The Dish (18 page)

And sticking out from under the tissue paper: a note.

From Adam.

He must think I’m playing
it super cool, when the truth is if I hadn’t deleted his details I’d have contacted him immediately and offered to lay myself down at his feet.

I attempt to eat one of each pastry, slowly, but three are gone in nine bites: the first a light as air, not-too-sweet brioche topped with a sticky salty toffee sauce, crowned with caramelised pecans. Remind me – how do French women not get fat?

The
dark chocolate and raspberry croissant is the same flavour I was eyeing up on Tuesday, but Adam’s taken the concept and run with it. Dark and white chocolate chips have semi-melted against the raspberries to make the whole thing jewel-like. I don’t know how he’s achieved this texture, either; it’s rich and buttery without a hint of greasiness, layer upon layer of delicate pastry with a dark intense,
oozing rope of chocolate at the bottom.

But my favourite is the savoury one – it’s the best thing I’ve eaten since . . . since 3 June last year, when I ate a pulled pork bun at Pitt Cue, which moved me almost to tears.

The pastries alone would have done the trick but then there’s the note:

Laura,

When you google ‘ways to apologise to a girl + endearing breakfast-related quotes’, you get nothing,
nothing I tell you! I’ll have to say it myself: breakfast is not the same without you, Laura Parker. My life is a world of pain right now, but bear with me?

PS Are you around on Sunday?

OK, so I
was
reading too much into Tuesday. Sophie was right: all is fine, all is fully back on track.

H
e texts me the following morning as I’m sitting at my desk, buzzing with the return of hope.

Did you get the pastries? What do you think?

Delicious – hope you don’t mind, I gave one to Sophie, and Fabrizio.

Sure – I meant, what do you think about Sunday? Are you OK to come to mine?

At last! A breakthrough! Get to see his flat, get to snuggle up on a sofa with a bottle of wine. More importantly,
get to the bottom of it once and for all . . .

Adam, can I ask you a favour for Sunday?

As long as it doesn’t involve Morris dancing or watching Moulin Rouge.

On Sunday, please will you cook for me?

S
andra is standing with her back to me in Roger’s office as I hover awkwardly behind her.

‘The less heads in the room the better,’ she says to Roger. ‘We need a closed session with Heather.’

Roger tries to catch my eye, but she blocks him like a goal defence. He looks exhausted today, and slightly yellow. He had an editors’ dinner last night at the House of Commons – he must have been hitting the Scotch hard. ‘What are we covering again?’ he says.

‘The housekeeper’s testimony, and the transcripts from the receptionist at The Latimer, confirming Bechdel’s stay; so the seck-sual allegations,’
she says, her voice as repulsed as if she’s having to clear up Damian Bechdel’s wet Y-fronts from a bathroom floor. ‘And the contents of the Play Room in the Cotswolds house.’

Roger raises a brow. ‘The Play Room!’

‘I cannot stress how sensitive this material is,’ she says, clearing her throat. ‘And we need to discuss SunFarms: the source at the abattoir, and the evidence of cannibalisation in
shed birds.’

He looks up at me with a wry smile. ‘Sex, drugs and turkey-eating turkeys! You’re missing out on all the fun this morning!’

I raise my hands to say it’s his call. ‘I don’t mind, but who’s going to take minutes?’

‘Don’t worry about that,’ says Sandra, sharply. ‘Did you shorten your piece yet?’

‘A bit. It’s in the studio, waiting to be laid out.’

‘Well, if you haven’t enough to
do, get us lunch.’

‘Roger?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Are you OK?’ I say.

‘Just need to call Gemma . . .’ he says, rubbing his left shoulder. ‘What’s the time difference in Bangkok, eight hours?’

‘Low fat cheese salad for me,’ says Sandra. ‘Roger . . .?’

‘Oh, just a sandwich.’

‘Filling preference?’ I say.

‘Anything but turkey.’

‘
Kiki – do you fancy coming down Whitecross Market for lunch?’

‘Give me ten,
I’m just editing Henry’s review of the new Sorrentino.’

