‘Laura!’ she says, placing a copy of my review on her desk. ‘Can I send a copy to my husband? He works with a bunch of Vulture Capitalists, and they’re always trying to out-do each other with the most ostentatious restaurants; I’d better warn him off!’
‘I can safely say it’s the worst three hundred and eighty-seven pound meal I’ve ever eaten. So what do you think, how much needs revising?’
‘Sit!’ She pats the chair next to her. ‘There are some specifics and then the general tone.’
‘Sounds ominous . . .’
‘Let’s see:
‘1. Making diners queue in the rain for two hours when they could queue inside is inconsiderate. Making them queue to a single Jay-Z track is way past inconsiderate – it’s a torture treatment devised by Kevin the Teenager.
‘2. Next time Kevin’s rifling through his iTunes ask him to pick a song that doesn’t refer to women as bitches – us bitches get uppity so easily.’
‘3. If there is a “No reservations” policy, how come the table of six wearing Deutsche Bank fleeces walked straight to the front of the queue?
‘4. And the couple who pulled up in an apple-green Ferrari . . .
‘5. And the B-lister from I’m A Celebrity plus entourage . . .’
‘That’s all fine. Ah yes, points six and seven . . .
‘6. With an eight million pound budget, I’m surprised you dress your hostesses head to toe in American Girlz batty riders.
‘7. Did I say head to toe? I meant head to mid-butt cheek, like a gaggle of low-budget twerkers.
‘Tell me,’ Heather says, her fountain pen poised. ‘What are batty riders – anything to do with Nora?’
‘Definitely not. A batty is a bottom and batty riders are very, very short shorts that reveal most of one’s . . . batty. So they’re sort of like Spanx but with the opposite intention.’
‘And how do you know these ones were from American Girlz?’
‘I was trying to convey the fact the outfits looked quasi-porn starrish.’
‘But did you actually see inside their batty riders?’
‘I practically saw inside their batties . . .’
‘Oh great Scott. All this talk of feminism,’ she says. ‘Sometimes I think it’s a figment of the media’s imagination. OK, so you’re using American Girlz as shorthand for trashy – but you can’t substantiate it so think of another way of communicating it. And perhaps consider changing batty riders to something old folk like me can understand? Next: the fact they tried to charge you for the cloakroom, are you certain it wasn’t a suggested gratuity?’
‘I handed my coat over, the girl said, “Five pounds.” I thought she was joking. She wasn’t, so I kept my coat.’
‘And they refused to serve free tap water?’
‘They added twenty-four pounds to the bill for a litre and a half of filtered tap water – we’d made it clear we wouldn’t pay for it; Roger nearly had fisticuffs with the waiter.’
‘Fine. The broad beans frozen, the strawberries not seasonal . . . ah yes, now this coffee thing: I feel embarrassed even asking, given all the lovely coffee you provide, but are you positive about this?
‘89. Spare me your three-page coffee list. I know a little about coffee, and what you served me was Posh Instant, not in any way related to the single origin, El Salvador bean you charged £9 for.’
‘One hundred per cent,’ I say. ‘The complexity of flavour profiles in real coffee is incomparable to granules or pods. Think of fresh coffee versus instant as the difference between watching Gravity at an Imax, versus watching it in black and white with no sound, on an iPod mini.’
‘Because you’re potentially accusing the restaurateurs of fraud . . .’
I shrug. ‘They’re lying to their customers and stealing from them. The fact their customers don’t seem to know or care is beside the point.’
‘OK. But if you’re wrong, it’s defamatory.’
‘I’m not wrong.’
‘Then keep it. Then your end comments – change “This is the worst restaurant in the Northern Hemisphere . . .” to “Is this the worst” . . . again, moves it from defamation. And then the last paragraphs are quite inflammatory, verging on ridicule.
‘Jonn Zavragin – I’ve seen you on YouTube playing guitar. I’m sure if you asked AC/DC nicely they might find you a job better suited to your mid-life crisis . . .’
‘You think I should tone it down?’
