Bridge Street.

Around The World.

George opens the restaurant door, the first thing we notice is the smell of fresh coffee, walking inside.

"Morning, I will take a cup; please, make sure you sprinkle chocolate over the top," George says while walking through the entrance.

The kitchen porter is from the Czech Republic, and he has dreadlocks that go down to his lower back, dressed in light blue jeans with a white t-shirt on, with a couple of holes in. His name is Andrej.

Andrej looks back, smiling at George, while the coffee pours out into a white cup beneath. "Yeah man sure. Chef is in the back, rolling."

Now you shouldn't judge a man by the way he looks, but you would be right if you thought he's a stoner, to the point a couple of the funny fags filled with the devil's lettuce don't do much to him anymore. George carries on, walking past rows of tables with chairs tucked underneath.

"Happy days mate, don't forget two sugars, please."

George is walking to the back bit where more booths are, salt alongside pepper grinders, with a big bottle of chilli oil sits, huddled on top in the middle of the tables, along with a steak knife next to a fork, sitting on top of a folded white napkin either side of the tables. Jamaican dancehall music is playing from a portable speaker in the kitchen. He pokes his head in to see where the head chef is but can't see anyone, just a grey mobile speaker on top of a white chest freezer, silver shelving above that has pizza plates on. He carries on walking past some tattered framed mirrors which are on the wall for decoration, also a massive clock is on one of the walls with two hands, like a person on JSA (Job Seekers Allowance) they don't work. He pulls open the glass door to the outside of the restaurant, which has dark wooden decking with plastic dark grey tables because the weather is not the sunniest. He opens a golden brown garden gate to his left side.

The Czech Republican head chef is rolling a long cigarette on the table, I say with a wink. There are some crystal green buds in a baggy beside the black and gold revolver cylinder grinder. In the corner beside the restaurant's green bins, there is a building behind, with windows equally separated, if you look over the bricked wall, a massive drop to the building's underground car park with a delver metal retractable door. There is a plastic tub on the table, a couple of darts inside, and dirty coffee cups beside the tub on the grey garden table.

George asks, "Yo bratr od jiné matky, co se děje?"

In English, he said, "Yo brother from a different mother, what's happening?"

The head chef looks surprised while bumping fists with George, that is now unwrapping his box of smokes, to flip two over out of superstition; it is supposed to be good luck; when they did ten, it would be one for ten, two for twenty.

The chef is a skinny guy with black hair also dark eyes, and he is in his mid-thirties, clean shaven today; he usually lets it grow a little.

The head chef responds, "I will reply in English because if I say in Czech, you won't understand, but not bad though considering your accent bratr."

George flicks his red lighter, and a flame exits to spark his cigarette; he puts the packet alongside the lighter back in his pocket while the head chef licks the rolling paper, while smoke leaves George's mouth.

He responds, "Yeah, Jackson has been teaching me, bro, fuck I was saying this all of last night, so I didn't forget."

Now Jackson is someone you will meet later, mate; he is the head chef younger bratr (Brother). He is a funny guy and also a fucking hard worker; he is a good chef, just a brilliant guy to be around, with positive vibes all the time, never gets stressed.