The Dish

by Stella Newman

  ‘Bloody waste of time,’ says Roger, his hand on the table flexing in and out of a fist.

  ‘The judge found in favour of the restaurant . . . to the tune of six hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘Are you saying this could end up costing us money too?’ says Sandra.

  ‘What does she mean too?’ I say to Roger, under my breath.

  ‘Escalating turkey wars . . .’

  ‘There’s no way we’re risking litigation on two fronts in one month,’ says Sandra. ‘It’s utterly clear what needs to happen here. Take the piece down immediately, print a full retraction in May’s issue, admit you got your facts wrong and your judgement was flawed.’

  ‘Sandra – my readers trust me. If I say I’m unreliable, how could they ever trust me again?’

  ‘Well, quite: why should they? You said – when you asked to change copy the day before we went to print – that the original copy was wrong.’

  ‘Not wrong exactly . . .’

  ‘Excuse me?’ she says, turning to Roger, then back to me. ‘Are the facts wrong or aren’t they?’

  ‘They’re not wrong but—’

  ‘So were you lying to me then or are you lying now?’

  ‘Lay off her, Sandra, she’s not in court yet!’ says Heather.

  ‘I don’t think we should take it down,’ says Roger.

  ‘Six hundred thousand dollars? Eleven years in court?’ says Sandra.

  ‘If they’re going to exploit this for publicity, so should we. Have you seen the latest toilet?’ he says to me. ‘Total Eclipse of the Fart.’

  ‘That might be the problem,’ says Heather. ‘The longer it’s up, the more traffic it gets, and the more they can argue the extent of reputational damage. It could mean an increased payout if we lose – that’s why the damages were so high in Sydney – the paper kept the piece online. If we take it down today at least we look like we’re cooperating.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘We respond with a letter of defence.’

  Sandra shakes her head. ‘Why are we defending a piece we know contains factual errors?’

  ‘Why did this piece even run in the first place, Sandra?’ I say. ‘You told me you’d changed it on the system!’

  ‘Oh,’ she says, eyes wide, looking at Roger. ‘This again? This is my fault?’

  ‘Ladies, please,’ says Roger. ‘Let’s take it offline.’

  ‘The article or the catfight?’ says Heather.

  ‘The piece. Draft a letter of response today.’

  ‘But what if they reject it?’ I say. ‘How can I prove something looked or tasted horrible when my word is my only proof? I don’t have photos.’

  ‘Whatever happens, you do not want a protracted to-ing and fro-ing. We absolutely cannot justify resource on this,’ says Sandra.

  ‘Sandra’s right,’ says Heather, looking at me with concern. ‘Their pockets are substantially deeper than ours – if they wanted to make life difficult for us, they could. We can defend the facts, but it’s the subjective stuff we’ll struggle to verify. If they can make a case the review harmed their business financially—’

  ‘But the place is packed with high rollers every night,’ I say.

  ‘Now it is, yes, but if they drag this out long enough and trade declines they can claim your review is partly responsible. So I agree – the key is a swift resolution.’

  ‘Roger,’ I say, turning to him directly. ‘Please, let’s not fight this. I’ll apologise and we’ll publish a correction. I don’t want to cause any more harm.’

  Sandra smiles her first sincere smile at me in four years.

  ‘Nonsense!’ says Roger. ‘We’ve seen it all before, they’re doing it for headlines, don’t let them cow you so easily.’

  Heather shakes her head. ‘I’d tread softly in the first instance, it’s not worth riling them with a belligerent response.’

  ‘I disagree,’ says Roger. ‘I say we bite back.’

  44

  Roger Harris

  Editor in Chief –The Voice

  108 Clerkenwell Green

  London EC1

  Coombs & Forthmere

  134 Brook Street

  London W1

  11 April

  Dear Mr Coombs,

  Further to your letter of 10 April, we reject your client’s interpretation that the outlined article is defamatory – and we further advise you of the following in our defence.

  Justification

  Points 49 – 55.

