Page 76 of Too Busy for Love

‘It’s a free country,’ he replies and disappears back into the kitchen.

‘You’ll need to order something if you’re going to take up a table,’ the man behind the counter tells me, obviously enjoying my discomfort.

‘OK,’ I reply. ‘What’s good?’

‘The Olympic all-day breakfast is our most popular.’

‘I’ll have one of those then.’

‘Grand. Tea or coffee?’

‘I don’t suppose there’s any chance of a flat white?’

‘No. Tea or coffee?’

‘Tea please.’

‘White or brown toast?’

‘I don’t need toast.’

‘It comes with the breakfast.’

‘Fine. Brown please.’

‘Great. Grab a seat and I’ll get that on for you.’

‘I’m just going to nip out and pay the cab driver first, OK?’

‘I’ll need to take payment if you’re stepping outside. Company policy.’

‘Listen,’ I tell him forcefully. ‘I’ve been up since God knows when. It’s taken two trains, an aeroplane and a taxi to get here, just to talk to your mate Andy. Do you seriously think I’m going to do a runner to get out of paying for, how much is the breakfast?’

‘Ten ninety-nine, and your life story doesn’t change company policy. Card or cash?’

I hand over my card with a growl and, after settling up with the taxi driver, take a seat at one of the vacant tables. A few minutes pass before the guy from behind the counter saunters over with a steaming mug of tea and some cutlery. From the ambience of the place, I’m expecting something with the vague flavour of dishwater, but this is surprisingly good. It’s proper builders’ tea: strong and milky. John would approve, I decide. He’d also doubtless approve of the Olympic all-day breakfast, although I’m overwhelmed by the sheer size of it. Everything seems to be doubled; there are two eggs, two sausages, two rashers of bacon, two hash browns, two grilled tomatoes, two slices of black pudding, a small lake of baked beans and a pile of button mushrooms all crammed onto an enormous plate. I’d struggle to eat half of this in normal circumstances; with my anxiety about what to say to Jock affecting my appetite, I doubt I’ll manage a quarter. Things go from bad to worse when the server brings another plate with four slices of thickly buttered brown toast. Just looking at all this food is making me feel queasy.

Remembering Jock’s words about using the carbs to soak up the egg, I cut a corner off one of the hash browns and pierce one of the yolks with it. It’s comfort food of the first order, and I follow it up with a bit of sausage. This proves to be a mistake; the sausage is well cooked, but obviously cheap as the filling is fatty and flavourless. I add a little brown sauce, mixing it with some beans and a bit of bacon. That’s much better. The baconis cooked just right; the fat is rendered without the meat being charred to a crisp. In the end, I manage nearly a third of the breakfast before pushing the plate away in defeat.

‘Was the breakfast not to your taste?’ the man from behind the counter asks as he clears away my plate.

‘It was lovely,’ I tell him. ‘There was just rather a lot of it.’

‘You didn’t touch your toast.’ He sounds mildly affronted, as if I’ve insulted him personally in some way.

‘I did tell you I didn’t want it,’ I explain.

‘No alterations to the menu items,’ he states firmly. ‘Company policy.’

‘I see. Tell me, who sets the policy?’

‘I do. I’m Gregory, the owner.’

‘Right. Don’t you think a little flexibility might have served you well here, Gregory? I mean, I told you I didn’t want the toast but, because of your inflexible policy, you’re now going to have to throw it away when you could have saved yourself some money by simply not serving it in the first place.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

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