Daniel Does Lunch

His mobile trilled as he crossed the foyer. He glanced at its tiny screen. Mira. He touched a button.
'Yes ?'
Although the phone turned everyone's voice metallic it couldn't counterfeit the raw steel in Mira's tone.
'It's me. I know today's special, sweetie, but something's come up. Can we do dinner instead ? We could go to Marco's. I'll book.'
He paused to keep the disappointment from his voice.
She became impatient, insistent.
'Daniel... Daniel.'
'Ok, Mira... dinner then.'
'I'll ring you when I've booked. Bye sweetie.'

She was gone, the signal dead before he could say goodbye. He could see her, already on the way out of her office on the way to whatever had come up. There was an advert exactly like it. A meeting that couldn't happen without her. She would rush in, a fan of papers under her arm, apologising for her unavoidable lateness, toss her hair back, smile around the table and everyone would be glad she was there. He wished she was here.

He pocketed the mobile and wondered what he should do now. Too late to join the office crowd at the pub and anyway, he didn't want their birthday greetings; silly string and sillier gags, too much beer and a hangover before dinner. He had failed to keep his birthday secret from them; one of the secretaries had e-mailed them all. On his desk lay the collection of chocolate willies, joke Viagra and foil balloons with 'Stud' and 'Big-Boy' in red letters that had been their response. His was an office of energetic executives, the cream of his generation. He was amazed at their childishness.

No point in sulking, he thought to himself, what's wrong with childishness anyway? He had loved being a child, especially birthdays. His mother had a birthday scheme for all four of them; on your birthday you chose the meal, no matter what it was, and everyone ate it. His sister, Ruth, had once chosen jelly baby sandwiches and Lucozade and they had all dutifully scoffed them, but he always chose something he knew they liked as well. When he thought about it, he had never actually chosen the meal that he wanted. 'Always pleasing others...' His mother had said. Had it been entirely a compliment?

He knew what to do then. He walked towards the river and the taxi ranks and found the place he wanted by smell. Frying onions. Sam's Caff. Menu and prices on a dusty blackboard propped up in the window beside a picture of a plate of steaming fish and chips. Wilting petunias in a window box struggling under a tiling of ketchup-smeared polystyrene trays. A greasy cat, lurking by the bin and its tumbled contents, smirked at Daniel, one paw trapping a paper flecked with chip-ends.

'Hello, Puss.' He offered a hand.
The cat arched and hissed at him, the claws of its free paw clenching on the concrete with a rasping sound, the other firmly fixed on its lunch. Daniel smiled.
'I'll get my own, shall I ?' he said as he passed the cat and went through the open door.
A veil of cigarette smoke floated across the formica tables and bentwood chairs. At the counter a glass cabinet was stacked with white rolls, pies and pasties; an urn steamed relentlessly beside it. A large pan of oily onion slices writhed on a hot plate next to another with pale orange beans. A spotted youth swathed in dirty whites stood wielding a soup-coated ladle. He looked hard at Daniel wondering who he was and what his business was. Daniel looked at the youth then at the blackboard behind him.

Burgers'n Chips.
Sausage'n Chips.
Hot Dog's n Chips.
Backon Butty.
Sam's Home-Made Soup.
Rolls (ask for filings)
Scribbled in less careful letters at the bottom was;
Vegetarian: Cheese (sorry no fish today)
squeezed out of blackboard space by;
Today's Choise: Curry'n Chips or in a Roll.

Daniel considered carefully exactly what he wanted. Having realised that Daniel was reading the menu, the youth's mouth hung open in dread. Was he from the Environmental? Health & Safety (better not let him see the bacon and everything-else slicer). He stood in front of the offending machine.

'What kind of burgers are they ?' Daniel asked.
The youth stared at him.
'What's in the burgers ?' Daniel repeated.
'Meat' the youth offered.
'What kind of meat ? Are they beef or ham ? Daniel expanded.
'Mince.' The youth picked up a raw burger and looked at it, offering it to Daniel to inspect. 'Mince,' he repeated.
Daniel looked at it. His mouth watered.
'Fine. I'll have a burger in a roll with onions, baked beans and chips. And a large cup of tea.' Daniel felt so hungry. 'Just a minute, what is the soup today ?' The youth looked surprised, then mightily relieved.
'Same as every day. Mixed Vegetable.' He waved the ladle at Daniel then dipped it deeply into a pan and stirred up a waft of hot soup.
'And it's home made ?' Daniel asked.
'Yeh, I make it in the morning. Mix the powder with the water. No lumps. Don't let it boil. Sam showed me. No tins.' The youth said proudly.
'Fine, I'll have the soup too then.' Daniel beamed, all thoughts of consommé and gazpatchio dispatched.
'Mug or a bowl ?' the youth was in his stride.
'Mug please, and a roll.' So was Daniel.
'I've got croutons.' The youth confessed.

