To continue our musings from last week, I have been thinking a lot about how toxic work environments are often accepted as part of a restaurant’s very existence. It occurred to me that global discussions around defunding the police could be equally applied to the restaurant industry, and that restaurants feed off violence in many ways. For whom do restaurants really protect and serve? I’ve also been thinking a lot about the idea of ‘utopia’… what would a ‘Utopian Food System’ or a ‘Utopian Restaurant’ look like?
One of my favorite food writers, Soleil Ho, ran an article in 2015 where she describes ‘eating livers’ as a metaphor for young chefs succeeding the old, it hit me hard then and it still does now. The idea of eating someone's liver is an undoubtedly violent act, but one that she explains is necessary for growth. Using this logic, we must ‘devour the liver’ of the restaurant industry, take what’s good and transform what’s bad. Perhaps an act of symbolic violence is the only way we can remove ourselves from an already violent system.
The violence of change can be troubling and uncomfortable. During seismic shifts nostalgia is often what we defer to for comfort, but ‘restaurant nostalgia’ can mask a grim reality. I find myself reliving my favourite restaurant experiences and wonder which ones, if any, could I define as utopic? Pueblito Paisa in Tottenham springs to mind as a standout for me. It is a place that serves the community and consistently ticks all my boxes. Expensive crustaceans and stiff white tablecloths don’t fit my vision; at Pueblito Paisa you can buy reasonably priced pisco sours, grilled octopus and cassava fries whilst being serenaded by a Colombian man in a sparkling suit who jumps on the mic on Friday evenings. The regulars sing along with him as he shimmys his way round the tables, making the older ladies swoon.
These memories feel warm and safe, and although I often went there and had a lovely time, there was a looming violence. In the case of Pueblito Paisa, it is the constant threat of eviction due to rapid gentrification plans which aim to ‘regenerate’ the Latin Market out of existence, displacing a whole community that doesn’t fit into TfL and Boris Johnson’s vision of ‘progress’. Hardly utopia.
When imagining a change in our system, many of us lean towards escapism, the ‘throw it in the bin and run away’ approach. Admittedly we three Marigolds have a penchant for escapism ourselves, as Marigold was initially conceived as a ‘get out of London’ commune/farm/pub. Right now it simply exists as a newsletter, but if we can make sure that the chef who Rebecca’s (I repeat, fictional) story is based upon doesn’t sue us for libel, we might be able to get there. However pure escapism is unhelpful, it has to come hand in hand with other forms of resistance. As Josie pointed out in the last issue, this industry is full of people who are too talented, ambitious and knowledgeable to just ‘throw it away’, and to do so would be a cop out. We have to take accountability for ways in which this industry has been toxic and violent, and strive to do better for the people who have been let down. I hope that we can learn, and share with each other tangible ways to do this.
Together, we can demand change from within regarding wages, working conditions and staff treatment. While many aren’t in a powerful position in their workplace, by encouraging everyone to unionise, we might go some way to regulating the industry. If you do have power and privilege within your workplace, email your boss and begin a discussion. Other actions could be emailing your MP and consuming ethically by only eating at restaurants that are actively working towards change. Use whatever platform you have to highlight voices of underrepresented chefs, restaurants, farms and collectives that are actively doing the work, even if it’s just what you send your friends on the WhatsApp group. In these ways, we may have a chance of saving places like Pueblito Paisa.
The second part of Rebecca’s tale (read part one here), recounted below, feels to me like a metaphor for where we stand now; on the precepit looking down after a brief moment of clarity. We are looking out over the rubble of the current food hellscape searching for that ultimate utopic bowl of glistening cherries.
Eat The Rich,
Emily and The Marigolds
Serving Suggestion
Many moons ago Rebecca and I used to work a horseshoe shaped bar in Soho, often serving our favourite Barhound Emily stuffed olives and Earl Grey Martinis post shift. The bar itself summed up many of the cultures we have all subsequently tried to eschew, however our love for whiskey has remained.