‘It worries me slightly,’ she says, tapping her pen distractedly on her desk. ‘This is the most brutal tone you’ve taken; it reminds me of a review Fergus wrote years ago where he called Matthieu Garrigue the worst chef in London.’
‘What happened?’
‘Garrigue’s lawyers kicked up an epic stink, said it was defamatory, claimed it had put customers off and that Fergus was a charlatan. Garrigue claimed he’d served Anjou squab instead of guinea fowl and Fergus had been too drunk to notice.’
That sounds like Fergus. One time I went for dinner with Roger and Fergus and the waiter accidentally gave Fergus my halibut, not his sea bass. It was only once the plates were cleared and I asked how he’d enjoyed my fish that he realised. He’s never forgiven me, though Roger laughed so hard he practically needed the Heimlich.
‘Did Garrigue try to sue?’
‘They sent a solicitor’s letter but we argued Honest Comment and Vulgar Abuse.’
‘Vulgar Abuse?’
‘If you say something insulting but don’t mean it literally – and that’s clear to a reader – for example, “I’d rather cut out my own tongue than eat Garrigue’s langue de chat” – you can get away with it. Anyway, Garrigue’s PR firm leaked the whole thing to the papers. After that tiff you couldn’t get a reservation for love or money. Sometimes you have to wonder if these spats aren’t manufactured in the first place.’
‘Would you rather I changed the end?’
She pauses. ‘If Roger’s happy? We’ve got this big exposé on Damian Bechdel, and the turkey piece, and if anything’s going to kick off, it’ll be those. So yes, it’s fine. It’s better than fine – you should give yourself a pat on the back.’
My subconscious must have taken Jess’s warnings to heart because I find myself in my kitchen later, staring at a selection of collagen-rich ingredients on the counter. My phone rings. Panic! I’m so entirely over-invested in tomorrow’s date, I bet it’s Adam calling to cancel – but it’s Sophie, telling me she’s just missed her train. ‘The next one’s not till eight fourteen p.m., and they’re going to make me buy a new sodding ticket. Can we eat at ten p.m.?’
‘Could we do tomorrow instead?’
‘Will the coast still be clear?’ Sophie is currently avoiding my flat, given her and Amber’s current beef/turkey.
‘She’s away all week, Gestalt-Ashtanga. Try saying that when you’re drunk, definitely don’t try doing it.’
The mackerel and asparagus go back in the fridge. Instead I look on the Leftovers website (it’s genius) to see what to make with some old boiled potatoes, sour cream and bacon, and find a south-western jalapeño hash that’s spicy, smoky and utterly delicious. Besides, a good night’s sleep will make me look just as young as an oily fish. It’s a shame Sophie’s not around though, I could do with some distraction from thinking about Adam.
I could make a start on Second Helpings. It’s an idea I pitched after I brought Roger a takeaway from Arrigato, off Gray’s Inn Road. From outside it resembles a massage parlour and if you realised it served hand rolls, not hand jobs, you’d be even less inclined to enter, but it’s one of the best sushi bars in London. I want to scream from the rooftops: look past the dingy walls and the green neon because THE FISH IS EXTRAORDINARY AND YOU CAN STUFF YOUR FACE FOR LESS THAN A TENNER! But it’s the sort of restaurant that will never get reviewed – not just because Kelly Brook would never be papped falling out of its doors, but because it’s been there a decade. There are over 10,000 restaurants in London and the only ones we review are the shiny, th
e sexy, the new. Surely it’s far more interesting to read about places customers have stayed loyal to? I pour a glass of wine, start writing notes and the next time I look at my watch it’s 10.30 p.m.
In the aftermath of my divorce, I decided food was the only reliable pleasure in this world – food and great American TV. Men can hurt you, friends can hurt you, butter cannot hurt you (your arteries might disagree). And so I literally do pinch myself (and I never use literally unless I mean it) on nights like tonight, when time flies and I remember how lucky I am to have a job that doesn’t feel like work.
As I climb into bed, I can’t work out whether I’m more excited about this idea or my date. I have so much adrenalin buzzing round me, I feel like I’ve drunk four double espressos.
Only eight and a half hours to go!