Daniel was taken aback. The youth rummaged in a bowl by the hob. He palmed a handful of bread squares and showed them to Daniel.
'I could put herbs on them.' He shook a canister at Daniel.
'Oh, croutons... no, I'd prefer the roll, thanks.' He said cheerfully.
'Do you want your tea while you wait ?' The youth asked.
'Yes, that would be good.' Daniel looked round and saw that table by the window was empty. Its red gingham oilskin hung at an angle but the red plastic sauce tomato, the yellow plastic mustard seed and the HP Sauce bottle were there. Glass pepper and salts and brown vinegar completed the set. The youth pushed a mug of dark brown tea across the counter and pointed to a large bowl of crusty white sugar on the counter.

'Help yourself.'
He indicated a mug full of spoons beside it. He turned away and began to assemble Daniel's lunch, oiling the hotplate, immersing the hissing chips, wiping a smear of margarine across the inside of a roll. Daniel stirred two large spoonfuls of sugar into the tea and made his way to the table. If the occupants of the other tables thought him an odd customer they hardly lifted their heads to acknowledge him. He stared out of the window, sipping the scalding liquid and watching the cat still scavenging around the bin. The youth appeared beside him holding a steaming mug in one hand and a plate with a roll in the other. Out of his top pocket he pulled a spoon in a paper serviette.

'Mind it's hot,' he warned.
Daniel suddenly thought of his last visit to Marco's and the waiter who had brought scarcely warm soup, Flageolet Bean & Leek Potage. Inedible. His name on his apron (Marco's whim) was Aaron. Supercilious prat.
'It's supposed to be served warm, sir.'
That slight emphasis; that emphatic sneer.
'What's your name?' Daniel asked. The youth stared at him. Daniel smiled.
'Billy.' He wasn't keen. He still suspected an official.
'Thank you, Billy. It smells very good.' Daniel said, tucking the paper serviette under his chin.
'I'll fix your chips,' Billy said, moving away.

Daniel sipped the salty soup with pleasure. Something in the taste spoke of bacon ends but the hot rich mixture of vegetables and flavourings, coating the bread lumps he dipped into it, restored to him of a well-being he hadn't felt for years. He thought of a Japanese businessman he'd lunched with a week before who had carried a small sprinkler of white powder to the table, which he poured over each expensive course. Eyebrows had been raised. He had laughed.
'Monosodium glutomate! Your food, to me, tastes of nothing.'

He discovered tears in his eyes and thought it was the heat of the soup. Billy was back just as he finished with a plate brimming with hot thick chips and a roll stuffed with bubbling burger and a frill of oily onions pouring over the side. A pool of beans curved round the roll, damping its bottom.
Daniel sighed deeply. He sniffed.
'Is it OK ?' Billy asked, confident it was.
'Mmmm... Smells lovely.' Daniel confirmed.

He picked up the ketchup tomato and up-ended it, then squeezed and directed the sauce in graffiti streaks all over the chips. Then he raised the lid of the roll and poured a thick teardrop of brown mucous sauce onto the burger. He squashed down the lid until the sauce oozed from the side. He shook (not drizzled... oh, Marco) brown malt vinegar, then salt over the plateful and carefully unwrapped the large knife and fork from its serviette...


* * * * *


'Did you do lunch, sweetie ?'
'Yes.'
'Anywhere I know ?'
'Don't think so.'
'What did you have.?'
'Birthday meal.'
'What's that then, sweetie ?'
'Oh, beef... onions... haricots... batons... bread.'
'Sounds refreshingly rustic... French, was it ?'
'No... Anglo Saxon if anything.'
'Oh... you must take me some time, darling... are you ready ? Marco is cooling a superb Vichysoisse for your birthday... specially. Come here and let me kiss you. Happy Birthday, my darling.'


Vivien Jones

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