  Allegation of taking ideas from other chefs: (cf. Redzepi, Matsuhisa, Tosi, Keller, Blumenthal), attached documentation referencing origins of these dishes.

  56 – 59

  Allegation of frozen ingredients used when claimed as fresh/seasonal. Attached documentation from the National Farmers Union detailing UK seasonal harvest charts for produce detailed in Appendix I.

  89

  Allegation of passing off instant coffee as single estate fresh coffee. Our correspondent is a Licensed Q Grader, accredited by the Coffee Quality Institute and has professional expertise in coffee analysis.

  Honest Comment

  80 – Pea and tetragonia soup – tepid

  81 – Sourdough pretzel croutons – stale

  83 – Boudin blanc hot dog – congealed and cold

  86 – Cod ice cream – liquid

  Our correspondent and their guest pointed out the organoleptic quality issues to staff throughout the meal.

  Vulgar Abuse

  18 – Comparison of house white wine to battery acid. It is our contention a reader would understand our correspondent has not previously imbibed battery acid directly and is merely using hyperbolic language to demonstrate a poor quality product.

  77 – Eels Flottante. ‘A mouthful of horror’ – again, this is not intended as a literal statement as horror cannot be consumed orally.

  78 – Our correspondent has not, to date, eaten a squash ball.

  79 – Nor put their tongue in fictional character Dot Cotton’s mouth.

  In relation to your client’s claim we accept the following:

  76 – Scallop Sriracha Kiev – inedible.

  The scallop did – in truth – make it as far as our correspondent’s stomach. However, once ingested, the aforementioned mollusc induced severe cramps and violent nausea.

  On the basis that point 76 is no longer in dispute, we are willing to print a brief paragraph of apology regarding the scallop, online, in terms approved wholly by ourselves. And as a gesture of our goodwill, we have removed the main article from our publication’s website.

  Yours sincerely,

  Roger Harris

  45

  ‘The brownies are two pounds each, the blondies are a pound – and if you’re going to stand there eating all my samples, I’ll have to charge you a tenner,’ says Sophie to the two customers who’ve been circling her stall, snaffling freebies for the last three minutes.

  ‘Shameless!’ she says under her breath, as they walk away, showing no signs of embarrassment at all.

  ‘Shall I restock the Black Forest and the Peanut Butter Caramel?’ I say, doing a quick count.

  She checks her watch. ‘Yeah, go on – and maybe the dark chocolate and coconut – it’s doing better than I thought it would, I should add it to the list for Celina Summer’s party.’

  ‘How many flavours do you have so far?’

  ‘She wants six, but one has to be gluten free, one has to be Paleo. I had no idea cavemen were quite so neurotic about their brownies.’

  ‘You should sign up Amber to help. She doesn’t have a real job, and she won’t eat all your stock while your back’s turned.’

  ‘Hell freezing over, Laura. Hey, if you’re going to the van, on the way back can you take Dominic half-a-dozen triple chocolate to trade for two steak sarnies, and swap some raspberry ones with Mauro for coffees? You know you really should be selling coffee on the stand for me.’

  ‘It’s too much like hard work, Soph. I’m not a morning
person, and I haven’t got the patience when it’s pissing down with rain.’

  ‘Nonsense, you do it for me.’

  ‘It’s fun when I’m helping you – I wouldn’t want the responsibility on my own.’

  ‘I’m not saying it’s easy – but being your own boss is the greatest luxury in the world. When I think about having to work for anyone else, ever again—’

  ‘But you hated Devron – Roger’s a great boss . . .’ I say, my face creasing with anxiety as I think about the trouble I’ve caused him, and Adam. ‘Oh Soph, none of this would have happened if I’d just been happy with a bloody jam doughnut.’

  ‘That’s not true, you’d still have the lawsuit, you just wouldn’t care what happens at the Adam end.’

  ‘Roger thinks they won’t take it all the way to court,’ I say, picking at a corner of the banoffee brownie I’m taking as today’s wages.

  ‘He knows what he’s talking about.’