14
It’s 3.23 a.m. All is silent outside my bedroom window, but inside my head it’s party time! One negative thought bumping into the next and inviting more to join them for piña coladas.
The start of a relationship is such a fragile thing . . .
Stop thinking and go back to sleep.
Fragile like that coral shell on Aunty Ruth’s mantelpiece all those years ago . . . It was an accident, I’d barely touched its delicate surface yet suddenly I felt it lose its shape under my fingers . . .
Meditation! Focus on your breathing!
I’m great at breaking things on date three . . . There’ve been half a dozen men since Tom, to whom I’ve said something damaging on the third date and things have fallen apart before they’ve started:
Barrister Steven: I’d mentioned my divorce. He’d scrutinised me over his roast pork belly: ‘Divorced? Already? Must be something seriously wrong with you.’ I should have told him I was divorced earlier, but it hadn’t come up.
I try adjusting my pillows, curling the top one into a ball, then two minutes later, fling it to the floor.
Joe from Guardian Soulmates, who told me to redirect my monthly donations away from Breakthrough Breast Cancer and towards the human rights charity he worked for. Apparently calling a guy a hectoring dick on a third date is a deal breaker . . .
If you turn the lights on now, you’ll be admitting defeat.
Marc ‘with a c’, who said a woman over thirty who refused to give head on date three was over-estimating her market value, a ‘seller in a buyer’s market’.
Maybe the problem – now I think about it – was what those guys said to me, rather than my death-knell responses. Maybe I shouldn’t have allowed them second dates, let alone thirds . . .
Still, I’m convinced I’m going to say or do something today that will make Adam realise I’m deeply uncool and far too keen. Even though we’re only meeting for an hour again, I know I’m capable of doing considerable damage in such a short time.
Sod it: I turn on my bedside light and root under the bed till I find the equivalent of a horse tranquilliser: Advanced Food Chemistry. I’ve read so many books since I started my column but never made it past page 47 of this bad boy. And sure enough, next thing I know my alarm’s going off at 6.00 a.m. and I’ve been using a diagram of an Extended Protein Peptide Chain for a pillow.
Right – not risking my outfit being the deal breaker; I pull out my ASOS red jersey dress with the low neck. Clearly too sexy for a 7.30 a.m. date but I love this dress and now it matches the veins in my eyes perfectly.
Bobby’s is lovely – a bright airy space, with a wide selection of freshly baked pastries piled high on platters on the counter, flower pots of fresh mint on every stripped wooden table, and a mix and match of crockery.
Adam’s sitting inside, head down over the paper, reading intently and when I say hi, he’s caught unawares and looks up almost guiltily.
‘What’s Tuesday like for Capricorns?’ I say, tipping my head to see what he’s so interested in.
He closes the paper quickly and stuffs it by his side. ‘It says, “Don’t be swayed by what a Gemini orders. Tread your own path but why not order the praline brioche?”’
‘You know what?’ I say, taking a seat. ‘I was thinking the praline, or perhaps the chocolate and raspberry croissant.’
‘Actually I could do with ordering both – did I mention I’m doing a new pastry project? One minute . . .’
His phone is ringing and he reaches into his jeans pocket, looks at the caller ID then frowns. ‘Sorry, I have to take this . . .’ He strides outside before answering and stands by the window, talking animatedly.
I order coffees and pick up his Daily Metro to see what he was reading. Not the horoscopes, I’m sure: . . . ‘Energy firms hiking prices in spite of massive profits’ . . . ‘Fathers 4 Justice campaigning for improved fathers’ rights’ . . .
Oh, I see: that’s what he was reading, Fergus Kaye’s review of his restaurant. Little fibber, pretending he doesn’t care what critics write.
10/10: ‘Perfectly executed small plates . . . a simple tomato salad a master class in flavour . . . Cobb salad, festooned with elephantine chunks of avocado . . . ragwort sorbet made me want to scale The Needle and herald its glory . . . The most exquisite interiors since Claridges’ Art Deco bar . . .’
You know nothing, Fergus Kaye.
