Memoirs of a Fruitcake

by Chris Evans

  The artwork is also a sight to behold, providing the most colourful of backdrops to this already vibrant theatre of food and fantasy and, like most things in Langan’s, it also has a story to tell. Struggling artists yet to be discovered would offer up a completed canvas in return for a few months’ free feeding. These very paintings still adorn the walls there and include works by such well-known names as David Hockney and Guy Gladwell. For what such paintings are worth today, a fellow could easily eat out anywhere in the world without having to worry about the bill for the rest of his life.

  The real legend of Langan’s however, is the original owner, Peter Langan himself. Sadly no longer with us, I’m sorry to say I never had the pleasure of meeting him, which is a real shame because from what I’ve heard he was quite a character, to say the least.

  Langan stories are infamous in the catering trade. There are myriad tales of the Irish chef-cum-restaurateur who somehow persuaded Michael Caine to become his partner. No bad thing as it turned out, as Langan repaid Michael’s belief in him with impressive profits year after year. In fact Caine is the only celeb I know who has ever made any money out of owning a restaurant – and I feel qualified to say that, having owned three myself!

  Langan’s eccentricities were born not only out of his love for his restaurant, the running of which entailed ludicrously long hours, but also from the countless bottles of bubbly he managed to consume on a daily basis. He was a big, big drinker: champagne and cider being his two favourite poisons of choice.

  In the end it was the dreaded bottle that got the better of him, but not before he had formulated some interesting theories on life, love and justice.

  On one occasion, for example, he was witnessed crawling under the tables during a lunchtime service, on his way to bite the ankle of a lady who’d thought it completely acceptable to bring in her beloved toy poodle. Having arrived at the ankle in question, Langan duly chomped into it with all his might. Neither the dog nor the lady was ever seen there again.

  My other favourite Langan tale features him dressing up as a tramp and standing on the street outside the front door of his establishment, begging for money. This was a game he loved to play where, if any benevolent soul did happen to afford him a shilling or two, he would dramatically reveal his true identity before asking them inside to join him as his guest for the rest of the day and – no doubt – most of the night.

  I’d love to have met Langan but despite his legendary status, ultimately there is nothing remotely funny about someone who drinks too much; it’s always the drink and not the drinker who has the last laugh. And so it was with Peter. In a desperate attempt to win back his battle-weary wife he set fire to himself as a cry for help, but he ended up overdoing it and it took him six weeks to die of his injuries.

  After Peter so tragically died, Michael, having been bitten by the restaurant bug, remained an active partner in the business and could often be witnessed dining with his friends and colleagues at table number one.

  Table number one can be found in the left-hand corner just as you walk in. It’s renowned as the best table in the house because from it you can see the rest of the dining room without having to look round – basically you can have a good old nosey without anyone noticing. Most top tables share this trait, though I doubt many of them have as much to be nosey about as Langan’s does.

  There is no other place in the world that shares its unique blend of dining enthusiasts, where MPs mix with football managers, ladies who do lunch mingle with gentlemen who would love to do them, and Essex girls flock to trade city boys. This heady cocktail of clientele and culture-clashes often leads to a marathon of musical chairs, with tables of four or five frequently merging to become larger gatherings that often have to be politely asked to vacate their tables as the next diners are waiting to be seated – for dinner.

  I’ve been fortunate enough to sit at table one from time to time and it’s always been a joy, as the waiters acknowledge one’s ascent to the top spot with a respectful nod. Table one is presided over by Peter Langan himself, thanks to a fabulous Guy Gladwell painting that hangs on the wall next to it. The great host has been immortalised in one of his trademark pale grey linen suits, which is all he ever wore; he had six, all identical and usually spattered and stained with the remains of whatever it was he had been eating and drinking that day.

  The genius of this painting lies in the fact that the subject has his back to us and yet it’s so obviously him. He has his right hand in his pocket as he appears to walk away, but I have been assured, by people in the know, that he isn’t actually walking anywhere, he is leaning against a door with one heel in the air as he struggles to balance whilst he takes a pee through the letterbox.

  So lunch it was for me and the guys, not at table one as it happened, but not far off. We could see enough of what we wanted to and we were all set to get down to business as well as eat, drink and be merry in the process.

  That day’s lunch party was made up of the aforementioned David Campbell, a lovely man and good friend, Andy Mollet, the financial director, a solid and trusty numbers man, and the managing director, whose name escapes me for some reason, primarily because I want it to.

  After loosening up with the usual round of excellent Bloody Marys followed by a cold beer each, it was time to embark upon the blissful task of perusing the mouthwatering Langan’s menu.

  Whenever I do lunch where there is business also to be done, I find it difficult to eat anything substantial. With passion being required for both, I can seldom split myself between the two, and as business was in the pound seats on this occasion, I plumped for the double Caesar salad option. This is something I used to do a lot; Caesar salad as a starter and as a main course – Hail Caesars all round and no hardship, as the Caesars at Langan’s are to die for.

