Togethernessed

Group photo

– Baqi, come out of that dark corner and sit next to the girls, in the front. Trust me on this.

– John, put the cake down.

– Beth, I’m only going to need a quarter of you for this picture, sorry.

– Jamal – sorry – Jordan, I’m gonna cut you in the wrong places and I’ll do just the exact same to Tcsabi, Kate and Dori. Luv you though, guys!

– Amy, stop chuckling and look at the camera!

– Jon the Chef, you’re amazing, but we won’t see your face because of Amy’s.

– The same goes for you, Dave.

– Georgia, thank you for letting me hug you. I know how hard it must have been.

– All right, we’re ready! On the count of three, everybody say “allergies”! 

One, two, three…

Some say it’s just another diner that serves burgers and chips, average tasting prosecco but out-of-this-world tasty December-only Turkey Hash, a restaurant where there are never enough portions of burnt cauliflower, a great option for an early breakfast before work, that place with a really strange name, not enough toilets and a pun intended wi-fi password, one of the best week-end brunch organizers in London right next to Notes, the place that serves the best Cappuccino I’ve ever had.

The fact of the matter is Bad Egg is many, many more things, as I’ve come to realize…

This little retro-hypsterish American diner in Moorgate ran by an extremely Irish woman who we oftentimes forget is only twenty-something, just because she is so grounded and mature and responsible is almost hidden from the eyes, throats and nostrils of those who don’t know the Barbican area very well.

The more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that there’s life, love, happiness inside the walls and miracles are hidden in the darkest, filthiest, most unexpected corners and I’m sure that the floors and ceiling breathe at a slow rhythm, reminding us to breathe along and be exactly who we are and live life in the here and now, because that’s all we get. I’m telling you, the whole place is magical, as it seems to know exactly what each of us needs. The rest is up to us.

First thing I felt when I pulled the heavy, heavy entrance doors on the day of the interview, in September, was this energy of love and joyfulness, even though the place was almost empty. It felt warm and cozy and like something amazing was about to happen. In a way, it felt like home and I’ve never said that about any of my previous work places. There was something really special about Bad Egg, I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Something unseen was floating through the air. It was a bit dark, but all the elements of a space I could easily see myself become a part of were all there.

I mean, they had me at “diner”, for God’s sake! It was a diner just like in the movies, except there were no jukeboxes or pool tables. An American diner that could be placed anywhere between the 50’s and the 90’s, all brown and burgundy, with booths and wooden floors, red neon signs flashing and a small bar where the most beautiful woman I had ever seen – a Slowakian goddess, blonde-pink hair, blue eyes, tattoos on her arms, freckles, perfectly shaped lips, elegant fingers, white skin – was polishing glasses and making it look darn sexy. I was hypnotized. I couldn’t wait to ask her to pose for me once we’d better acquainted, so she wouldn’t think I was a freak right through the middle of our first conversation.

I went up to her and she smelled like roses mixed with something else, something sweet. She later told me that was an Issay Miyake perfume her ex had given her. She looked very young and her friendliness astounded me. A gorgeous girl like that would almost never be friendly, she’d usually take her gorgeous self a little too seriously, be moody and even look down on others whilst overestimating her worth. But not her. She kept polishing and smiling at me as she was telling me how the place worked. There was something very childish about the way she talked and her english was less than perfect, but it suited her. Everything about her was beautiful. I could have stayed there for hours just listening to her talk about rude and cheap customers.

But then the manager showed up and she was this skinny, blonde, short haired woman with a beautiful wide smile and perfectly alligned teeth and an almost incomprehensible Irish accent. She too was friendly and I felt like she looked exactly as I had imagined her to be on the phone, during our conversations. We sat somewhere in the back, spoke about everything and it just felt right. It didn’t feel like an interview at all, nor did I feel like I should make up qualities and stories about myself just to put myself in a good light – I simply allowed myself to be vulnerable and exposed – I was either supposed to work there or not, so why force anything? In all honesty, truths that were not so flattering kept popping out of me before I was able to censor them or at least wrap them in nice paper, which surprised the hell out of me, but fortunately, she thought was refreshing.

Needless to say I got the job.

And that was the beginning of everything, nothing has been the same since I got to meet the team: Rachel, Jon, Georgia, Adam, Beth, Kate, Lucy, Linda, Tash, Baqi, Vita, Abe, Ben, the other Jon, Timmy, George, Ryan, Jordan, Wilson and Baba, for they have all taught me something.

Sometimes, when I am on my way to work from Liverpool Station, I take a few moments to prepare myself for a scenario where I get in front of the heavy, heavy entrance doors and find that they open up quite easily, which is surprising, so I take a look around. It seems like Bad Egg is no longer there, like it has never really been there. “What’s going on, where is Bad Egg? Where are the guys, Jon and Ben and Timmy?” I scream as I look up, at the neon light with the name of another restaurant ” Gniocchi per gli occhi”, which doesn’t make any sense at all. It was me who closed yesterday and everything was in place. Why hasn’t anyone told me about this? And where is everyone? “There’s never been a Bad Egg here”, says a security officer, as he approaches me from the left. This Italian place has been here for five years, we all know the owner, a nice Italian gentleman who sometimes gives us 70% off food and coffees. Maybe you’re on the wrong street. But I know this area well and I’ve never heard of this Bad Egg you’re talking about”.

Should this ever happen, call a medium and tell them to immediately get in contact with Rod Serling, for I’m definitely in the Twilight Zone.

But until then, I’ll keep on expanding, learning new things and finding new meanings to the things that are happening to us behind the heavy, heavy entrance doors.

We are Bad Egg.

Come see us sometimes.

Green Eyed Kisses,