The Dish on Jan Wong

Is she really the Queen of Mean?
The Globe and Mail's catty columnist goes to lunch and shows she can be as gentle as a kitten.

Second thoughts. I'm consumed with second thoughts, not to mention mangled nerves, moments before greeting Jan Wong, BA'74, at Montreal's Zen restaurant. Who can blame me? This isn't just any lunch date I'm having at 12:15 sharp. My culinary rendezvous is with the Jan Wong, a reporter who's typed her way to fame as The Globe and Mail's "Lunch With" columnist, chatting up celebrities and roasting them in print.

Upon the news that I was turning the tables on the Lioness of Lunch, that I would interview Wong over a midday meal, friends suggested temporary insanity had set in. "Jan Wong will flay you to pieces," one friend warned.

As an avid reader of her five-year-old column, I've witnessed how Wong routinely deconstructs subjects. Agreeing to our tête-à-tête by phone, Wong even describes her column as "naked lunch." Translation? She writes frills-free portraits and includes gossipy tidbits no other journalist has the gall to share.

"She's remarkable," says Jay Bryan, a no-nonsense business columnist at the Montreal Gazette, who's known Wong for two decades. "She reinvented celebrity journalism."

Others aren't so kind. National Post columnist Robert Fulford recently wrote: "A Jan Wong interview has all the charm of a train wreck, complete with the moaning survivors." British novelist Lord Jeffrey Archer and Canadian fashion mogul Peter Nygard both threatened to sue after encounters with Wong. Others hurled insults. Yet her phone continues to ring and people are still eager to lunch with her. As I am.

Some Table Tidbits on the Lunched With Dr. Ruth Westheimer The world's leading sexpert is actually a prude in silk clothing. "I have always been old-fashioned and a square." For a square, she has had (another recommendation) sex in the back of a car. "And yes, it was good. That's because I'm short."

Charmed by Wong's cheerful disposition, my doubts about our meeting are instantly eradicated, save one. I regret Zen doesn't serve shark. The dish seems so apropos when Wong explains how food and restaurants play a critical role in her columns. "Almost like a third person," she says.

Too late. We settle for chi-chi Szechuan as planned. Though it turns out to be a good choice: Wong is much like the sweet and sour soup we're about to consume.

Let's start with the sweet. At 48, Wong radiates sweetness. Forget the rumoured fangs, Wong is all smiles. She speaks with a soothing, girlish voice that belies her age, as does her wrinkle-free complexion.

Today, she's tucked her five-foot-three frame into a black turtleneck and she's loaded with layers of fake pearls. A jet-black square cut, wire-rim glasses and an aura of self-confidence complete the Wong ensemble.

After 25 years of marriage to husband Norman, a computer programmer, and bearing two boys -- Ben, who is 10, and Sam, who is 7 -- Wong still wears a size 10 or 12. "Which is average for my size," she says. She then mocks her figure by confiding she wears "elasticized" pants for comfort. "I'm getting kinda fat," she chuckles. "I don't really watch what I eat."

At this lunch, though, she carefully watches what I'm eating. She insists on ordering twin meals, so we choose the same dim sum platter. By the time our second course of fried goodies arrives, I realize eating and taking notes simultaneously ain't easy. I've already spilled soup on my pants and I'm aching to eat with my fingers. I inquire how Wong manages the task every week. "I hold my fork and my pen at the same time," she says, demonstrating her sleight of hand.

Wong then coos that table mishaps are good for interviews. "What you want is for your lunch date to relax," she says, crunching into an imperial roll. "If you're a total klutz, they laugh; they think you're not threatening and they let their guard down." All the better, she adds, "to peel away the layers."

	Margaret Trudeau "We had a bit of a sad week because my Visa bill came in, and [then husband] Fried got to it before I could hide it," she says, her voice suddenly a baby-doll simper. "He's so shocked at how expensive Christmas is. Aren't we all? But with Martha Stewart hanging over us, a little plastic wreath on the door does not work."

Anyone who sits across from Wong had best be prepared for a complete undressing. She refuses to pad celebrity egos with puffery, which to some, sours the Wong experience.

"If I were a lightweight entertainment figure, I would be terrified of being interviewed by Jan," says John Saunders, a Globe and Mail news reporter who's been a Wong friend for 20 years.

So why does Wong instill such fear? According to Sondra Gotlieb, a National Post columnist recently profiled by Wong, her fellow scribe is simply a mean writer. The two women met following Gotlieb's exhaustive testimonials on getting a facelift. Wong reported the surgery results weren't that flattering and related how Gotlieb often excused herself to go "wee-wee."

"(Wong) does her best to airbrush anything positive about the interviewee," Gotlieb retaliated in a subsequent column. "She excels in the dehumanization of the other."

To Gotlieb's further plea that Wong "be nice to old ladies," she responds, "If a woman like Gotlieb, who's in her sixties, says she's got to go wee-wee, I'm going to write about that. It shows how she talks."