I spent the first 5 months of this year operating B&B from a cosy pub in Soho, which included the use of a kitchen, a small windowless kitchen (we’d called it the ‘panic room’), but a kitchen nonetheless.
Yes it was small, with bad lighting, but it had everything we needed in one place; storage, refrigeration, decent cooking equipment, and all within reach of the bar, and just around the corner from the Pink Chihuahua, our favorite late night haunt.
Now, as I return to the world of Street Food and in preparation for this weekend’s markets (Street Feast & Harringay), I long for that little cell like kitchen. As my car fills to the ceiling with equipment and boxes, I swoon at the memories of the Queens Head; as my tiny home kitchen is overtaken by vats of pickled cabbage, pots of mustard and as the fridge bulges with a cow’s worth of salt beef my own food is relegated to fester in the heat along side the tins of cat food as it makes way for this bovine invasion.
My stairwell is blocked with more ‘Stuff’ that is queuing up ready to force its way into the car which now looks like a refugee fleeing from a war torn catering event. It’s a battle of Space vs Stuff and Stuff is going for Gold.
So as I venture back onto the streets, wrestling with teetering towers of tupperware, I constantly ask myself: “what the hell am I doing with my life?” My life is ridiculous, but if it means not having to work for someone else, then it suits me just fine.
(I could do with a cleaner though).