Food Fight (4 page)
“Congressman Wilde, thank you for coming,” Barney said, holding out his hand to a corpulent man with bad breath and dark greasy hair.
“How do you do, Congressman,” said Susie as she greeted the Representative from Iowa.
“Congressman, this is Susie Perkins from DeKripps London. She’s strategizing with us, but only she knows what that means.”
“We’re expanding the brand,” said Susan. “Top secret, of course.”
“You from England? I just love that accent,” said the Congressman. He grabbed and pumped her hand while his eyebrows leapt with enthusiasm. She glanced at Barney for help, but he’d already moved on to another guest.
She smiled. “Yes, I’ve been working with Frank in London.”
She could almost touch the fetid air from his mouth, as though dredged from the Anacostia river, and struggled not to turn away.
Why did she mention Frank? Nobody would know him here. She added, “I do cereals. And ice cream.”
“Great,” the Congressman said, leaning forward. “I’ve got a pack of Buried Treasure in the office.”
She smiled again, reaching for a strand of hair and twiddled it under her nose to avoid the stale blasts.
“So you’re from London?”
“No. Not really. I’ve moved around a bit. Southern England really. University in Brighton, if you know it?”
“Naw.” A bucket of chicken wings appeared, and he helped himself to two. Susan declined, thinking she didn’t want her hands to go where his greasy fingers had been. Then abruptly, he turned his back on her, and began calling to a new arrival.
The box was filling up. There was room for about a dozen people, and Susan was introduced to a couple of young Congressional staffers and a woman from the federal regulator.
She’d done her share of corporate hospitality with Frank, and had always enjoyed schmoozing clients, but tonight she was unsure of herself. It was nothing like the banter over champagne and strawberries at Wimbledon. She understood the guidelines on lobbying in Washington were strictly defined. Behind them was a bar, and most of the guests were drinking beer. They set their glasses down and placed hands on hearts as a soloist began The Star-Spangled Banner.
The game was interminable. The batsman – or hitter, she heard someone say – stood there avoiding the ball. Susan was afraid of making a fool of herself, and didn’t ask anyone the rules. For long periods, nothing happened. Sometimes when the batsman missed the ball, the crowd applauded. She suppressed a yawn, taking an occasional swig of light beer. From time to time, one or two of them would join the chant of ‘Let’s Go Nats.’
The lack of action on field meant plenty of time to chat. Susan found herself discussing sales of salted crisps with one of the House Agriculture Committee staffers while he devoured a hotdog that oozed bright yellow mustard.
She tried to ignore his eyes darting behind her as he sought more high-powered company. She caught sight of Barney deep in conversation with Congressman Wilde. Barney intercepted her gaze and winked. She noticed that Wilde was on first name terms with most of the people in their box. DC is a revolving door of lawmakers and lobbyists, she recalled Frank saying over his cigar.
It was time for the Presidents’ Race. Barney had explained on the way that the Teddy Roosevelt mascot had never yet won against the other former presidents. Susan felt stupid yelling “Come on, Teddy!” but all the grown men in their box were doing it. They jumped to their feet when the giant mascots burst onto the outfield. She recognised George Washington with his long white hair drawn back in a ponytail, then came Abe Lincoln. The mascot with a white moustache, who jostled Lincoln on the way onto the field, must be William Taft. But where was Teddy?
Shouts pierced the air when the figure with the dark moustache appeared, bringing up the rear on a tricycle.
“He’s gonna do it this time,” she heard her neighbour say. “Come on, Teddy!” The mascot, pedalling furiously, reached the others at the corner. The cheers grew as he began to overtake them, raising his fist. “Come on, Teddy!”
But suddenly there was chaos. Teddy toppled over as he cycled into the lead. Jefferson fell on top of him. Susan heard muttered disappointment in the box as a cry went out from the crowd. Then Teddy scrambled up and began hurling T-shirts into the audience, to delighted screams from children in Nats headgear, who jumped and shouted, “Over here, Teddy!”
