Читать книгу Spooning with Rosie - Rosie Lovell - Страница 5

Another late night in Soho at the New Evaristo Club. Now, as usual, my alarm is pounding at me, calling me to the deli. Showered and squeezed into trusty jeans, I dash out of the door of my damp 1930s flat. Round on the main road I pass Simon, one of the more amenable local down-and-outs. ‘All right, Ma’am.’ He’ll be in later for his hot chocolate with five sugars. I nip into the Portuguese deli to pick up fresh rocket for the shop, and then into the Iraqi supermarket to buy free-range eggs for the scrambling rush later. Electric Avenue is particularly alive at this time of the morning, with sex workers, red snappers, pig’s tails and pulsing beats coming from every crevice. The fishmongers holler at me and, laden with my shopping, I nod my good-mornings to market traders and road sweeps.

Arriving at the deli, I fling the door wide open, turn the fans on and get The View playing, to beat out my tired head. Pastry out of the fridge for rolling, cakes onto the stands, tables and chairs outside, oven on, flick lights. The daily cheese and bread deliveries arrive – Sardinian Pecorino, Taleggio, Mrs Kirkham’s Lancashire, Hereford Hop, sourdough, rye, ciabatta – just as I’m making myself a double-shot cappuccino to drink in the last bit of peace on my doorstep.

Brixtonians rush past on their way to the tube, with cheery waves. My moment is broken by the first telephone call of the morning – Alice. ‘What shall I cook for my date tonight?’ (She’s excited, so I’m thinking risotto with black pudding and ice cream drowned in espresso.) By this point I’m juggling, squeezing lemons for the daily batch of houmous with the phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek. My first early customers, the loyal Bharat and superwoman Kylie Morris, arrive, armed with newspapers and requesting their morning soya lattes.

As I steam their milk, I’m mulling over what salad to make this morning. Vietnamese carrot and peanuts, nutty brown rice with seeds, or couscous with mint and feta? And as they eat their toast with mackerel pâté, I’m wondering what will soothe my weariness tonight. Baked polenta, beans on toast or boquerones? Mum is calling. Have I got time to pick up the phone before the next customers descend? ‘Oh darling, you’ll never guess what we had for supper last night…’ Asparagus from her garden. The day is truly in swing now. I’m navigating cooking, serving breakfasts and all the usual flurry of telephone calls, Daddy’s usual herbal tea and the ordering, when I drop my ciabatta…a curly-haired boy has just ambled in…And how shall I woo you with my wares?