68. It takes an immense talent to mess up a tomato salad.
69. The avocado was missing from my London Cobb salad. I double-checked, put my glasses on, used my Torch app: nada.
70. Also missing: the flavour, the texture.
71. Are you quite sure ragwort is edible? Last time I checked it was used to kill horses.
And ‘Exquisite interiors’? Only if your idea of exquisite is Versace meets Liberace at a Bunga Bunga party. Fergus is obviously still shagging Petronella, LuxEris’s PR girl – of course he’s gushing. If Marina in the Guardian had given them top marks I might consider re-reviewing . . .
It’s now 7.46 a.m. and Adam’s still in heated conversation outside. I bet he’ll have to rush off on the dot of 8.30 a.m. Our time together is so limited, I can’t help but calculate he’s been on the phone for twenty per cent of our date. Might as well catch up on the gossip:
Recipe for Disaster
Celebrity chef Declan O’Brian today announced he is separating from his wife of 14 years. Rumours of an alleged affair had been circulating on Twitter, including one photo showing a sex act taking place in a walk-in fridge.
Humble Pie
O’Brian had previously begged forgiveness from his wife after admitting to fathering a love child with his PR manager. O’Brian blamed his behaviour on work. ‘People have no idea of the extreme pressures of the professional kitchen, it’s beyond anything imaginable . . .’
Those bomb disposal guys in Iraq might have something to say about that, Declan!
‘Sorry . . .’ says Adam, slipping back into his seat, looking perturbed. He takes a sip of his coffee before realising it’s turned cold.
‘Have you seen this?’
‘No thanks,’ he says, glancing at the pap shot of a defiant-looking O’Brian. ‘I did part of my apprenticeship with him. The man’s an octopus, thinks his staff are a perk of the job. He used to say “Pick a waitress, any waitress. It’s not about if, it’s about where and when . . .”’
‘Where being the fridge, when being all of the time! Why do they call them love children when they’re invariably conceived in a broom cupboard?’ I say. ‘Not a whole lotta love in that set-up.’
He glances again at his phone.
‘You must have been out with a few front-of-house girls?’
‘It’s not something I’d go out of my way to do again in a hurry,’ he says, briskly.
‘By the way, Adam, were you not going to mention it?’
His face suddenly falls.
‘Aren’t you proud of yourself?’
His voice sounds almost panicked. ‘Are you being sarcastic?’
‘What?’
He pauses. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The boy done good?’
‘Laura,
how did you . . .’
‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t care what’s written about you, I’d be happy. You don’t look happy?’ In fact he looks almost sick. ‘You must be pleased with a review like that? I mean Fergus is a dick, but still . . .’
He shakes his head, as if rousing himself from a bad dream. ‘Well . . . I . . . yeah, if it gets Ivan and Erek off my back . . .’
‘Are you OK? You look stressed?’
‘Yep . . . Sorry . . .’ I can feel the vibrations from his leg tapping against the table.
‘Adam, is something wrong?’
‘Back in two secs . . .’ He grabs his phone and heads outside again but this time moves away from the window. He’s gone another ten minutes and I’m just debating whether to call him, text him, leave the café or order the pastries, when he rushes back in looking panicked.
‘I’m sorry, Laura . . .’
‘It’s fine, we’ve still got almost half an hour—’
‘I’m going.’
‘You’re what?’ I stand abruptly as the paper falls to the floor. This is a new low for date three, even by my standards. ‘You won’t even stay for a quick coffee?’ I wish the words falling out of my mouth didn’t sound quite so desperate. I wish the dress I’m practically falling out of didn’t look quite so desperate.
He shakes his head but moves closer and for a moment I think he might kiss me again. Instead, he takes a deep breath and fixes me with an expression that reminds me of Tom in the months before I found out about the affair.
There is guilt in this expression and something withheld. In Adam’s case this look seems tinged with sorrow, seems to say: I can’t give you what you want. The look I used to see in Tom’s eyes had a different note: guilt without remorse: I’m taking what I want; just not from you.
‘Laura, things are . . . I promise it won’t always be like this.’
The Dish Page 12