Ten minutes – more than enough time to check out Barnaby Ballen’s latest witterings. After three years of writing The Dish I’ve come to know the other critics’ palates well. It’s reassuring when a critic I love agrees with me; but nothing gives me greater pleasure than when Barnaby disagrees, because Barnaby should be stuffed in a KFC Variety
Bucket and force-fed popcorn chicken until he explodes. He literally uses the word ‘literally’ in every review: never accurately.

This week he’s reviewing Milktavern, a place I ate at last month. The waiters were eager but the food was sub-average: hard potato dauphinois and a crème brûlée like tinned Ambrosia with cocoa stirred through – barely acceptable on a desert island.

Milktavern is delicious,
delightful and udderly delectable.

If I made jokes about udders, Roger would fire me on the spot; and don’t get me started on that alliteration . . . Oh, and wait for it!

I was literally in heaven when I ate the chocolate crème brûlée.

No, Barnaby, you were not in heaven, you were in Clapham, I can assure you they are not the same place, and if your dad weren’t also your boss you’d be in Borstal.

My phone rings – Kiki. ‘Sod it, I’m outside already, having a fag.’

We walk up Clerkenwell Road, drawn by the smoky smell of chorizo. The market here is amazing – proper street food, not the overpriced crap passing itself off as that at LuxEris. Within a twenty-metre stretch, you can find lunch from fifteen different countries, all for around a fiver.

‘I’m tempted to get Sandra an Ethiopian
curry,’ I say, as we pass a stall selling a pungent, bubbling stew alongside puckered flatbreads. (Sandra believes any food with garlic in is not to be trusted. She also believes homosexuality is a choice.) ‘Do you fancy a curry, Kiki?’

‘Not as much as I fancy duck confit on brioche with melted cheese and caramelised onion chutney, served by a Michael Fassbender lookalike,’ she says, peering
towards the end of the row of colourful stalls.

‘He’s at King’s Cross on a Friday, how about Le Bowski?’ I say, checking my watch.

Le Bowski is a grey-haired French hippy – could be 45 and a heavy weed-smoker, could be 70 and a yoga fanatic; either way, the man takes SIX minutes to make a single sandwich – but what a sandwich! He sources the best ciabatta in London (from Bread Ahead) – slices
it in half, then drizzles its insides with fruity olive oil. Then he lays down the freshest salad as a bed for Italian tomatoes, seasons them with Maldon and leaves them to get fruity. I think maybe Le Bowski
is
permanently stoned because he seems unaware of the price of avocados; he puts a whole one in each sandwich, and then three-inch wide ribbons of cheese, decorated with fresh herbs. And
on top of all that, you get a cabaret. Today he’s playing Stevie Wonder, and dancing like my dad at a wedding.

‘You’re looking chuffed!’ says Kiki, as we stand, salivating at the work in progress. ‘Did you get some last night?’

‘No . . . but I do have a hot date on Sunday!’

‘Tinder guy?’

‘What, Russell? He’s long gone,’ I say, silently cheering as the man in front checks his watch, shakes
his head and abandons the queue.

‘I don’t blame you,’ says Kiki. ‘I wouldn’t date a man with a kid either.’

‘That had nothing to do with it.’ I’m surprised she thinks it would.

‘Way too much baggage. All those boring play dates and having to weave bracelets?’

‘I like kids. I quite like weaving bracelets.’

‘I might get up the duff when I’m like forty, but step-mum to some other woman’s kids?
No way.’

‘In some respects I think it’s reassuring – it shows a man doesn’t want to pursue an entirely selfish existence. Better than some eternal playboy . . .’

‘Having a kid doesn’t make you unselfish,’ she says, sharply. ‘The shagging bit’s not hard.’

I turn to Kiki – so confident in her youth. ‘When you’re heading to the wrong side of your thirties you kind of expect you’ll meet someone
with a bit of history.’ And I’m
a seller in a buyer’s market
.

She shrugs. ‘Look who I’ve matched with!’ she says, taking her phone and tapping a photo of a shirtless guy who looks like an Abercrombie model. ‘He’s a fireman, or says he is!’

It’s impossible to keep up with Kiki’s love life. She has a massive churn rate due to her intolerance for
flaws
. She applies her subbing skills to any incoming
male communications and woe betide the man who uses excessive CAPS or an exclamation mark where it might, perhaps, be unwarranted. She once dumped a cute, quite funny doctor because he finished a text with ;-)

Perhaps when you’re beautiful, petite and twenty-eight you can afford to be so cavalier. Still, I feel like shaking her and saying: if you can find a man who doesn’t secretly hate himself
or hate women, and smells reasonably fragrant, hold on for dear life.

