He asked to come and see me on the Sunday, which is the day Ilé is shut, and he asked by text, and the text said: I’ve got a problem and I want your judgement on it before I do anything. Not a proposal. A problem. Sunday, any time, anywhere, and you can say no.
I said two o’clock.
He came with a cardboard folder, which was so entirely unlike him — a man who has never in his life needed a prop — that I understood before he sat down that he was frightened.
“Right,” he said. “I’m going to do this in the wrong order on purpose, because if I do it in the right order it’ll sound like a pitch and you’ll be sitting there working out how to be kind to me.”
“Go on.”
“I want to open a restaurant with you.” He said it fast…
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