  With our food orders now in, our powwow was ready to get under way although it stalled momentarily as we did that classic thing of ‘everyone chatting about any subject other than the one they’re there to talk about’- the human version of starlings swarming at twilight until one of them takes the plunge.

  Finally we were off and started by mulling over our thwarted bid for the Daily Star, before moving on to where we felt we were at the moment, both as a company and as individuals, taking into consideration the constraints under which we currently found ourselves.

  The question in a nutshell was, ‘What could we possibly do next?’

  It was patently obvious that we were in a Catch-22 situation; we’d become too successful, too quickly, and now had our hands tied. We were millions of pounds ahead of our projections in turnover and profit – three years ahead to be precise – and the board had no inclination whatsoever to risk a penny of it.

  But there had to be something we could do. Even in a dark room with no windows you can still ‘think’ light.

  ‘Alright,’ I said, suddenly realising there was only one creative option open to us. ‘If we’re done, we’re done. Our next big idea, gentlemen’ – I paused briefly at this point partly for dramatic effect and also to make sure I had my colleagues’ full and undivided attention – ‘will be to sell the company three years ahead of schedule. This,’ I declared, ‘is definitely something we can do.’

  These words were as much of a shock to me as they were to my three dining companions, but I knew it was a good idea because I suddenly acquired that sick feeling in my gut, the one you get when something is either very right or very wrong. Fortunately for all concerned this felt like the very right type to me.

  There were of course issues with such a tumultuous decision; when are there not? For example, did we really want to give up this goldmine of a company before we had to? Would the company grow in value anyway without us doing anything drastic and could we reap more dividends? Why not just relax and take it easy for another year or two?

  After discussing my eureka moment for a short while, the boys came up with a prophetic and convincing outline of where the business was now, considering
advertising revenues, the listening figures and other important factors, including, most importantly, where the business was likely to be at our planned exit point thirty-six months hence.

  As far as they could see, it was difficult to envisage the numbers getting any better than they were at present. In fact, they went on to add, it was conceivable the numbers had already reached a plateau and if anything might even begin to get worse.

  As we continued to weigh up the scenario, it became increasingly hard for any of us to argue against the idea of an early sale. We therefore concluded that this was a suggestion we felt justified in putting to the board at the earliest available opportunity.

  Having unanimously agreed on this course of action, a palpable air of optimism – something that had been conspicuous by its absence of late – suddenly returned.

  Eighteen months after borrowing £85 million to snatch Virgin Radio from under the noses of the Capital Radio group, we were going to put the station back on the market at a guide price of between £175 million to £300 million.

  Not a bad bit of business – if we could pull it off. Either way, one thing was for sure. The boys had the fire in their bellies once again.

  It’s amazing what a good restaurant can serve up.

  TOP

  10

  UNFORGETTABLE SHOWBIZ MOMENTS

  10 First show on the radio (Manchester Piccadilly Radio circa 1988)

  9 First Big Breakfast

  8 Last Big Breakfast

  7 First Radio 1 Breakfast Show

  6 Playing golf in front of 30,000 people with Catherine Zeta-Jones against Bobby Ewing and Cheech from Cheech and Chong, when Catherine was playing so badly she started to cry – and that was only on the second hole!

  5 Leaving TFI Fridayon a speedboat up the Thames with Paul McCartney

  4 Watching Elton John present the last ever TFI Friday inmy place as I had gone AWOL

  3 Locking up the Giants Stadium for U2 in New York after they’d gone home. Of 60,000 people, I was the last to leave

  2 First Radio 2 Breakfast Show

  1 The mad wine night at Andrew Lloyd Webber’s house in the South of France

  THROUGHOUT THE WHOLE OF THIS PERIOD and for the last three years, I had been dating a saint of a woman by the name of Suzi Aplin.

  Of all the amazing females I have had the ridiculous good fortune to be with in my life, there is no one who deserves a medal for services to this delusional, fruitcake of a man more than Suzi does. Suzi Aplin – televison producer, live wire, force of nature and all-round, solid-gold human being.

  Suzi and I got it together after a night of drunken passion, there’s no use trying to sugar-coat it and pretend otherwise. There was no romance, there was no plan, we simply started the evening in a comedy club in Greenwich and ended up back at her place later that night. The next morning we found ourselves food shopping in Suzi’s local Waitrose like a couple who had been together for years.

  Suzi was, and still very much is, tall, blonde and vivacious with marvellously long legs, even for a girl of five foot ten. She is also slim, maybe a little too slim, but willowy enough to get away with it, and even though she has a classically pretty face, she has not the first idea how beautiful she really is.

  As well as all these wonderful physical attributes, the package gets better the deeper you dig. She is blessed with almost inexhaustible energy and is as positive as I believe it is possible to be about everyone and everything. She can be frank when she needs to be, honest and diplomatic when it’s called for, and ditzy and dithering when she gets in a bit of a tiz – but of course this only adds to her charm. She also has the ability to listen and laugh in all the right places and lend a friend a kind shoulder when they need someone to lean on. Oh, and she’s ever such a little bit posh – which I love…

  She is, I suppose, perfect – and if you’re thinking to yourself why did I ever let her go, please let’s not go there, at least not yet.

