After Margaret Atwood and Doug Ford found themselves the public faces of the debate over Toronto’s libraries in July, each side held a contest in which a winner would get to have lunch with the novelist or the city councillor. Hoping to settle their feud, the pair agreed to have a lunch of their own. Below is a partial transcript of their meeting at a Montana’s Cookhouse in North York.

Server: Can I get you something to drink, ma’am?

Margaret Atwood: No, that’s alright. My dining companion should be making his arrival in due time. Could I trouble you for a basket of bread, though, and some butter?

Server: Sure thing! What kind of cheese do you want on that?

Atwood: Cheese? Oh, just the butter will do.

Server: Oooh. Yeah, I’ll have to check with my manager on that. Most of our bread comes pre-cheesed. I can try to pick it off for you, but to be honest? It really gets in there.

Atwood: You know, I think a glass of water will be just fine, actually.

As the server leaves, the restaurant’s front door swings open. Doug Ford walks in and pulls a photo from his wallet, studies it, then surveys the room before settling on Atwood and walking over.

Doug Ford: Marge! Thrilled you could make it. Did I keep you waiting? I tried to get here sooner but I had to explain how life-jackets work to Robbie again. Ha! Just kidding. Too cold to swim now, anyhow. But seriously, you ever go to the beach?

Atwood: Hi … Doug. Pleasure to meet you, too. Quite a place here!

Ford: Mags, you’re gonna love it. You ever go to The Keg but feel like there’s not enough junk on the walls to keep you busy? It’s great. Come here all the time.

The server returns to the table.

Server: Your water, ma’am. Would you like a menu?

Ford: No need! We’ll take a few orders of that cheesy bread, a couple of those rotisserie half-chickens, and the lady will have the juiciest rib-eye you’ve got made from the dumbest cow you can find. Ha! But seriously, no red meat for the D-Bird. You think you can handle that, Midge?

Atwood: Oh, I’m not sure I—

Ford: Here's what I wanted to talk to you about, Peg. You and your pals are really breaking my and Robbie’s backs these days over our so-called “direction.” We’re just trying to spice things up around here and we’re getting no help. Why? Because we wanted to save some cash and close some libraries nobody even remembered were there? Look, when I was a kid, I had this wooden rocking horse. Loved it. Named it Pepper. When I turned six, I lost interest in it. It sat in the garage for a few years until my mom decided to give it to our cousin, and I lost my mind. Screamed and cried, begged her not to give it away, basically made myself look like a jerk for a kid my age. She caved, I got to keep it, and then what happened? That damn thing sat in the garage for another five years gathering dust.

Atwood: All due respect, Doug, but comparing a child’s toy to buildings full of books—free books, free for anyone to read and learn from, not to mention computers and magazines and—

Ford: Besides, you know how many people go to the library to look at porno? Literally all of them. And the last time I went to one, someone was brushing their teeth in the bathroom. In public! These people are animals, Maggie. They want to wash themselves in public, they can go jump in the lake.

Atwood: Oh, but how will they be able to find it with your floating football stadium blocking the way?

Ford: Spoken like someone with no interest in coming as Hot Doug’s guest of honour to the inaugural Toronto Jaguars game! But be honest: You’re an author. It’s kind of your job to be creative. And still, I bet you can’t even imagine what that waterfront would look like.

Atwood: Well, for something so obviously incomplete, it seems awfully garish.

Ford: What is it about a football stadium, a mega-mall, a Ferris wheel and a monorail that sounds garish to you? And anyway, I’ve got plenty more ideas where those came from.

Atwood: Is that so?

Ford: Well, let’s see, just spitballing here … (pulls scrap of paper from wallet) … dolphin petting zoo.

Atwood: In the lake? I don’t think they’d survive in—

Ford: Monster truck graveyard.

Atwood: Not even sure what—

Ford: Murder zoo.

Atwood: I—

Ford: Children’s prison.

Atwood: Dear god.

Ford: World’s hottest barbecue.

Atwood: But what would—

Ford: World’s brightest T.V.

Atwood: How does that—

Ford: World’s wettest T-shirt.

Atwood: Uh huh.

Ford: A planetarium.

Atwood: See, now that’s not a bad—

Ford: … filled to the brim with rocks.

Atwood: What? Why would you build a planetarium just to fill it with rocks?

Ford: Night sky makes me nervous. Lasers are dangerous. Never liked Pink Floyd. Should I go on?

Atwood: I’d actually prefer if—

Ford: Sacred Indian burial ground and wax museum.

Atwood: Stop, please. You have to stop. Where does this come from? What do these things all add up to? Do you even have a vision for this city, Doug? And your brother is content to leave this all in your hands?

Ford: Who, Robbie? He made a list, too.

Atwood: Let me see that. “Funny haircuts … Shiny teeth … Sexy ghosts”? Wait, these are the mayor’s plans to generate revenue?

Ford: Not bad, right? Hold on, are you recording this? So help me god, if you steal my ideas for one of your dystopic nightmare novels.

Atwood: I’ll try to restrain myself, Doug. Do you know why? Because these are truly terrible and, I think, mostly illegal. You’re going to kill this city.

Ford: This is what I mean, Merv. You’re all happy to judge the big bad Ford brothers, happy to tell us what we can’t do, but never have any ideas of your own. You want to play politician? Let’s hear your brilliant suggestions.

Atwood: Well … off the top of my head, a giant community quilt could be a fun project. Maybe an open-air farmers’ market, or a botanical garden. And I think a large-scale youth centre—you know, kids’ art classes, gymnastics, floor hockey—could really make a positive impact. And a book exchange!

Ford: No offence, but for an award-winning author, you have literally the worst ideas in the entire world.

Atwood: This is a pointless exercise. The platform of empty platitudes on which your brother ran is collapsing, and we’re all going to suffer for it.

Ford: Come on, lady. How much damage do you think Robbie can do in a few years? Besides, I’ve got our escape routes planned. He’s a sweet kid, but this is my show. I’ve been in politics for a long time…

Atwood: You actually haven’t been. At all.

Ford: …and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the best thing you can do is follow a train wreck. Once I’m mayor, all I’ll have to do is show a shred of promise and I’ll be beloved.

Atwood: You? Mayor? Have you lost your mind?

Ford: You have a better idea, Monk? Vaughan? That guy spends all his free time listening to Minor Threat and designing tattoos he’ll never get. And you think the guys at the tollbooth will let Pantalone take another few months off to run again next time? Not a chance. But me? I’ve got family, I’ve got football and I’ve got politics. I’m built for this. I’m your man, whether you like it or not.

Atwood: I think I’m going to be sick.

Ford: Oh, food’s here! Hey, you think you’re going to eat all that cheesy bread?