Cheers, Fagito

I remember it like it was yesterday. The greasy hair, the sweaty palms, the overwhelming l’eau de boeuf. Back then I’d begun making a name for myself as a fast food restaurateur on Cambridge’s burgeoning Mill Road scene. A young Greek boy named Aristotle came to me with a head full of hopes and dreams of starting his own gastronomic institution. With a talent for flipping burgers and a gift of the gab, he was the Thelma to my Louise. I taught him everything I could and in return he taught me the Socratic method. At some stage, an old hand has to know when to give up his business to a young buck. That was some 20 years ago, and I still shed a tear when I think how far Aristotle has come as my successor.

Oftentimes, on a cool summer’s evening, I will find myself walking down that same old road, the air pregnant with the soft laughter of girls and the fragrant aroma of sparkling Carlsberg’s. Stood outside my old establishment, I can see him stood behind those ceramic Greek tiles, a master of his domain, seamlessly shouting out orders and overtly flirting with university students. Struck by a profound sense of longing, I frequently ask myself – what would I give to trade places with this hirsute trunk of a man?

In my heart, I know that beyond these fleeting feelings, the kind so heady you could bottle them and serve them as malt vinegar with your competitively priced, late-night chips, I wouldn’t change places for the world. I’ll never forget his kindly face, the man who catered for all. Could I get some BBQ sauce on my reminiscences please?