  ‘But he can be so gung ho; Sandra wants me to confess to killing JFK.’

  ‘And what about Adam?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘Since he called me a lying bitch?’

  ‘But you are a bitch,’ she says, laughing. ‘I mean – from his point of view. You’ve royally screwed him at work. I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve put him in a very compromised position.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune!’

  ‘No – think about it: if they were relying on him to back up their legal threat, he can’t do that. So either he has to lie and cover for the guy who messed up—’

  ‘I don’t think he’d lie for Max.’

  ‘Right – so he’ll get aggravation from his team if he shafts the guy below, and the fact he left the pass in the first place makes him look unprofessional, so he’ll get grief from above too.’

  ‘Yeah, but he did leave the pass, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s a bit harsh, Laura.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘You should call him.’

  ‘I’d rather wait until he’s calmed down.’

  ‘Face up to it, Laura – you’re in this together. Anyway, he’s got so much stress on at the moment.’

  ‘I am not unstressed myself.’

  ‘If you want to be in an adult relationship with him, be the bigger person and apologise. Oh my God, look!’ she says, pointing towards the artisan cheese stall opposite. ‘Those two are actually sneaking back for more freebies!’

  ‘Ah, now if you watched Game of Thrones you’d know how to defend this cake stall to the death.’

  ‘I cannot believe the cheek of it!’ she says, grabbing the two trays of samples from the front of the stand and stashing them behind us: safe from the freeloaders, but not safe from me.

  To his credit, he picks up on the second ring. I wasn’t expecting him to answer so quickly, and I apologise so rapidly, because of nerves, I get lost in my sentence. ‘Adam – I’m sorry about Thursday I said some stupid things I didn’t mean I was just reacting without thinking what was coming out of my mouth and it all got a little heated but anyway, I’m sorry . . . I am, very.’

  There’s a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I’m sorry too,’ he says, slowly. ‘Particularly the coffee thing . . . when I thought about it afterwards I realised how out of order I was.’

  ‘That’s OK . . .’ I say, relaxing. Gosh, being the bigger person is so the way forward!

  ‘But I was angry,’ he says. ‘Very angry.’

  ‘Yeah, I understand that. Did you tell your mum?’

  ‘She was hoping to see you yesterday, for pastry class . . .’

  ‘Apologise for me would you?’

  There’s another pause, so long it’s like a long-distance call. Eventually he makes a small noise of agreement.

  ‘So . . . Have you made any progress with Katie?’

  He sighs. ‘I’ve spoken to a solicitor, and I’m going to apply for a Declaration of Parentage, it’s the first step. The magistrates can then authorise the birth certificate being re-registered.’

  ‘That sounds like a positive start.’

  ‘Katie seems to be coming round to the fact I can make her life easier. She’s an idiot but she isn’t stupid.’

  ‘So does that mean you might be able to have access quite soon?’

  ‘Maybe, as an extra pair of hands every once in a while.’

  ‘What do you think “every once in a while” might mean?’

  ‘Look, Laura – I have no idea at this stage. I have no idea if she’ll change her mind tomorrow. She hasn’t exactly behaved reasonably in the past.’

  ‘Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.’ I mean it sincerely but it sounds so hollow over the phone. ‘Listen, about work . . . I hope you haven’t got into a load of trouble because of me, it’s just—’

  ‘Laura,’ he says, cutting me short. ‘The lawsuit is nothing to do with me, I’ve told them I can’t be involved – I absolutely do not want to discuss it with you.’

  ‘OK, fair enough – but I’m just saying I hope it doesn’t cause you extra stress.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘I mean, I understand what’s happening now is rough – but I never anticipated any of it. I was only trying to do my job properly . . .’

  He lets my sentence hang in the air – the longer it does, the more pathetic it sounds.

  Eventually he speaks. ‘When I first told you where I worked, that very first time we met, did you not think it would have been easier just to tell me then?’

  I think back to camping out in the toilet in the Chinese restaurant, panicking. My gut was to tell him – and then I bottled it.

