“That’s £12.00 please…”
We only take cash. We’re used to seeing cash. We’re not used to seeing eleventy billion Great British pounds, all at once, pulled from a trouser pocket.
The women stand a few paces back, talking among themselves. The men have ordered souvlaki. Pork souvlaki. Man food.
Eyes back in their sockets, I ask the Greek God, ‘Did you see all the money? What d’you think? Gamblers? Mafia?? Oh, God, I hope they like their food.’
The foreign men come back a minute later. Ooh ‘eck. I wonder whether we have displeased them. Do they have a gun? They stand, side by side. I am quite scared.
They look at each before one of them asks, ‘You have some napkins please?’
Crumbs. It seems even Russian oligarchs can get in a mess with tzatziki…
So. 2016 was the year I started a street food business with a Greek God.
“What made you start an enterprise like this?” asked a radio journalist type person, thrusting his microphone at me as we set up for our first big event.
I have never been interviewed before. I’m not some div though. I can be professional. Oh yes. I collected my thoughts and took a deep breath.
“Oh, God, you know that terrible time over Christmas when you’re still a bit squiffy and there’s nothing on telly and you come up with this ludicrous plan of making bloody great Greek food using awesome local ingredients and you can’t afford to open a deli but you think ‘oh yes, there are other ways to be super-foodie’ and, er…yes. Sorry, what was the question again?”
I didn’t do my Joanna Lumley voice though. Well, not much. Oh dear.
We’re doing this. And we’re planning to do it ‘real bad’ as us fartisan types say. (You don’t know ‘fartisan’? Ooh ‘eck, as they (don’t) say in Greek. Have a little look at the ‘about’ page.)