Every evening, right on the dot, a lad shuffled past a posh eatery in London. Never a request slipped his lips. Never a peep out of him. He’d just freeze at the window. Staring at the fancy plates, gleaming cutlery, people giggling between forkfuls. Then off he’d toddle… busted backpack slumping behind him, tummy rumbling like an empty drum. 🎒🥺
One night, the chef clocked him from inside. Leaned over to the waiter: “Next time you spot that nipper, fetch him for a chinwag.”
Next evening, the boy shuffled up same as ever. Before he could scarper, the chef popped out like a jack-in-the-box. “Feeling peckish?” The lad nodded, mute as a fish. “Fancy learning to cook?” His eyes ballooned like Yorkshire puddings. And just like that, the whole caper started. 🍽️👨🍳
The chef slung him a grubby apron. Gave him a corner of the kitchen to scrub pans, peel spuds, and sniff smells he’d never dreamed of—parsley! paprika! Proper wizardry. No wages changed hands. Just lessons. Practice.
Bit by bit, the boy cracked it: dicing onions without waterworks, whisking eggs like a drum solo, waiting for stews without twitching. He learnt to shove his whole heart into a shepherd’s pie. Years trundled past. 🧄🍳
Today, that lad’s Simon Davies. Twenty-four. Head chef at that very spot where he once gawped from the pavement. Every Tuesday, the menu flaunts a special: “Window Gazing Memories”. A simple nosh made from stuff he ate as a kid—beans, toast, a wink of hope.
Whenever someone orders it, Simon grins ear-to-ear: “That one’s got a secret ingredient, see? Hunger… for flipping life’s script.”