To: Laura

From: Sandra

Subject: URGENT

Can you write up the minutes from earlier by 3 p.m.? If there’s anything you can’t understand – don’t guess – ask.

Yes, actually, two things! One – if it was so top secret I wasn’t even allowed in the room, why am I suddenly allowed to write the notes up? And two, when are you less
of an officious cow? Bank Holidays? Leap Years?

Still, even she can’t rain on my parade today.

To: Sandra

From: Laura

Subject: re: URGENT

My pleasure. Would you like a Nescafé? Am just about to make myself a drink.

To: Kiki

From: Laura

Subject: help . . .

Are you at your desk? I can’t decipher Sandra’s handwriting and don’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking I’m a moron.

To: Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: re: help . . .

In post-cheese sarnie carb coma.

Sandra’s handwriting always gives me a migraine, but come to my desk and I shall assist – plus I have a new photo of fireman and his pole!

To: Azeem, Laura

From: Kiki

Subject: Third time lucky

Laura actually has some real work to do this afternoon, for once – so looks like you’re on cake run again. I believe in
you, Azeem – I know you can do this!

To: Dad

From: Laura

Subject: Skype

I’m with Sophie tomorrow morning, so call me anytime after 3 p.m.? Hope the ballet goes well – give the girls a kiss from me.

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: The nuts!

Tell Adam his praline brioche is as good as anything I’ve had from Jean Clement – and could you possibly find out where he’s sourcing his pecans from?
They’re impossible to make work commercially.

PS See, paranoid android? I told you there was nothing at all to worry about.

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Nut job

I thought you said finding a nut in a brownie was like finding a tooth in one?

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Blondies have more fun . . .

Nuts have no place in brownies, blondies are a different ball game: maple pecan, pistachio
white chocolate, etc. . . .

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: Celebrity cheapskate

Check out this picture of who was in at lunchtime. He left a 4% tip. I’m sure he’s on the
Sunday Times
Rich List, and the right end at that.

BTW, any preference on what you want me to cook on Sunday? My signature dish is a 72-hour braised short rib, but we’ve only got 37 hours between now and then, most of which
I’ll be spending kicking Max’s arse.

To: Adam

From: Laura

Subject: Easily pleased

You’re the chef, I’ll leave it in your hands . . .

PS – Sophie loved your pastry – and asked if you know a good pecan supplier?

To: Laura

From: Adam

Subject: re: Easily pleased

Beans on toast it is, then.

PS Ping me her email and I’ll hook her up with our guy.

To: Adam, Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Pecans

Just hooking you two up so you can talk nuts . . .

To: Sophie

From: Laura

Subject: Quickie

Do you think I should get a wax or is that tempting fate?

To: Laura

From: Sophie

Subject: Tempting fate – and wear your worst pants

Just had a phone call about catering a huge party for you will NEVER guess who! Tell you more when I see you.

Adam is a total sweetheart! He sent me his supplier’s
details and is going to get me a trade discount – I wasn’t expecting that.

To: Laura

From: Sandra

Subject: Accuracy

There are two ways of spelling discrete: discreet and discrete – and they mean entirely different things. Could you revise page six, paragraph four of your notes accordingly.

Dad calls me on Skype on Saturday, just as I’m taking a saucepan out of the cupboard and working out which pasta shape to boil.

He appears on my computer screen, sitting in his living room, bookshelves in colourful disarray behind him.

‘I’ve got a video of the Munchkins for you,’ he says, his face as excited as a child’s.

‘Can I watch it after supper?’

‘Watch it with me now – it’ll only
take five minutes. I’ve just emailed you the video file.’

I put the saucepan down, take a seat and drag the file out of my inbox and on to a separate window on my computer, so I can see the video – and Dad – at the same time.

‘Is it working?’ he says. ‘Turn it up so I can hear which bit you’re watching.’

I press play and the school assembly hall appears. Dad’s camera pans round to show an audience
of around sixty parents and grandparents, iPhone cameras at the ready – all chattering and looking expectantly at the stage at the back.