I was cowering behind an upturned table with Orla Guerin while gangsters sprayed my Kings-road-restaurant with automatic fire. It had all gone horribly wrong. This was to be the most innovative restaurant in London; a big adventure, propelling me to Superstardom with Rick and Nigel.
It all began ten months ago when I answered an ad in the Evening Standard: Entrepreneur, Felix Brunning, requires experienced Chef to embark on exciting new venture…
‘I’ve come about the job,’ I said, thrusting forward my hand.
‘Ah, Delaney, come in.’ He ignored my hand.
Brunning had an aristocratic air but his clothes were scruffy. I couldn’t help noticing a plate of live slugs on the desk in front of him.
‘Now, this has got to be good,’ he said. ‘Thinking out of the box doesn’t cut it. Think, out of the universe, and you’re a tenth of the way there.’ At this, he took a cocktail stick and jabbed it into one of the slugs. He dipped the writhing creature in a bowl of white powder, put it in his mouth, and chewed slowly and deliberately.
‘Columbian marching powder?’ I asked, coolly, trying to disguise my shock.
‘Good god no dear boy, it’s icing sugar. We do have to operate within the law, mores the pity’
‘Heston Blumenthal, eat your heart out,’ I said, hoping to curry favour. There was a pregnant pause while Brunning stared into the middle distance.
‘Not such a bad idea,’ he muttered, thoughtfully.
‘How so?’ I asked. ‘It’s a seriously finite resource, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, yes, but it’s a spring board, dear boy. Think: offal.’
‘Fergus Henderson’s doing that brilliantly, already.’ But even as I spoke I was having a brain-wave. ‘What about living offal? No one’s done that’
‘Now, that’s more like it,’ enthused Brunning. And so I got the job. On my way out, he called after me: ‘An appetite and a knack, dear boy, an appetite and a knack.’ It didn’t mean much at the time.
The shooting had stopped. I was still behind the table; alone. Ms Guerin - cool as a cucumber - had fucked off to a cocktail party in Holland Park muttering something about war zones not being in her contract. (I knew I should’ve gone the extra five hundred quid for Kate Adie.) Lying amongst the glass and splintered wood I read the words of London’s Burning by the Clash that were etched into the table’s polished surface. I’d had this great idea of giving each table a song lyric and getting the artistes to come in for a free dinner on the opening night. There was a good response; a few declined, like Elvis Costello who sent a card, simply saying: "I don’t want to go to Chelsea." Smart-arse! And anyway, we were at the Fulham end.
A week after I got the job, I met Brunning, on site.
‘You’ll need some help,’ he said, snapping open his phone. ‘I’ll give you Gus and Alfie.’ It turned out that they were bouncers. Gus did have some IT skills, which - as you’ll see - were a mixed blessing. Despite my initial misgivings - as the months slipped by and the opening approached - I became fond of them both. Alfie and I did most of the procurement. I would start negotiations with a supplier - sort of butter them up - and then, if they weren’t playing ball, Alfie would go round with the baseball bat. Gus spent his time on the computer, researching song lyrics and emailing music publishers. I always had the last word on the artistes though. You see, I had a penchant for that post punk, raw, but intelligent type of pop. What’s more, I thought it would resonate with the forty-something-Londoners who were earning shed loads. As for Brunning: we never saw him; surprising really, after his initial lecture. But he signed the cheques and left us to it.
It was the opening night. The purpose-built serving trolleys were sparkling, Gus and Alfie were keen as mustard and our special guest, Orla Guerin, was about to speak. There was no Brunning - and was I bothered? - No, this was my show now. I’d just gone over for a quick word with Suggs on the - This is a chemist not a joke-shop table – when it all kicked off: World War Three.
I had wanted to add a few sixties lyrics, so I’d asked Gus to research the Yardbirds. Somewhere, between his clunking synapses and the Google search, Yardbirds got translated to Yardies: the infamous Jamaican Mafia. Gus got embroiled with a hardcore rapper called Zebedee, and in the flurry of emails that followed – and a catastrophic loss in translation - Gus inadvertently propositioned Zebedee’s "Bitch" and called his mother a "Ho"…
From that moment - we were dead men.
The firing had started again. I phoned Brunning in desperation. ‘Felix, where are you? ... Swiss Cottage? … Well get a cab!’ But Brunning wasn’t in Swiss cottage; he was on Lake Geneva. He was in a cottage in Switzerland. Some new scam - selling coloured, synthetic snow to the Swiss - for all I knew. I recalled his earlier words: An appetite and a knack. Huh! An appetite for the absurd - and a knack for not being around when the shit hits the fan.
Toby Peecock 2007