We had wanted a quick bite to eat, and should have gone to Stanley Street, but Benno said he knew a place, so we trundled up the hill to Oxford Street instead. Betty’s Soup Kitchen had all the ambience of an old diner. Wooden tables, simple fare and a photo of old Betty herself smiling benevolently at us from the back wall.
Three photographers, plonking their cameras ostentatiously on the table, all straps and lenses, leaving little room for the food when it arrived. I put mine on the floor under my chair, placing the strap around my ankle. A habit from my travelling days.
I should have ordered something healthy, but when the other two ordered the pasta, Carbonara-envy got the better of me and I capitulated.
I should have ordered something healthy. Three sad-looking Carbonaras arrived at the table, lacking in ingredients. Pasta loosely held together with cream, there wasn’t much else there. We poured on anthills of powdery parmesan and sprinkled liberally with black pepper and savoured the odd burst of flavour from the occasional piece of shallot. The house red was fine, and a welcome antidote. The boys drank beer.
Queen Elizabeth smiled down from her glass frame too. All faded with a yellow lightshade reflected in her skirt.
Outside, the the traffic rumbled passed and on the shady side of Oxford street people rushed by, busy with their business.
We should have gone to Stanley Street.