The pairing this week is one of those late night Soho classics; a Seelbach. Fun fact you can find it in the aforementioned bar’s cookbook with a side note from me, as well as one of Bex’s. I think it is one of both our first pieces in print, though we have both yet to reap the plaudits and dividends. Read in that what you will.
Peychaud Bitters are worth the investment if you’re making this on the regular.
-Josie
Part Two
R T Townrow
The restaurant was a ten minute walk, but bothered that someone might spot him on the street, and ‘harang‘ him for an autograph, he bundled us into a cab. I gave the driver the address, and Chef slid himself over to the middle seat. He was a large man and sitting so close he pinned me against the door. The proximity allowed for him to, without hesitation, start at my knees and using his eyes, scan my body upwards. When he got to my face he paused at my mouth, ‘You know… it’s delightful, to see you out of your apron’.
Keen to pause the inspection, I pointed down the street ‘Look, we’re here’. We pulled in outside the restaurant, his name and signature in gold across the glass. He threw a twenty onto the front passenger seat ‘keep the change’, he shouted back at the driver. He took my hand and moved me towards the door. He tapped at the alarm system, and led us inside, refraining from turning the lights on. Instead he drew out his phone and guided us through the empty restaurant to the marble bar top. ‘Wait here’ he said, flicking a light as we were now out of view of the street, and disappeared down the stairs to the basement.
I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall behind the bar and chivved myself along, hearing his feet on the stairs I drew a deep breath. He strode back in and took two heavy bottomed glasses from a shelf, sliding them and a bottle towards me; he smiled ‘you pour’. He was briefly silent as I decanted two large measures; stood on the other side of the bar he removed his jumper and watch, unfastened his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves.
I had researched him for months, read every interview, watched endless clips of him appearing on breakfast TV and spoken to all manner of associates. On television he was praised for being straight talking, a quality that bolstered a swollen alpha complex; but behind closed doors there was a murkier nuance to his character. My research had led me to several of the city’s underground parlours and parties and eventually to a disgruntled Madame, Annapurna, whom he owed a considerable amount of money to. She agreed to speak to me but on the condition it would not go on the record. She believed he refused to settle bills due to an embarrassment tied to his interest in being the subject of domination, withholding the funds allowed him to exert a form of power. She had disclosed his interests in pain play to me and suggested he was somewhat of an addict in the area.
As we clinked our glasses I turned this information over and wondered how best to use it. He knocked his drink back and I mimed a similar action, though when he turned to take two upturned chairs from a table, I discreetly emptied the contents into the sink. I refilled his drink half full and neglected to do the same for myself. He took the glass and beckoned for me to join him at the table.
I picked up the bottle and ventured over. ‘Where are these drafts’ I tried, he smiled ‘now we’re here that seems rather boring.’ He took another glug and instead inquired, “How did you end up working for me?’ I diverted this question and concocted a ramble, which appealed to his inflated sense of self, touching on his place in the English cookery cannon and how he had ‘revitalised’ the London food scene. He basked in this and added some achievements I’d missed. The discussion went on for half an hour and then he suddenly pulled his chair to my side of the table and lifted my leg to his lap. He held my ankle tightly and stroked the heel of my shoe.
His hand then moved along my leg, over my knee and he traced the hem of my dress. Daunted by where he might go next, I adopted a faux seductive voice that sounded alien in my mouth and said ‘we have a friend in common.’ He didn’t look up fingers still on my legs, now under my dress. ‘Annapurna’ I said, now he stopped. He pulled back. I had thrown down my trump card, I seized this window of shock and continued ‘We used to work together, cooking is a new venture for me’ I paused for effect and then continued ‘Me and you are similar in our interests but me and Anna are the same, show me what you like and I can control the rest of the evening.’ The look of shock stretched across his face melted and was replaced by lust. He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and tested me in two terse words ‘Prove it.’ Annapurna had equipped me for such a situation, when we’d parted she gifted me his safe word- “Hard-shell’ I said. ‘Wait here’ he said eagerly and moved back downstairs to the kitchen.
