I arrived in London on Tuesday for a meeting with Auntie Beeb. A British institution. Like a cup of tea or Winston Churchill but available on demand. For the next seven days. Thirty if you download.
After a delayed flight and cramped train journey in from Stansted, I arrived at Liverpool Street station at around 12.30, slightly bedraggled from the heat and absolutely starving. Never one for functioning on an empty stomach, I decided I should seek out some lunch before continuing my onward journey to the west of the city.
Last summer, a few of us went to see Metallica at Wembley and had a storming cooked breakfast in a wee greasy spoon cafe just across the road from Liverpool Street Station. After 10 minutes wandering around looking for the place (Liverpool Street seems to have many similar looking exits), I eventually found it.
The one thing about this cafe which had stuck in my mind was the wee Scottish waiter who served us. In his 60’s, he adopted the standard conversation path for all Scotsmen abroad which was to furnish us with information on where to buy the cheapest pint. In his case, the cheapest half pint and nip. (A wee pub in Bethnal Green in case you are interested).
Sure enough, he was still there and took my order for sausage, egg and chips. I pondered a baguette but then hastily reminded myself that it was a greasy spoon cafe and not the done thing. The sausage, egg and chips arrived and to my disappointment there was only one sausage. I made said gent aware of this fact and he trotted off to “see whit he could dae”.
He returned a few minutes later and tipped an extra sausage onto my plate.
“Cheers mate” I said.
“Anything for a Scotsman” he replied.
Makes ye proud.
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