The Prick
Service is always a bit nerve-wracking, simmering and lurking around you as an intrusive, unstable feeling dipping in and out of your consciousness. Everything can be set up immaculately, the floor cleaned, glasses polished, and a busy looking schedule, yet the fear that a major cock-up can happen is always lingering.
That night, there was a heightened nervousness. After months of following on the socials, the odd messages here and there, and a little anticipation, we hooked the big fish, and he made his maiden Mangal II booking now that he was back in town. Tonight. A kingmaker in the building – dangling our hopes and dreams like the grapes of a Roman Emperor sitting upon a throne (or some other food scene from The Gladiator when Joaquin Phoenix is in his chambers having a feast with fruit – you know what I mean).
It's 8pm, half an hour later than he promised.
The prick walks in.
We don’t want a star, which is just as well because we’ll never get one. This feels a little bit “Yeah? Well, I didn’t fancy her anyway, mate.” Maybe there’s a 10% truth to that but honestly… nah. No thanks. A tyre company telling me whether my restaurant is elite or not? A bunch of secret diners coming in, all from money, judging a place with a 30-year heritage and comparing it to other spots with pristine tables, grossly expensive tasting menus, and a stuffy dining space where you’re made to feel like you’re stepping into a gallery/exhibition/laboratory?
Yeah, fuck that. I don’t want that customer base who travel from Michelin spot to Michelin spot, often some rich, insufferable nerd who doesn’t care about restaurants and the people that make them, but only want to validate their own vacuous check list. These people don’t smile. They are joyless. They are boring. They are devoid of personality and excitement and charisma and relatability. They are rich, empty vessels jumping from host body (in this case, restaurants) to host body, sucking their air dry with their stoic, lifeless souls. I don’t want these people in my restaurant.
But this prick, this prick works for an even more prestigious entity – for the sake of anonymity, I won’t say what that is. A man so connected that his Instagram is full of selfies with every A-lister chef you can think of, all of whom he captions along the lines of “…such a pleasure to meet my friend insert the biggest chef today at insert the biggest restaurant, so proud to see them go from strength-to-strength with their 3rd star” or some other insufferable sentiments along those lines.
The expectation was that this prick would come in and enjoy his meal, and that would lead to lucrative opportunities to host events and bring in private hires and, well, make us a little bit of money to give us some breathing space, for once.
A kingmaker, as I say,
Now, I am not angry. I used to be. I used to tweet all kinds of pent-up, angry bile in my mid 20s through the Mangal2 account. Unexpectedly, it exposed me to a little internet fame – which I never once felt comfortable with (to this day, when approached by people when I’m out and about because they recognise me from the gram or the odd YouTube videos, I always get a bit embarrassed and bashful). But yes, anger seemed to be my default temperament and nowadays, well, I just don’t give half a fuck about double the number of things I used to.
But thinking about this prick, this man who came to my establishment I have spent a lifetime honing and protecting and improving and fucking up and then improving again, the lack of respect he showed throughout his meal and the arrogance he brought with him, it makes me a little mad.
So, what went wrong? “What happened, Ferhat”, you ask? This man came in with a companion, and after the usual greetings and niceties, sat down and practically ordered the whole menu without even asking her what she wanted. I think she was quite desensitised to his behaviour, as she smiled and nodded throughout their time here. The food lands, dish by dish. An absurd amount for two individuals but who am I to judge this judge? He’s the expert, right? It’s just what very wealthy, connected people do. Order the whole thing, throwing the kitchen sink at their gut with no remorse for their bowels. You do you, king.
Every dish, and I mean, every dish, that he received, he took two bites and left about 80% untouched. Were the dishes particularly bad? No, absolutely they were not. We brought our A-game and were working towards the peak of our culinary prowess. For reference, later that year we were voted the 35th best in the UK at The National Restaurant Awards. He’d take a couple of bites whilst being glued to his two phones, switching from handset to handset, completely ignoring his guest, his servers as they brought food, his surroundings, his hosts. Like a Masterchef judge when they take a nibble. Like a royal and there’s a banquet of food and their majesty has a slice of roast meat and says “I’m stuffed” as the servants scurry to take a sea of food away in silent, composed haste.
A plate would arrive, we’d eagerly check his feedback, his gestures and movements from afar, and he’d barely touch it. And repeat. To what felt like eternity. His eyes still transfixed on his phone. He barely looks up, like he’s sucked into a digital vortex. After what felt like a lifetime, the meal ends, mercifully. And rather than silently pay and exit, when I’m stood over with the card reader so he can end this transaction of hell, he then unleashes a barrage of unsolicited opinions.
“Dish x was good”, “Dish y was great”, “Dish z shouldn’t be on the menu – take it off”, etc. Then it’s all about our décor, how it needs to change wholescale – as if we have a pot of gold waiting to implement all these changes (not that I want to anyway, I like how we look thank you very much). He then lists off all about himself – completely goes off grid, all about his meals, his travels, his influence, his connections, his life. This goes on for far too long, where I had to break his monologue mid-sentence and pretend someone, somewhere was calling me. I hated every second of our post-meal interaction. I just stood there, gawping, mouth aghast at this rude, obnoxious prick.
Did I tell him to “fuck off?” You know how you look back at moments of conflict and think “I should have said this, or that, that would have showed them”, but the reality is you’re too frozen by the shock of what you’re witnessing in the moment to actually react so you… say nothing. You snap out, and remember why you came over to his table in the first place and take the card payment, praying this experience ends. After paying he insists on taking a photo of you and your brother outside the front of the restaurant – it’s all part of the game for him. Photo with the Dirik brothers? Check. Story, upload post, whatever. Went there and tried it. Got the badge. Acted like an insufferable prick. End of.
And you know, there are plenty like him. I won’t dox the prick. Maybe this newsletter is all fabricated – let’s just believe that and avoid the guessing. But there are plenty of pricks who frequent restaurants without really understanding or respecting them. Who don’t care about independent businesses. Who preach sustainability and equality but travel the world from continent to continent just so they can sit through tasting menus and tell the world.
And equally, there are fine-diners and high-fliers and kingmakers who are very, very nice. Good people who genuinely pinch themselves with excitement every time they get to go eat somewhere decent. Who are friendly to staff and patrons and the table next to them and to their own guest sat across them. Who are kind people who want the best every time they step into a building and taste their expressions of culture and food meshed as one. Who only want to say positive things about their experiences because they want to see best in people and in eateries. Who don’t brag. Who build genuine friendships with chefs and sommeliers. Who care. Who fucking care.
Just, not this prick. And that’s fine because I’m surrounded by the most wonderful customers who totally get it and want the very best for Mangal II, and the team, and the area, and for Turkish-London culture to continue to thrive and express itself.
You might not eat our food, sir, but eat my words: You are a miserable, soulless man, and you are not my customer.