Susan looked round the DeKripps box as they sat again. They must have expected Teddy to lose. “Hey, that was exciting,” she heard someone say. She turned round to see whether the woman from the Federal Drug Administration might share her awkwardness, but she was flirting with one of the staffers. She could hear her tinkling laughter from behind her.
A hush fell as the waiters brought more trays of hot dogs, nachos and buckets of chicken. Then the chatter resumed after a pause. Somehow they’d found the time to change seats, like a corporate musical chairs.
Someone at DeKripps had ensured that not a moment of precious networking time had been wasted.
The cheerful organ began again, prompting more calls of “Let’s Go Nats!” or “Let’s Go Zimmerman!” Once again, spectators stood in unison, this time for the seventh inning stretch. They stood up, stretched their arms and legs and sang “Take me out to the ball game!” at the top of their voices, prompted by words on the giant screen. What fun they all seemed to be having. She was relieved when she overheard someone remark there were only two more innings to go.
They left the stadium with a surge of pumped-up fans after the home team subjugated the New York Mets. Barney raised an imperious arm to hail her a cab, hardly pausing for breath to say goodbye as he continued a rapid fire exchange with a lobbyist in a red baseball cap.
Instead of taking the highway, the driver headed past the illuminated dome of Congress before cutting across the green swathe of the National Mall.
To her left was the gleaming white obelisk whose pointed summit was blinking red. The nation’s capital, in the stillness of a late summer evening, was a stunning sight. But she felt like the baseball: tossed coolly, mostly invisible.
As she shrank into the upholstery in the taxi air conditioning, she suppressed a shiver.
A group of ten DeKripps executives was summoned to a strategy meeting in Barney’s office.
Susan had never seen him so agitated. He kicked the door closed with his foot as he strode to the end of the table and swung his jacket over the back of his seat. He rolled up his sleeves as though readying for a fist-fight.
“Do we have the hook-up with LA?” he said. It was barely 8 a.m. in Los Angeles.
“Hi, Barney. Luke here,” said the surf-bleached blonde on the video. Like 3D portraits of Dorian Grey, the company managers were getting younger every day.
“Let’s start from the beginning. Luke, what are those motherfuckers in California trying to do to us?”
“Well, Kramer and his team are publishing another book. It’ll likely add to the stink about HFCS. There’s a whole chapter about DeKripps.”
Susan knew all about Bill Kramer, the child obesity specialist who’d likened sugar to cocaine in front of every journalist who would listen.
Now, his ideas about High Fructose Corn Syrup seemed to be gaining traction with mainstream media, not just ‘the granola set’ as Frank called them. America’s obesity epidemic was visible to all, with one child in three overweight. The question is, who’s to blame? Frank had seen it coming, she realised, remembering their conversation in Cobham. It was only a matter of time before Kramer put all his bile into a blockbuster and hurled it at DeKripps.
“Let’s unpack this. Randy, what’s the legal position?” He barked at his legal counsel. “I mean, can we throw the book at Kramer?”
Randy cleared his throat, studying his bitten fingernails as he played for time. “I’d have to examine the chapter in detail,” he began.
“I want a report on my desk by tonight. What else can we do?”
Barney now sat on a corner of the table, hunched into a pile of muscle like Rodin’s Thinker as all eyes fell on him.
He looked around the table and sat up.
“We do two things. We make a gesture to the consumer who will see that we are a responsible company with their interests at heart. We make an announcement. Get Kramer and those fuckers on the back foot.”
Susan caught Ellen’s gaze from across the table. What could he have in mind?
“Second, we find another bad guy. We know it ain’t sugar. The link between obesity and HFCS isn’t there. It is
not
proven. Sugar does
not
cause diabetes. Get me any expert and have them tell the world. The customer has a choice. If they want to buy a banana, they can buy a banana. But the fact is they would rather buy DeKripps cookies because they’re delicious. What is important here is that the consumer chooses what to buy. If they want to find out what they’re eating, we have taken the trouble to tell them on the pack. It’s on the pack!”
