The Dish (27 page)

‘This place is stunning, babe, toilets are gorge!’ says Amber, sitting back down and surveying the room. ‘Funny smell, though.’

‘Caviar air freshener . . .’ I say, my shoulders giving an involuntary wriggle at the
memory.

‘What?’ snorts Sophie. ‘Were they all out of the smell of gold?’

‘OMG, it’s Aimee from Pilates!’ Amber rushes over to a table of four: two chunky men, chatting across a lump of bleeding beef on a wooden board, two distinctly un-chunky women, sitting straight-backed by their sides, holding forks as though they’re alien tools.

‘Is she going to be working the room like this all night?’
says Sophie.

‘The more she works the room, the less you have to talk to her.’

‘Aimee’s so inspiring,’ says Amber, returning only to whip out her iPhone for a series of selfies.

‘Look at the menu,’ I say, thrusting it towards her.

‘There’s nothing on here for less than thirty pounds,’ says Sophie, in disgust.

‘Chips are only sixteen pounds . . .’ I say, raising an eyebrow at her.

‘A side
of kale’s only fifteen,’ says Amber. ‘Anyway, Laura said—’

‘It’s on me, yes, absolutely, go for it.’ I mean please don’t actually go for it, obviously.

‘But it says you have to order five or six dishes per person!’ says Sophie. ‘And what on earth is a deconstructed Freekeh Pisco Srirachra Lollipop?’

‘Tomato salad for me,’ says Amber, ‘but do you think they’ll do it without the dressing?’

‘You want a twenty-three-pound tomato salad with no dressing?’ says Sophie.

‘It’s fine,’ I hold out my hand in an effort to tone down her outrage. ‘But let’s get the dressing on the side?’

‘Sure, babes. And I’ll get the black cod, if they can do it without the black bit.’

‘Fifty-six pounds! Amber, choose something else. You can’t let Laura pay fifty-six pounds for a piece of fish!’

‘But there’s
nothing else I can eat on this menu,’ she says, pouting.

‘Why is that?’ says Sophie. ‘Does your naturopath say you’re allergic to anything that isn’t horrendously overpriced?’

‘Honestly, girls, it’s fine! Let’s order some drinks?’

After ten minutes of sticking my hand in the air I finally manage to catch the eye of one of only three serving staff visible, who insists on bringing us the water
menu, but not the booze menu.

‘Tahiti water!’ says Amber. ‘Yum! Shall we get a big bottle?’

‘At fourteen pounds? We’ll get tap water,’ says Sophie.

‘They don’t serve it . . .’ I say.

‘The smoked jalapeño umeboshi martini sounds good,’ says Amber. ‘Do you think jalapeños are alkaline?’

‘Laura, is it OK if I have booze? Sorry, but it’s sort of a psychological necessity. Let’s see . . . “Goat’s
curd gin and fennel pollen tonic”. What? They charge for
ice cubes
? Are they going to charge for the glass too?’

‘The ice cubes are flavoured,’ I say. ‘They also charge extra depending on what salt you want with your food: Himalayan pink, Volcanic grey . . . And don’t get me started on the pepper menu.’

We order our drinks and manage to persuade the water waiter to send over the wine waiter,
though the food waiter is nowhere in sight. We sit for twenty minutes, me trying to keep a low profile, Amber basking in her natural habitat of reflective surfaces, and Sophie trying to sip her wine as slowly as she can. She keeps picking up the glass and forcing herself to put it down, only to pick it up again and take a tiny sip.

By the time the food waiter comes over everyone’s glass is empty.
Luckily he refuses to take an order for another round, which buys me at least ten minutes without drinks. I order as many of Adam’s dishes as I can afford and some of the dishes I tried last time so I can make a fair comparison, and avoid anything with a major chew. Amber butts in to check the pH of her tomatoes and asks the waiter to double-check with the chef. He heads over to the pass, chats
to Adam and I see Adam’s mouth twitch briefly, unaware of who the comment has come from before he looks up, sees our table and grins a huge welcome. I beam back at him and mouth the word ‘Amber’ and he laughs and shakes his head.

‘You’ve only ordered twelve dishes,’ says the waiter, returning and looking at his order pad as if it’s a cheque we’ve forgotten to sign.

‘Twelve’s plenty,’ says Sophie,
fixing him with a stare.

‘The chef’s special is exquisite,’ he says to Amber and me. ‘Eels in a
beurre noisette
with micro lovage.’

