A couple of years ago, my wife and I took a trip to London’s West End on a date. We were there to watch a show and we stopped off in a small Chinese restaurant on the way for some dinner. We were quite deliberate in our choice of venue.
It was a small institution, one of many along the street of similar 10ft terraced shop fronts. Inside there was just enough space for the kitchens, a service counter, and eight or nine very small tables. Very little had been spent on internal fittings or decoration.
I don’t write this, in any shape or form, as a call for romantic sympathy, or as a means to raise funds for a charitable cause, but the truth is that people who run establishments like this do not earn very much. They work long unsociable hours, often live in cramped accommodation with young children, speak little English and rely upon help from family and friends because of the relative ruthlessness of both state and market. Because they live month to month financially, they do not experience the simple luxuries of the middle classes; like changing into a second set of ‘socialising’ clothes at the end of the working day; or being able to look far into the future and plan for pensions and healthcare in retirement.
Anyway, our scanning of the menu was interrupted by a mouth-watering chow mein style dish being brought to the table next to us. My wife and I quickly agreed that this was what we wanted, so I asked one of the staff members, who were otherwise chatting those same customers, if we could have “what they were having”.
There was some quiet discussion amongst them until the man finally turned to me with a smile and explained that he was very sorry, but that these customers were actually family friends.
I smiled.
When you graft hard to make a living, and barely have chance to breathe between servicing one customers whim in one hand, one customers complaint in another, and handling state pressures with a third, there seems a sweet smug justice in being able to enjoy something that Money Just Can’t Buy.
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