It's not often that an inner-city restaurant in the West Midlands makes international headlines, but that's what happened with the Pappu Sweet Centre last week, after a court in Wolverhampton heard that its owner, 45-year-old Jaswinder Singh, had been found preparing kebabs just feet away from a dead man lying on a sofa.

According to one account, from the Press Association, Singh was discovered cooking opposite the corpse after police were called to the food outlet on August 27 to investigate the sudden death of a worker. Apparently, during a health inspection, a dead rat had been spotted under a cooking pot, as well as mouldy food, flies, rat droppings and “employees smoking and spitting on the floor within food areas”.

I was e-mailed no fewer than four versions of the story, which isn't a surprise, I suppose, given that (1) the restaurant made the eateries in Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares show look like Claridge's; (2) the story tapped into the morbid fear we all entertain, that the indeterminate meat in doner kebabs is actually composed of rat meat or human flesh; and (3) Singh resides in the street where I grew up.

However, the more I read about the restaurant, the less I felt I knew about what actually happened. What, for instance, did the Daily Mirror mean when it reported that “ingredients were being kept in fridges running at more than 20C (68F)”. How can a fridge be said to be “running” at that kind of temperature? The technical term for such a contraption is “broken”. Or, in winter, “grill”.

Also, what did the BBC mean when it reported that “during an earlier visit, officers ... found a dead rat underneath a cooking pot which had just been laid against a wall to dry”. Had the pot been laid against a wall to dry? Or the dead rat?

Other mysteries: What did Singh's employee die of? Had he had a kebab? Did Singh know he was dead? If so, how long had he been dead for? Some reports said that Singh was “cooking” kebabs opposite the body, while others said he was “preparing” them. Which was it? What kind of kebabs were they? All these details make a difference. Doner, for example, seems much worse than shish. And when District Judge Martin Brown remarked that “the facts in this case are ... about as grave as one might get”, was he trying to be funny?

Indeed, I couldn't shake off the suspicion that in the rush to print headlines such as “Goner Kebab” (The Sun), many essential facts had been omitted. And surely Singh deserved a little credit for toiling in the face of adversity. After all, he was only exhibiting the great Asian work ethic that, in normal circumstances, is admired.

I was eager to redress the balance and get to the bottom of what actually happened, but discovering that the court had fined Singh and banned him from managing a food business, there seemed little point. So instead, reading that the restaurant was “under new management”, I decided to help the new owners out with some free crisis-management advice. And this is why, the other afternoon, I took my good friend Lachlan to the Pappu Sweet Centre for a slap-up meal.

Of course, I use the word “slap-up” here in the sense of “I had to stop Lachlan slapping me when I drove him there against his will”. And I use “good friend” in the sense of “I hope we'll be speaking again soon”. And I use the word “meal” in the sense of “we saw the food sweating behind the glass counter, clocked the vat of curry lying on the floor, lost our appetites and ordered two cups of tea instead”.

But we stayed long enough to suss things out, and I can now proffer the management of this fine institution three professional business tips, the first of which is: change your name, for goodness' sake.

That is not to suggest that rebranding is a good thing, in general. PwC's effort to change its name to Monday and Royal Mail's conversion to Consignia, and subsequent change of mind, were disastrous. But when the name of your business immediately brings to mind images of rat droppings, human corpses and Asian men gobbing on the floor, it is time to move on. Incredibly, the Pappu Sweet Centre doesn't even have an “Under new management” sign up. Get on to it, guys.

Tip two: specialise. I know it's not unusual for Punjabi catering companies to sell savoury dishes alongside Indian sweets. However, the combination of the words “kebabs” and “sweets” sounds inherently dodgy to Western ears, as jarring as the combination of the phrases “Cliff Richard” and “Radio 1”, or “West Bromwich Albion” and “Premiership”. Choose one or the other.

Tip three: sort out your interior decor. I do, of course, understand the logic of plastering walls with food-safety certificates, but all that the five notices really do is remind customers of your recent troubles, and passing a food-safety check is hardly a marketing opportunity.

I also understand the urge to put up militaristic posters. We Sikhs are a proud warrior race and many of the pictures are religious. But is the photograph of that chubby Asian chap sporting a machinegun really necessary? I couldn't work out who he was — the eponymous Pappu perhaps? — but it added an unnecessary element of menace to the dining experience. Some kind of Monet print would be preferable.

And then there's the tricky problem of all those charity donation certificates. I am truly delighted that the restaurant is an enthusiastic supporter of a charity for disabled children. I encourage Times readers to follow its example and donate generously to it. However, given the Pappu Sweet Centre's recent problems with rodents, I can't help fearing that its preferred good cause — The House of Mouse Trust — is a tad unfortunate.

Sathnam@thetimes.co.uk

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