‘Has it got butter in it?’ says Amber.

Sophie picks up her wine glass, forgetting it’s empty, and places it down again with a thud.

‘We’ll be fine with that lot,’ I say.

‘The dishes will be served when they are ready,’ says the waiter, and turns on his heel before
we can ask him again to send over the booze waiter.

‘What does that mean, “when they’re ready”?’ says Sophie. ‘He made it sound like they’re doing us a favour.’

‘It means they bring out what they want, when they want,’ I say, feeling my heart sink. Nothing’s better so far – the service, the hot pants, the attitude . . . Am I wasting my time, and a whole lot of money, for Groundhog Day?

We spend
the next twenty minutes making strained conversation. We have limited common ground, other than the block of flats we live in. Discussing the colour of the communal radiators and whether Mr Macauliffe down the end of our corridor is visited by a string of rent boys or merely handsome Brazilian cleaners only gets us so far. As the chat has dried up, I take the opportunity to study Adam in action,
to try to get to the bottom of what’s going on in that kitchen.

At the moment he’s standing at the pass with Max. Together they’re working through the orders: Adam will pick up the order as it comes through, call it out to the team, then rapidly but smoothly shuffle the tickets along like a Vegas croupier, all the while checking the progress of the tickets already in front of him. At the same
time Adam’s entirely aware of what his team are up to behind him. One moment he notices the salamander overhead grill has three pans below it the chef has forgotten and he walks over and quietly removes them before they burn. The next he’s back at the pass, tweezering nasturtium petals and slivers of candied clementine on to a golden crème brûlée. As soon as dessert resembles a mini work of art,
almost as if he has a sixth sense, he turns to the meat station and sees the saucier is falling behind so he walks over, prods two steaks with his finger and whips them off the heat and with a huge knife cuts the sirloins into thick slices – all done in less than thirty seconds. He flits between precision and brute strength without a single mis-step.

While this is happening a waitress tries to
take a dish Adam hasn’t checked and he catches the plate in time and re-arranges six polenta chips into a geometric stack, rather than a pile that looks like it’s been dropped from a great height by a disgruntled dinner lady. The waitress giggles and twirls a strand of her hair as she waits. He smiles at her politely; I wonder if he’d flirt back if I wasn’t looking in his direction. As soon as she’s
taken the dish, he’s back, fully focused on checking and re-checking the status of the tickets again.

The whole process is mesmerising. He’s like a conductor with his back to his orchestra who still manages to create perfect rhythm and harmony. I have seen many good chefs at work but I’ve never seen one manage a kitchen so calmly. The pressure of such a big operation doesn’t faze him at all;
he is fully in control.

‘Earth to Laura!’ says Amber, giggling. ‘Hello? You were just staring into the distance like a zombie, babe.’

‘Sorry. Just thinking.’ Just thinking: there is an entirely different energy in that kitchen to a month ago. And I have a strong suspicion the food will be entirely different too, and sure enough, when it arrives, it’s incomparable.

Firstly, everything looks
beautiful. But more importantly, everything tastes phenomenal. The Cobb salad is more luscious avocado than lettuce. The tomato salad dressing makes me think of an idealised summer afternoon in the Tuscan hills. Balance and texture and seasoning and temperature across every dish are perfect. By the end of the meal, Amber is swiping the dressing out of the mason jar with her finger.

‘I wasn’t
expecting it to be that good!’ says Sophie, placing her gold lamé napkin down. ‘Shame about the decor and the staff and the prices.’

Oh, the prices. When the bill arrives I have to use the light on my phone to check it. They’ve only charged us half price for the food. I point this out to the waiter but he says Chef has insisted.

‘Thanks, but I can’t let him do that,’ I say, though looking at
this bill I jolly well can.

He heads back to the pass to chat to Adam. Adam looks over at me, shakes his head violently, then raise his hands in the air as if to say ‘What are you doing?’.

The waiter returns. ‘We can’t override it on the system now and Chef insists.’

Sophie looks over my shoulder at the bill and flinches. ‘Jesus, Laura, that’s a weekend in Paris!’

‘More like New York,’ I say.

‘Let me give you some money.’ She grabs her handbag for her wallet, while Amber makes another dash for the toilet.

‘I insist,’ I say, handing the waiter my card. ‘I do feel slightly sick,’ I say to Sophie under my breath.

‘Do you think they’ve poisoned you again?’

