A Twist of the Knife Read Free Page B

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