As Mangal II slowly edges towards the end of its natural life cycle, I feel a bit like “Fuck it”. In the sense that I’m not particularly worried about feathers being ruffled, bullshit being called out, and honesty and openness appearing in my newsletters as a cathartic process to grieving.
I’m slowly mourning the end of my restaurant. It’s not currently sold to anyone, and there’s no buyer. We’re still running and have no end date in sight. But I’ve made the decision that this will reach its natural conclusion at some point in the near-to-mid future. I’m at peace with this. But today is not a day to dwell on our climatic end. It’s time to present my ‘Quincy Jones old-as-hell card’ and start revealing things, like how he outed the way Marlon Brando and Richard Pryor had been sleeping together for a long time, among other Hollywood secrets, until his daughters freaked out and begged him to shut up before the status quo collapsed. He died not soon after.
Back in 2015, it was my first year fully running Mangal II on my own as a traditional kebab house. I had worked in the restaurant for many years, but operationally, I didn’t have a clue what to do and was winging it. We were approached by an incredibly well-known restaurant asking if they could host their Christmas Staff Do here in late January. I swiftly agreed, offered them a criminally low price and made arrangements. If anything, I was incredibly flattered they chose us, and the clout alone would outweigh the cons. Or so I thought.
After a lot of to-and-fro via email exchanges, we were ready and set for the big day. They hired out the whole restaurant on a Sunday with the single exception that our regular evening diners - the artists Gilbert & George, could also attend with the duo being friendly with this particular restaurant and its owners.
I’m not going to say this restaurant’s name. I am but a mere individual, running a business alone (lord knows how much longer for) and juggling that with co-parenting of my two children with my ex-wife. I’m a very involved parent, and I have limited time and energy to get into a legal spat with this powerful entity. Any stupid move on my part could lead to a The Simpson’s Mr Burns’s team of lawyers-style retribution. I simply don’t have the time or energy for war. I will make the clear distinction to those of you who can guess where it is, that of its owners, it’s not the main guy – who was lovely, and has appeared to have a lovely demeanour every time I’ve seen him in public. It’s the other guy – for the sake of confidentiality, let’s refer to him as “Fucko”.
Fucko arrived, like all the team, already a bit intoxicated. It kicked off at 5pm and it was already dark outside. We agreed to supply the wines but that they were also allowed to bring whatever they wanted too. Things got off to a jolly start – in fact, for many of the attendees, it was a raucous, fun night. They all ate, drank, and were merrily oscillating from ground level to basement, lingering, chatting, laughing, and having a festive celebration served with lots of grilled meats and meze et al.
I was always Front of House, despite being the owner – to this day, I still am. I love service and interacting with guests. This evening should have been no different. But midway through the meal, I made the grave error of recommending a bottle of Montepulciano to Fucko – who had a clear developed knowledge of wine, and my understanding was still very premature and at its infancy. We got off on the wrong foot as he appeared to hate my suggestion, whereby he mocked me saying “Oh this is the great wine you said, is it? This is shit.” I felt embarrassed and exposed. But remember, we were a kebab house and serving 12 bottles of wine in total on our menu. I simply plucked him my favourite and because I liked its taste, I foolishly assumed he would too. My bad. I was just a 26-year old man, juggling this job with part-time freelance shifts at VICE as a social media editor. I was about to become a first-time dad in 4 months’ time. I didn’t grow up visiting vineyards. My parents are very working class, and grew up in poverty, and we had a very humble upbringing in Hackney, and then in Chingford.
Now, growing up in Chingford, I was exposed to direct racism throughout my schooling life. It’s a town on the outskirts of London, home to Beckham, Kane, the Kray Twins, and of course, Blazin’ Squad – who went to my school. Racism is a topic I feel strongly about, simply because first and foremost, I am a human. Secondly, because I suffered horribly racist incidents all through my formative years.
Anyway, after this interaction, and after he quizzically enquired who the owner was and was aghast to discover it was me, this fresh-faced young man with no sophisticated, bourgeois upbringing to enamour myself towards him, things turned south. As guests slowly finished their meal and went in and out of the restaurant at various point to visit bars and go for a smoke and god knows what else, he came and sat next to me.
What follows next is hard to type. It almost feels surreal and impossible to believe. For the sake of protecting my own arse, let’s say I imagined half the things he said to me. In fact, let’s just say this whole piece is made up.
Fucko, out of the blue, with no subtext, no conflict or prompt, went off on a racist tirade. Weirdly, or rather tragically, I’m quite used to racist insults due to my experiences. I can get a bit angry, or brush it off, and put it down to mere ignorance, or whatever. What Fucko said went beyond that. It was deeply personalised, targeted, and unbelievably hurtful. He went off on a disgusting tirade about how my father (who he never knew, never met) was a gambling addict like all Turks. That he “came home from gambling and beat my mum, didn’t he? Because that’s what all Turks do, don’t they? I bet your dad did.”
I was, naturally, shocked. A few of their team saw him berating me and came over, ushered him away, apologised, and brushed it all off saying “Oh don’t mind Fucko, Fucko’s just being Fucko, that’s how he is.” It seems the team were used to this horrible man and his horrible ways. I didn’t reveal what he said to me, out of sheer embarrassment, but insisted they make sure he leaves.
He left. We were winding down and packing up when he returned, long after all of his team had deserted the restaurant and gone off elsewhere. Drunker than ever, stumbling inside, he came and sat in the exact same spot. Whilst he was gone, I revealed to Mustafa – my cousin and our restaurant’s manager at the time, what that awful man had said. When Fucko came back, he went off again, spewing the exact same toxic racist statements. Mustafa tried to shut him up. I lost it. I said “Listen here you fucking prick, you don’t know the first thing about me, about my family, about anything.” By now I was yelling, “I stayed quiet earlier, but I’ve had enough. Shut your fucking mouth and get the fuck out of my restaurant!” This shocked him, to the point where he almost appeared sober for a moment. He asked if I could call him a taxi. I told him to find his own fucking taxi and leave. Fucko left. The night was over.
Years have passed and I have only revealed what happened to a handful of people. Not out of fear, but because I don’t particularly love cancel culture. Fucko is a cunt, but his business partner doesn’t appear to be. Fucko’s business employs possibly over 100 people, and if reputational damage was so severe they all lost their jobs as the business closed, who is the real victim here? I don’t want to downplay my experience, and I don’t want to absolve Fucko of blame. Fucko is old. He’ll hopefully be dead soon, but I’ll still be here. He will die but better babies will be born. I can’t change a 70-year old man’s worldview, but I can teach my children how to be good, accepting, kind, tolerant, loving and generous. Fucko is filled with hate. I am filled with kebabs and the love I receive from my family, friends, and particularly my kids. I win.