He returned with an arm full of linen, a large polystyrene box, a jar of beef dripping and a metal bucket full of ice. He laid these items on the bar top and removed the chairs from the largest table. I stood with my hands on my hips and my chin raised watching him work. He took the linen and laid it out flat, scrunching it as the side like a pie crust. The ice bucket and box he put on the floor next to this arrangement, and undaunted by how quickly the situation had progressed, removed his clothes. I watched as he took the dripping and rubbed it into his skin, making sure he pushed it between his toes, around his groin and armpits. ‘May I tell you what to do?’ He said, I nodded ‘I want to lie down, and then you can place the ice on me, and on top the contents of the box…please.’ Again I nodded.
He climbed onto the table and lay back on the cloth. I picked up the bucket and began to scoop the ice up in handfuls, placing it on his thighs and torso, behind his neck and over the surface of the table, he quivered and let out breath in short staccato gasps. I peeled back the sellotape on the box and held the lid, sliding it upward and off. A salty smell greeted me; there were six large blue green lobsters, claws bound but still very much moving, in and amongst slippery pieces of seaweed. I took a tea towel that had been mixed up with the linen and wrapped it around my hand. I grabbed the first one by the tail and placed it on his chest, his body shivered from head to toe and the lobster thrashed its tail into his stomach, he clenched his teeth. I worked quickly, spacing the lobsters out across his body. When I’d completed my task, he seemed unaware I was there any more, his face held an expression between pleasure and pain, a purgatory of the senses.
I found my glass and poured a whiskey, now I drank as I watched the scene in front of me. Where the dripping was thickest the lobsters were most drawn. They scuttled towards his naval and his toes. Around his genitals where the grease sat in clumps one lobster curled up next to his penis, which was red and tumescent. The months of verbal abuse buzzed in my head as the brueghelian mess played out and a snap decision led to me finding his belt and a discarded tablecloth. ‘I’m going to tie your hands and feet’ I said in a stern tone. He registered my face and nodded. I trussed his hands together with the belt first, pulling them out behind his head, a lobster moving towards a well lubricated armpit. Then I spread his legs wide and made loops with the tablecloth around his ankles tying them to the table below. His breathing quickened, and he closed his eyes.
There was a large festive bowl of ruby pomegranates displayed behind the bar, I took one and cut it, the juice staining my hands. I picked up his watch and deposited it into my bag, I would post it to Annapurna, it would more than cover his debt. With the fruit in hand I moved back towards him and pushed the red flesh into his mouth, his eyes opened, I raised my right hand and waved goodbye, with panic in his eyes he tried to jerk his arms free but to no avail. I left and walked back to the club, someone would find him in the morning. For months I’d plotted the perfect headline, but the sight of Chefs’ pale greasy body on the table had left me deflated. There was a hollowness in my victory and I resolved to hand my notice in, the gossip rag didn’t need more fodder. Instead I would write a personal critique of both the Chef and my editor and seek a publisher.
Wham, bam! Thank you clam! See you in a few, and check out the links below for some top drawer content:
Farmerama Podcast - Episode #55 - a reminder that regenerative, community and staff focused businesses can work. Plus not only a reality check on why we have to rebuild our concept of economic success, but also a potential how.
The Case For Letting The Restaurant Industry Die, Helen Rosner - “Can you renovate a burning house? Can you renovate a single room in a burning house?” Tunde Wey discusses his instagram essay ‘Let it Die’. An eloquent interview which encompasses his ideology as an artist, chef and activist
Penis Town, Bhutan - Otherwise known as, Punakha. A side order of escapism, and some light phallic relief, here’s an article about a town in Bhutan (which is often referred to as ‘the Last Shangri-La’) which is covered in knobs. We are simpletons.
Vittles, Save Latin Village - Read this, from a few months ago but still relevant, and make sure to visit (I think they’re open again). Our favourite orders are: Ceviche on Sunday, empañadas (always add the chimichurri), grilled octopus and patacon. There’s also a protest for Latin Village on 23rd July 6PM, if you live near.