A Twist of the Knife Read Free Page A

us as our guest the next time we hold one of our dinners – Friday 13 May. There is one condition: that you never write about this club, either before or after your visit. Some things are just too good to be shared. You will receive your formal invitation, and the address, on the night of 12 May. We look forward to greeting you. Bon appétit!
     
    He stared at the email.
Friday 13 May.
    He had never in his life, since leaving school, left the safety of his home on a Friday the thirteenth.
    His first inclination was to reply, explaining that he was grateful for the invitation, but that he could not accept.
    But then he thought again about all the words of praise he had read. Many of them from chefs who, he might have thought, had experienced every taste sensation there was to taste, but who raved unanimously.
    God, how he loved the mystique of restaurants. He remembered so vividly the first restaurant he had ever entered, when he was just ten years old; it was called Verry’s. He was with his parents, in busy, noisy Regent Street in London. The door had swung shut behind them, and they were in a new world, dimly lit, oak-panelled, with a quiet hum of chatter, tantalizing smells of garlic and grilling meat and fish. A man in a tuxedo, with an Italian accent, had greeted his parents as if they were his long-lost friends, then had shaken his hand and led them courteously along a line of red leather banquettes to their table.
    Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Crystal glasses were laid out on a crisp, white tablecloth. A silver dish lay on it, filled with frilly curls of butter. Another silver dish appeared, stacked with Melba toast. Then he was presented with a burgundy leather-covered menu, filled with delights. A few minutes later, a green leather-bound wine list, as thick as a bible, was placed in his father’s hand.
    Waiters swept past with silver trays laden with food. Others hovered around their table. It was like being on a new planet, in a new universe. From that moment onwards, Nigel Norbert Kettering knew that he wanted to spend his life in this world. But, even at ten, he noticed things that were not right. Little imperfections. The waiter forgot a side order of haricot verts, and had to be reminded twice. His father muttered that his steak was cooked more than he had asked, but seemed too in awe of the waiters to complain. So, to his father’s embarrassment and his mother’s astonishment, little Nigel stuck up his arm and summoned the waiter. Five minutes later the offending steak was duly replaced.
    That was his start. And now, aged forty-four, he had succeeded beyond all his dreams. And there were still some restaurants he entered that held that same, magical promise of Verry’s all those years ago.
    And now there was one that sounded as if it would top them all. But his invitation was for a Friday the thirteenth. He emailed back, asking what other date options there were. Within minutes he received a reply: ‘None. We assume you are declining. Thank you.’
    Almost as fast as his fingers could move, panic causing beads of sweat to appear all over that brow of his, he typed back: ‘No, not declining. Thank you. I’m accepting.’
    *
     
    The next three months passed slowly, feeling more like three years. Everything in every restaurant irritated him. Gormless, moronic waiters sanctimoniously reciting the day’s specials as if they had personally line-caught or wood-roasted the damned fish or meat with their bare hands. Eating starters of bi-valves tortured to death in unpleasantly flavoured oils, or pasta resembling origami creations made during handiwork classes at special needs institutions.
    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