Susan had heard this speech so many times at DeKripps, and delivered it herself at focus groups and in arguments with her daughter, that she no longer needed convincing. But who was the other culprit Barney was about to finger?
As though answering her question, after pausing for breath, he punched the air. “It’s not the sugar, it’s the lack of fibre.”
He looked at them, expecting nods of approval.
“Look, DeKripps recommends a balanced and healthy diet. We know that. We’re going to put less sugar into our soft drinks. Then we’ll make the cans and bottles a
tiny
bit bigger. After that, we fund research. Fibre deficiency as a possible cause of obesity and diabetes.
We’re
the good guys!”
“What about bread?” Ellen asked. “If we’re taking the bull by the horns, we could reduce the added sugar in DeKripps loaves.”
Susan agreed with her: She too had never understood why her company added so much sugar to bread in America.
“Ellen,” Barney said, with a stare that said
get
with
the
programme
, “today’s conversation is about soda and juice. I’ll be talking to Susie about whether we need a new name to go with the improved flavour, or whether ‘Angeljuice’ is as heavenly as it sounds to me. Give us our daily bread some other day. Let’s keep our powder dry.”
Ellen pretended not to notice that everyone’s gaze had fallen on her, and returned to her doodle.
“Barney,” Randy said, “you’re aware of the FDA warnings about misbranding.”
“Which one? You mean
Nutrition
Facts
, evaporated cane juice in yoghurt? Of course. But number one, I would point out that letter was non-binding. Number two, I would point out again that we are talking about soda. And number three, our compliance people were onto that and we no longer list it on any of our
lite
products. Not like some of the competition, I might add. I think these assholes down the street are heading for a fall with their alleged
no
sugar
added
yoghurt. It’s got evaporated cane juice on the pack! Once again, folks, we do not want our soda guzzling customers to believe for a second that we’re concealing sugar.”
“Just checking,” Randy said. Like the rest of them, he was intimidated by Barney’s aggression. Ellen and Susan exchanged another surreptitious glance. They both knew the Food and Drug Administration monitored compliance by them and their competitors like a sniffer dog.
“Judy,” Barney snapped at his head of communications, who stopped scribbling and looked up. “Get me some talking points. We need a press release and some cameras.”
“Fine. But I’d suggest you call a journalist with an exclusive,” she said. “You could talk to Barbara Miles from the
New York Scrutineer
. It’s pointless asking her out to lunch, she won’t go. But she’ll drink a cocktail if we let her know you want to take shots at Kramer. She’ll get to thrash out the issues. She loves a fight.”
“You’re right. That way we don’t have to get into a shouting match with any of these hairy vegetarian bloggers in their PJs. Get Miles on the phone. One more thing,” he told her. “We put together a fact sheet on myths and reality about the so-called danger of added sugars. Think about it. Questions?”
No one spoke. “Team, that’s it. We’ve got our ducks lined up in a row. Now go out there and make some money. We’re the good guys, remember. Oh, and Luke, see you next week in LA.”
The screen went dark and the little group filed out. Barney gave everyone a high five as they left. Susan was the last to reach the door.
“Good job, Barney,” she said.
“There’s another thing,” he said, lowering his voice. “I wasn’t going to say so publicly. We are going to shut that motherfucker down. Kramer needs to go to school. I’m going to have people eating his trash. Remember Yudkin?”
Susan nodded. The late John Yudkin was a British medical scholar whose warnings had been rubbished by the sugar industry in the 1970s.
“Kramer ain’t seen nothing yet. He’ll wish he was Yudkin.”
He leaned against the table and took a breath.
“I mean, what are we supposed to do? Stick of celery in every box of cereal? Slap on a warning? Consult a doctor if your erection lasts more than four hours?”
Susan looked at her feet.
“The bottom line,” he said, “is that people are responsible for what they put in their mouths, right? Goddamned nanny state.”
He grabbed his jacket and strode out.