dumped her for being ‘a big size 10’; mine = laziest adulterer in the North – he made it as far as one desk along).
Birdsong woke me at 6 a.m. but I rolled back into sleep and even though I didn’t get up till 8.20 a.m. I still have time for my daily pilgrimage to Fabrizio’s en route to the office. Fabrizio’s is my favourite coffee shop in London, tucked away in an alley off Clerkenwell Road. The front area is a classic 1950s Italian coffee bar – Formica countertop, beautiful shiny silver La Marzocco espresso machine, and amber glass jars of house-blend beans, ready to be ground. Then, hidden behind a small curtain at the back, is a cosy sitting area, just four wooden tables where Fabrizio plays jazz and blues and, very occasionally, early Donna Summer. In the basement he’s installed a small roasting machine and sometimes he lets me roast a batch for old times’ sake; sometimes I just stand there smelling the coffee.
I have begged Fabrizio to start selling breakfast of some description – pastries, bacon sandwiches – anything that when I’m hung-over can help break my fall into the day. I’ve talked him through the margins we used to make on snacks at Bean To Cup, but he just laughed, shook his head, and said, ‘I don’t need the fackin’ aggravation, darlin’.’ Sophie occasionally meets me here and recently she’s been on a major sweet-talking offensive so I’m hopeful he might stock her cakes one day; but no food yet. So this morning I walk in and, like Norm from Cheers, am greeted with a hearty welcome and my usual: a warm double espresso, to go. ‘Italians don’t drink their coffee so bloody hot, Laura. You English, with your cappuccinos after dinner and cheese on your tuna pasta – fack me.’
As I take my coffee and head to the office, a line from a T. S. Eliot poem we studied at school comes to me: ‘I have measured out my life with coffee spoons . . .’ Mr Samson said in this sentence Eliot was ‘trying to communicate the ennui so inherent in the modernist positioning’. At the time all I was thinking was the clock hand must be moving backwards. One poem, 130 lines long? Come back, haiku, all is forgiven.
I’m still not certain what that line meant – but I like it. It makes me think of my life over the past four years. I could measure those years out by my relationship with Fabrizio’s coffee. Four years ago, I’d come into this café and be unable to make eye contact with Fabrizio. I could only look downwards, see downwards. Ordering a cappuccino with two sugars every morning, letting my tongue touch that chocolate dusted froth, was the one point of sweetness and comfort in my day.
And then one morning, about six months after I’d been back in London, I was sitting having a coffee in the back room. Fabrizio started playing ‘Fly Me To The Moon’ – a song my mum used to dance around the kitchen to with Jess and me when we were little. I remembered my mum’s face – full of life – and I burst into tears. Fabrizio came rushing over to my table and gave me the longest hug, and I thought: It’s not true that Manchester is friendlier than London. No one’s ever hugged me in a coffee sh
op up North.
And ever since then, I have found myself crawling back into the world, taking pleasure in things, learning, rebuilding myself. And when Roger gave me my big break and I started writing The Dish, I weaned myself off the anaesthetic froth of cappuccinos, off the two sugars, and on to flat whites, and then regular whites. And now I have lots of good things in my life, and I can start the day the way I used to back when I was happy – with this black, strong, almost poisonous liquid – and feel awakened. Feel excited again. Feel the thrill of what lies ahead.
The Voice is published on the first Tuesday of the month. Today is the last Thursday in February so we’re sending March’s pages to the printers now. The restaurants I’m visiting this week will run in April’s mag. I’ve already written up Tuesday’s noodle bar, and I’ll do the Italian and LuxEris this weekend. The reviews then go to our lawyer, on to our subs who craft and double-check, then get typeset, photos dropped in and whoosh, off they go!
My final deadline is still nearly four weeks away but I like to file early. It’s pretty much guaranteed the minute you fall behind – even by just one day – life will throw some Super Mario barrels in your path to trip you up. You’ll find yourself scribbling copy the night before you go to print, with Sandra looming ready for the kill, like Donkey Kong in a floral wrap dress. I’ve only had to file up to the wire once in three years – an unplanned trip to Paris to help Dad look after Jess’s twins. It is a situation to be avoided: at all costs.
It’s now 6.30 p.m., but Roger’s still immersed at his desk, so I’m sifting through letters to the editor regarding our back issues. Edgar Smyth from Kensington violently disagrees with Henry, our film critic, that Billy Wilder deserves the title auteur as ‘Wilder’s films do not represent a cohesive body of work like Hitchcock’s do – only a hack would suggest otherwise’. Calm down, Edgar, it’s only a movie . . .
Ah, one for me . . .
Dear The Dish,
The Dish Page 2