The bill. Still, it was the right thing to do – the truth is worth the price.

‘What did you think of it all, Soph?’

‘Me? Great
food, vile place. More importantly what are you going to write?’

Good question.

A thousand words; 1,000 words to encapsulate the crazy, paradoxical experience of the restaurant I ate in tonight. It is not the same restaurant as last time but, bar the food, it’s still obnoxious.

I start with the food:

The menu has jumped on the bandwagon of every trend going – and is driving on the wrong side of the road at that. Nonetheless, Adam Bayley does a transformative job. Everything
works and works harder than it should, dishes that make no sense on paper make entire sense in the mouth.

There’s no way I’m letting them off the hook for rude staff, greedy pricing, the contempt in which they hold their customers. I try my hardest not to use the first-hand knowledge I’ve picked up from Adam about the restaurant’s margins, their crazy ethos, all the short cuts and tricks. It’s
hard though – like black pudding, once you know what’s going on inside, you can’t un-know it.

I’ve been typing like Angela Lansbury at the start of
Murder, She Wrote
and by six a.m. I’ve done 800 words but I’m stuck on the coffee. I ordered the same cup earlier, and even though it had been prepared by a ham-fisted coffee-hater who’d brewed it so long it had turned bitter, at least it was the
El Salvador it claimed it was; it would be disproportionate to hang a man for it. I take the view that what happened a month ago with the instant coffee was a mistake – a deliberate one – but one that’s since been rectified.

By nin
e a.m. I’ve showered, had a quick re-edit, and emailed Roger a copy. En route to work I have to go via the offie, which doesn’t open until ten a.m., so I am eleven
minutes late – normally not the end of the world, but normally Sandra’s not running the show.

She’ll probably have seen the email I sent Roger already – that could explain the toxic fury that’s radiating off her like a Ready Brek glow. Either way, I’m lying low until I’ve spoken to legal and a sub and can at least present her with fully approved copy so all she has to do is press play on the
copy swap.

I’ve been doing the job long enough to feel confident there’s nothing libellous in the new review but to be sure, I pop up to ask Heather. Then I pay Kiki a visit – she owes me several favours for all the times she’s dragged me down The Betsey on benders sold to me as
one quick drink
– so I call them all in, and give her the bottle of Jägermeister I bought earlier – in exchange for
a speedy sub job during her lunch break. By 2.45 p.m. Kiki’s tweaked and polished everything and Heather’s cleared it for take-off: if only every day flew by this quickly.

Now for the tricky bit. Getting Sandra to physically authorise the swap. I have to play it down slightly – if she gets wind of the Adam part she’ll have me for breakfast. She’ll be difficult, I’m sure, but the bottom line is,
Roger’s OK’d it.

There’s never a good time to disturb Sandra but particularly not when she’s eating a Fletchers cheese and salad cream sandwich. Maybe I’ll give her another five minutes, she might have treated herself to some Quavers? Ah, no, the antiseptic wash has come out and is being vigorously rubbed over her hands.

‘Sandra, have you got a minute?’

‘It’ll have to wait,’ she says, her eyes
fixed on her screen. ‘We’re on deadline.’

‘That’s why I need to speak to you.’

‘Not today.’

‘Sandra, it’s urgent.’

‘As urgent as the Bechdel leader?’

‘No, but—’

‘So it will have to wait.’

‘Sandra, I need to make a copy switch on my column, but it’s all ready to go. And Roger’s approved it.’

Her body stiffens. ‘You filed that almost four weeks ago.’

‘Yes – but there was an issue.’

‘With
your
symmetry
?’

‘Some factual errors on my part which I didn’t feel comfortable putting my name to.’

‘Not actually your name.’

‘Errors which I’ve now changed. The photo stays the same, it’s just a copy swap, it’ll take ten minutes. I can speak to studio myself?’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Roger and I were talking about it last week, but I only wrote the review last night.’

‘Well, he hasn’t
mentioned it to me, and . . .’ she says, clicking on her production file spreadsheet, ‘it’s going down the line . . . tomorrow morning, so I’m afraid not.’

‘Sandra – I made a mistake, OK? And I’m trying to put it right.’

‘I’m not sure where the confusion is, but the day before we go to print is too late to change a layout.’

‘It can be done, we’ve done it before.’

‘On an actual news story,
not on a lifestyle piece. And there’s no time for legal or subbing. Has Roger even seen the new review? He can’t have.’