  I first encountered this wonder-woman when I was working on The Big Breakfast. Suzi was the guest booker – one of the toughest jobs in the business, always fighting against other shows for first dibs on the latest people in town, then having to deal with all the egos and politics that follow such characters around.

  Suzi was renowned as one of the best at her job, a fact confirmed by the constant headhunting she faced to go and work on other shows. She had formed excellent social and working relationships with all the necessary music, film and PR companies and, as a result, was able to deliver A-list guests where others only failed.

  When I needed a guest booker for my new show Don’t Forget Your Toothbrush I didn’t have to look very far. Suzi was top of my list and as my new production company shared an office with Planet 24, the producers of The Big Breakfast, she was also only a few desks away.

  Charlie and Waheed, my former bosses, were reluctant to let her go, but as my new show’s need was greater than theirs plus they had a vested interest as they were my partners, they kindly if reluctantly allowed me to nab her.

  Suzi had always been easy on the eye and had enjoyed the attentions of many a male admirer but I have to say thus far I had not included myself in that group and, although we were great mates, never in a million years did I think we would end up as an item.

  Perhaps a deeper connection between us began to grow as a result of us working more closely together, and then subconsciously came to a head the night we hooked up.

  ‘In wine the truth’, as the saying goes, a phrase Suzi used a lot and there was certainly plenty of wine involved on that Friday night back in Greenwich. Having said that, it could easily have ended up as a quick fling until, that is, I opened the Sun newspaper a couple of days later.

  Suzi had been in a cafe, on the Sunday after our serendipitous sneaky session back at hers and had been discussing the post-mattress aftermath of what had happened between her and her boss with a close friend. I think one could refer to what was taking place as a bona fide girly chat.

  This would have been all well and good had not one Piers Morgan been sitting directly behind them. Piers, another recurring name in my story, who was still working as a gossip columnist at the time, was no more than three feet away, enabling him to hear every single word they were saying. He later told me he couldn’t believe his luck.

  What Piers did next is … exactly what Piers was paid to do. He printed the highlights of Suzi and her pal’s conversation almost word for word for the nation to read over their cornflakes in a two-page spread.

  When I read his article I was almost speechless, not because I was angry or shocked – far from it – the press were part of my everyday existence, but because of all the lovely, complimentary things Suzi had allegedly been saying about me.

  I called her straight away.

  ‘Oh my God, I’m s-s-s-so sorry, and I’m so embarrassed,’ she stuttered before I could squeeze in a hello.

  ‘Please d-d-d-don’t think I’m like that, I’m not one of those girls that does this. I don’t know where they got the story from. It’s almost as if he was there. I have to say, I did s-s-s-say those things but only to my friend. I don’t know how they found out – I know for a fact Sam wouldn’t have told them. I trust her with my life. I completely understand if you want me to leave and go and find another job somewhere else.’

  She may well have talked for a full five minutes before coming up for air and letting me get a word in.

  As she paused for breath I seized my moment and explained to Suzi that Piers had revealed in the piece that it was he himself who was behind her in the cafe, and that far from being annoyed or embarrassed about what he’d written, I was chuffed to bits by what she’d had to say about me.

  Once Suzi had calmed down there was only one way to look at it, as far as I was concerned. Piers had done us both a huge favour as I now knew how she felt about me – along with the rest of the country for that matter – and his revealing column inches had vicariously awakened me to how I felt about her. The m
ore I thought about her, the more I realised what a catch she was and what an amazing girlfriend she’d make. I concluded that I needed to do something about this, and fast; I would ask Suzi to move in with me.

  This may seem a little drastic, but as you may have deduced by now, I’m an all-or-nothing guy. Admittedly this is not a trait that always led to the smoothest of rides, but that’s just the way I am, I can’t help it. Besides, neither Suzi nor I had time for a relaxed and measured courtship; we were both workaholics and unless we went home to the same bed every night, there was a good chance we might not see each other for weeks.

  After a lot of fun and a couple of false starts in my flat in north London, my former guest booker and I made the transition to an official grown-up couple, moving into a rather grand town house in Notting Hill in the process. Suzi and I were now an item and the various boys and girls we had both been dating of late were duly told to back off for the foreseeable future.

  The more I came to know my new girlfriend the more I liked her.

  Suzi loved food – although you would never know from the size of her. She also loved to smoke, not prolifically but poetically, drawing the maximum available pleasure from every individual drag. Most of all, though, she loved her red wine.

  Her penchant for red wine came not so much from its alcoholic content and its effect but rather from its smell, colour and – of course – its taste. She sipped wine from her glass like no one I’ve ever seen before or since, her eyes closed, waiting for what was to come, her lips curling upwards at either end almost in a wry smile at the thought of the ecstasy of a full-on sensory assault.

  Her passion for wine, food and fags often took us to France, where they seem to do these three things quite a lot and without worrying about them too much.