and I relaxed a little.
We were sat in the round-backed, blue leather chairs of the restaurant at the OXO, and I was enjoying allowing someone else to do the cooking for a change. I chose the foie gras galantine, with a fig chutney and brioche, to start, and then the rack of lamb with sweetbreads for my main course, while Mark went for the lobster to start and the organic Shetland cod for his main. In spite of his choice of fish, Mark was a red wine man, so we sat and took pleasure from an outstanding bottle of 1990 Chateau Latour.
“Now, then,” he said once the first courses were served, “where shall we have this restaurant and what style do you fancy?”
Why did those questions ring alarm bells in my head? Mark had stuck absolutely to his deal over the Hay Net. He had provided the finance but given me a free hand in everything else: venue, style, menus, wines, staff-the lot. I had asked him at the time to give me an indication of an overall budget for the setting up and for the first year of operation. “More than half a million, less than a million,” is all he said. “And what security?” I had asked him. “The deeds to the property and a gentlemen’s agreement that you will work at the venture for a minimum of ten years unless we both agree otherwise.” In the end, I had used nearly all his million, but his fifty percent of the profits for the past five years had paid back far more than half of it, and he still held the deeds. Over ten years, at the prepoisoning turnover rate, the Hay Net would provide for a very healthy return on his investment. I, of course, was delighted and proud that my little Newmarket establishment had proved to be such a success, both financially and in terms of “standing” in the town. However, what had been more important to me than anything was my independence. It may have been Mark’s money that I had used to set it up, and he ultimately owned the building in which it was housed, but it was my restaurant and I had made all the decisions, every one.
Did I detect in Mark’s questions his intent to have a more hands-on role in any new London venture? Or was I jumping to conclusions? Did he not mean where shall you have the restaurant? Not where shall we? I decided it was not the time to press the point.
“I would have a place like this,” I said. “Traditional yet modern.”
“It can’t be both,” said Mark.
“Of course it can,” I said. “This restaurant has traditional values, with white tablecloths, good service, fine food and wine, and a degree of personal privacy for the diners. Yet the decor is modern in appearance, and the food has an innovative nature, with Mediterranean and Asian influences. In Newmarket, my dining room is purposely more like one you might find in a private house, and my food is very good but less imaginative than I would attempt here. It is not that my clients are less sophisticated than London folk. They’re not. It’s just that their choice of restaurant is fewer, and many come to eat at the Hay Net often, some every week. On that regular basis, they need to be comfortable rather than challenged, and they want their food predictable rather than experimental.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” he said. “I’m having cod. Surely that’s predictable.”
“Wait and see,” I replied, laughing. “I bet you look at it twice and ask yourself if it’s what you ordered. It won’t be a slab of fish in batter with chips that you would get wrapped in newspaper at the local chippie. It comes with a cassoulet, which is a rich bean stew, usually with white haricots, and a puree of Jerusalem artichoke. Would you know what a Jerusalem artichoke looks like? And what it tastes of?”
“Hasn’t it got spiky leaves?” he said. “That you suck?”
“That’s a globe artichoke,” I said. “A Jerusalem artichoke is a type of sunflower, and you eat the roots, which are tubers, like potatoes.”
“From Jerusalem, I assume.”
“Actually, no.” I laughed again. “Don’t ask why it’s called the Jerusalem artichoke. I don’t know. But it definitely has nothing to do with Jerusalem the city.”
“Like the hymn,” said Mark. “You know, ‘did those feet’ and all that. Nothing to do with the city. Jerusalem there means ‘heaven.’ Perhaps the artichokes taste like heaven too.”
“More like a radish,” I said. “And they tend to make you fart.”
“Good,” said Mark, laughing. “I might need my own train carriage home.”
Now, I decided, was the moment.
“Mark,” I said seriously, “I will have absolute discretion in any new restaurant, won’t I? Just like at the Hay Net?”
He sat and looked at me. I feared for a moment that I had misjudged things.
“Max,” he said, finally, “how often have I asked you how to sell a mobile phone?”
“Never.”
“Exactly. Then why would you ask me how to run a restaurant?”
“But you do eat in restaurants,” I said.
“And you use a cell phone,” he countered.
“Fine,” I said. “I promise I won’t discuss cell phones with you if you promise not to discuss restaurants with me.”
He sat in silence and smiled at me. Had I really outflanked the great Mark Winsome?
“Can I have a veto?” he asked at length.
“On what?” I asked rather belligerently.
“Venue.”
What could I say? If he didn’t like the venue, he wouldn’t sign a contract for a lease. He had a veto on the venue anyway.
“If you provide the finance, then you get a veto,” I said. “If you don’t, then you don’t.”
“OK,” he said. “Then I want to provide the finance. Same terms as before?”
“No,” I said. “I want more than fifty percent of the profit.”
“Isn’t that a bit greedy?” he said.
“I want to be able to empower my staff with participation in profit.”
“How much?”
“That’s up to me,” I said. “You get forty percent and I get sixty percent and then I decide, at my sole discretion, to give as much or as little of that as I want as bonuses to my staff.”
“Do you get a salary?”
“No,” I said. “Same as now. But I get sixty instead of fifty percent of the profit.”
“How about during setting up? Last time, you took a salary from my investment for the first eighteen months.”
“But I paid it back,” I pointed out. “This time, I won’t need it. I have savings, and I intend to back myself with it as far as my salary is concerned.”
“Anything else?” Mark asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Ten years is too long. Five years. Then I get the chance to buy you out at a fair price.”
“How do you define ‘fair price’?”
“I can match the best offer, public or private, made by an independent third party.”
“On what terms?”
“The cost of the lease plus forty percent of their valuation of the business.”
“Fifty,” he said.
“No, forty of the business value and one hundred percent of the lease.”
“How about if I want to buy you out?” he asked.
“It would cost you sixty percent of the business value, and I could walk away.” I wondered how much the value of the business might change if the chef walked away. But, then again, I could think of no circumstances in which he would buy me out.
Mark sat back in his chair and looked at me. “You drive a damn hard bargain.”
“Why not?” I said. “I have to do all the work. All you have to do is sign a big check and then sit on your arse and wait for the money to flood in.” At least, I hoped it would flood in.
“Do you know how many restaurants in London close within a year with huge losses?” he said. “I’m taking quite a risk with my money.”
“So?” I said. “You’ve got plenty of it. I’m gambling with my reputation.”
“For what it’s now worth,” he said, and laughed.
“You said to rise above it and have faith in myself. Well, I have. We won’t close in a year, not even in
