We are obsessed with food, ticking boxes when it comes to Michelin this, Michelin that, quick to praise the local produce shop (when did ‘food’ become ‘produce’ I’ll never know) over the mass-market superstore, venturing upon European city breaks with our trusty Time Out guides that warn of the unpalatable. Blogs of the latest openings, the next ‘in’ place for us to adore, are probably the most popular of all the themes in the blogs-sphere. Nothing can be more satisfying than being the first to know, the leader of your solitary Friday night group with the ability to calm their hungry whines: ‘I know the place!’ Here’s one restaurant that’s totally off the radar.
It’s open air. And in it’s on a lovely London square. And people flock here by the dozen, particularly in the evening when the dinner gong goes. You’d be hard placed to find a better located soup kitchen.
The morning provides the detritus. Someone has thoughtfully placed some of the scraps in a box for the rubbish man to collect. This is food in all its honesty. Not award-winning, more survival–fitting. And here being discriminated against is the only acceptance to a queue that starts forming every evening, a silhouette of the desperate and the lonely, the badly dressed and the poorly styled, who have one thing in common. Hunger.
Ironically, the square is surrounded by plush offices, the Silversmiths are practically next door, and don’t forget the law – how could you forget the law. The remains of the day. Or should it be the remains of the evening. The square is deserted, the homeless flung from our minds perhaps just the way we would like them to be.