  No, that’s not true: my gut was not to tell him – partly because I was being professional, but also because even then I wasn’t willing to risk him rejecting me.

  ‘Adam, I’m genuinely sorry this is hurting you, but I did what I thought was right at the time.’ I catch myself as I realise I now sound exactly like my father trying to justify himself.

  ‘So you still think you did the right thing?’ he says, the edge in his voice sharp as a knife.

  ‘I’m not saying I don’t regret all this mess, but I made the decision based on the facts I had, and the way my mind thinks – how could I do it any other way?’

  ‘I cannot believe the arrogance of that statement! So in spite of everything – you’re still defending what you did?

  ‘I care about my anonymity enough to want to protect it – yes. I know it’s not the Coca-Cola recipe of secrets, but it really matters to me.’

  I can sense his anger bristling over the line.

  ‘But if I’m being brutally honest, Adam, the other reason I didn’t tell you was because I was scared you would walk away. I could easily give you a story right now about how I’d have done things differently, been more honest upfront – but it would be a lie. I know it’s not what you want to hear – but I’m being entirely truthful with you.’

  ‘Laura? You’re about six weeks too late for that,’ he says, and leaves me listening to the dial tone.

  46

  It’s not been the best start to the week. My boyfriend of five and a half seconds (now ex) thinks I’m a lying bitch, but that’s OK because he has a baby with another woman who’s also sparing with the truth. My first lawsuit is ticking along nicely. And when I walk into the office on Monday, there’s a highlighted copy of the Telegraph on my desk:

  Restaurant Critic in the Soup

  The anonymous critic behind The Dish is being sued by the owners of celebrity hotspot LuxEris. The restaurateurs allege the review, which has since gone viral, was defamatory and are applying for an undisclosed six-figure sum in damages. The scathing attack is at odds with otherwise unanimous acclaim from the capital’s reviewers who have praised LuxEris’s exquisite cooking and glamorous decor. Allegations of malicious intent have been denied by the paper’s Editor in Chief.

  To: Heather, Sandra, Laura
>
  From: Roger

  Subject: Publicity whores!

  I told you they were doing this for the headlines. Bloody PR company, leekier (Ed!) than a Welsh sieve.

  To: Roger, Sandra, Laura

  From: Heather

  Subject: Next steps

  We need a catch up asap – just been on the phone to their lawyers – this is not just going to go away.

  ‘This is so entirely infuriating,’ says Roger, as we’re walking up to Heather’s office.

  ‘What is?’

  He pauses to catch his breath, his knuckles taut as he grips the stair rail. ‘Having to pander to rich bullies and their lawyers,’ he says, irritably. ‘It’ll get to the point where you can’t say boo to a goose without Goosey Gander’s solicitors issuing a writ for traumatising one of the flock.’

  ‘You’ve done quite enough to upset the poultry community for one month,’ I say, putting my arm out as he stumbles on the top step. ‘Are you all right?’

  He takes a deep breath and puffs it out. ‘Legs are a bit stiff that’s all . . . shouldn’t have done that triathlon yesterday,’ he says, winking.

  Heather hands us each a copy of the solicitor’s letter as we walk in. ‘VanRek have rejected our defence,’ she says. ‘I counter-proposed an offer to make amends – we’d print the second review in full in May, with an introductory paragraph explaining there were two distinct visits.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘No dice. The way I see it, we have two options,’ she says, spreading the rest of the paperwork out on the boardroom table. ‘If you look at the substantiation documents, I’ve highlighted the areas I’m confident we can argue in court.’

  Roger and I move in for a closer look. At the bottom of a long list denying all my claims about the food is a signature: Max’s.

  ‘This is ludicrous,’ says Roger. ‘I was at the bloody meal! I’ll stand up in court and swear to these. Bloody ridiculous!’ His face has turned red and I slide a glass of water towards him.

  ‘That is one option, you can escalate – but in my opinion there’s a reasonable likelihood they’ll call our bluff and take it to court.’