Peter James: A Twist of the Knife

He bankrupted a dozen Michelin-starred establishments and closed four restaurants before they had even opened their doors to the great unwashed.

But finally the great day arrived.

And just how great was it?

He stared at the email printout from the night before, in which he had finally been sent the address. It was the place that just about every ranked chef considered to be the finest eating establishment in the world. It was Number 13, in West Audley Street in London’s Mayfair.

Number sodding 13.

He came close to telling them to take a hike. To stick their stupid invitation up the place where the sun doesn’t shine.

Thirteen.

The number he had spent his entire life trying to avoid. And now he was in a taxi, cruising down Park Lane, getting ever closer.

Salivating.

Thinking about all those descriptions of grilling meat and offal in sauce combinations he had never dreamed possible.

Looking forward to trashing it! To making fools of all those great chefs. To destroying fifty reputations in one single posting on his site later that evening.

He was less than amused when the cabbie read the meter and turned to him. ‘That’ll be thirteen quid, gov.’

N.N. Kettering counted out the money exactly. And took pleasure in the driver’s scowl when he asked for his receipt, with no tip. No arsehole driver who mentioned the number thirteen was going to get a tip from him.

Then he walked up the steps to the door and stared at the shiny, brass digits.

13.

He began shaking. Then hyperventilating. He nearly turned and walked straight back down the steps.

Only the descriptions of the food that lay beyond this portal kept him there. He lifted his hand to the bell, and forced his index finger to dart forward and jab it.

He was still considering his options when the door swung open and a tall, gaunt, formidable-looking figure in a tuxedo and white gloves, hair as slick as a frozen pond, with a matching frozen smile, bowed. ‘Sir?’

N.N. gave his name.

Moments later he stepped forward, into an oak-panelled corridor, and the door closed behind him.

‘This way, sir.’

He followed the man along the corridor, which was lined with framed oil portraits. Some of them he recognized as high-profile food critics. He passed one of A.A. Gill from the Sunday Times . Another of Fay Maschler from the Observer . Then one of Giles Coren from The Times . One of Michael Winner. Then several he recognized from other countries. Then he was bowed through a door.

He found himself in a grand, windowless dining room, in the centre of which was an oval mahogany table, at which sat twelve people. One place was empty at the centre on one side — his.

The thirteenth place.

As he clocked the faces of each of his fellow diners in turn, he realized he was in the presence of twelve of the highest rated chefs in the world. Highest rated, that was, by all food critics other than himself.

He had trashed all of them — viciously. Brought each of their establishments to their knees. They were all smiling at him.

His instinct was to turn and run. It had been years since he had eaten at a table with company. He really only liked to eat alone. But they were all rising to their feet. The one nearest him, whom he recognized as Jonas Capri, from Sydney, Australia, said, ‘N.N. Kettering, we are honoured.’

He did not know what to reply or if he even wanted to reply.

Another of the great chefs spared him the problem. Ferdy Perrin, from Haut Mazot restaurant in Switzerland, once famed for its lamb — before the Kettering Report — shook his hand warmly. ‘You cannot imagine the honour we are feeling here tonight. That you have agreed to come and eat our creations. It is our hope that you will leave this evening with a changed opinion of our abilities. We are grateful to you that you give us this chance.’

‘Well,’ he said, for the first time in many years feeling just a little humbled. But before he could say anything else another chef stood up.

His name was Jack Miller, from Miller’s House in Tampa, Florida. ‘See, N.N., we want you to know we have no hard feelings. Maybe when you came to my restaurant we were having an off night. I’m not here to convince you to change your review. I just want you to have one of the greatest eating experiences of your life, here tonight. What you make of it will then be up to you to decide.’

N.N. saw that the walls were hung with more paintings. He recognized Gordon Ramsay. Anthony Worrall Thompson. Albert Roux. Wolfgang Puck. Alain Ducasse. Raymond Blanc.

He took his seat. A vast array of cutlery and glasses lay in front of him. One glass was half-filled with an ochre-coloured white wine, another with water.

He was still thinking what to do when a side-door opened and four waiters entered, dressed head to foot in black, holding massive silver platters, on which sat tiny demitasse cups topped with froth. Within seconds one had been distributed to each diner.

The gloved man who had brought N.N. Kettering in appeared to duplicate his tasks as both doorman and headwaiter.

‘L’amuse-bouche,’ he announced. ‘Cappuccino de testicules.’

Each of his fellow diners began to spoon this dish up with gusto. N.N. Kettering raised the first mouthful to his lips and sniffed. The bouquet was sensational. He placed one sliver, no thicker than a communion wafer, in his mouth and the flesh dissolved on his tongue like butter. It was so good he dug his spoon in again. And again. And again. Scraping every last milligram of flavour from the sides of the tiny, ribbed cup. He could easily have eaten seconds. And thirds. He found himself even wanting to lick the inside of the cup clean.

‘Fantastic!’ he said. ‘ Incroyable! ’ he added for the benefit of the French chefs present. The others demurred.

He had eaten pigs’, lambs’ and bulls’ testicles before, but never, remotely, with this complexity of flavours. These were the best ever. Wow!

‘The secret is in the marinade,’ the chef on his right said, a man in his late thirties with close-cropped hair, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans.

‘I would argue also the quality of the produce,’ said the chef opposite them, a rather studious-looking man in his sixties, wearing a cardigan.

‘That goes without saying,’ said a third.

N.N., long conditioned to observe every detail and nuance in a restaurant, noticed the discreet wink that passed between two of the chefs. It seemed to carry on around the table, from chef to chef, a sort of chain wink, from which he was excluded.

Now they all seemed to be concealing smirks from him.

He noticed a printed menu, picked it up and glanced down it. There were twenty-one courses. The menu was written in French, but he was fluent in the language so it was easy to translate. But, even so, there were several words he struggled with. The first set of courses were all offal. Goujons of brain was to follow the testicles. Then sweetbreads — the pancreas and thymus. Then tripe — the intestines. Liver. Kidneys. Then... something else, but his French failed him.

With even more ceremony than the previous dishes, a miniature covered silver tureen was placed in front of each diner, signalling that one of the highlights of the meal had arrived. The lids were removed to reveal a wonderful, sweet aroma of chargrilled meat, cinnamon and coriander. The dish was a rich, dark cassoulet of beans, chickpeas and the thinnest possible slices of what N.N. Kettering assumed was sausage. But when he forked one into his mouth, although the taste was undoubtedly pork, and delicious, it had a strange, flaccid, rubbery texture that reminded him of squid. It was definitely, he made a mental note, a triumph of taste over texture.