Salt Beef on Rye

A tiny passage from my maybe novel.

In honour of being back in London, where the rain is pouring down and the prices are shooting up, I thought to share this mini excerpt with you. Some of you may remember Dylan from one of my first ever Sunday Substacks back in January: Dylan, an introduction. In this particular scene his preoccupation is not so much music as it is food. (A reflection of where I’m at this week?) Let me know if it tickles your taste buds. Maybe I’ll share more of Dylan (and other characters) with you soon…

---

Without an exact destination in mind Dylan walked to Southwark station and took the Jubilee Line up to Bond Street. It was unbearably hot and stuffy under ground. The announcements were reminding people to carry a bottle of water on their journey; London was not designed for these temperatures. He didn’t have much contact with rush hour these days and tried to take the crush stoically – a bonding experience with his fellow Londoners. His fellow Londoners did not, judging by their elbows, take it the same way.

When he finally came up for air it took a moment for Dylan to get his bearings. He walked aimlessly, guided by some inner instinct, until there it was: Selfridges Food Hall. This was not a day for normal budgeting. He ordered his salt beef sandwich at the counter, almost in a trance, too hungry to think. It must have been just a few minutes later, already high on English mustard in one of the fake leather booths, when a tiny pink pensioner set her tray down right beside his. He wondered whether in his daze he hadn't accidentally stared straight at her – she certainly behaved as though he'd invited her to join him. Was it possible he'd waved her over? Either way, he had a date now. A chatty one.

I come in every Wednesday night, love. You'll have seen me in here. Sometimes I'm late cause I've got my bits and bobs to do in the afternoon, takes me a bit longer these days, but then I'll come in. Best salt-beef in town. Unless you want to go up Brick Lane, they'll do you a bagel. Nice day for it. I'm too old for that now. Long walk from the station, nowhere to sit. Tall stools. Not for me. You're a young one, trim, you go. Two strong legs. If you like a good bagel, famous they are. Not for me, I like it here. Sometimes I stay a long while, you get a good crowd in here, lots to watch while you eat. And you're hard pushed to find a place they don't blare music down on you these days. Hurts my ears all that racket. Must be getting old, I tell you love. Eighty-four I am now. Used to like a good song and dance. Back in the 1950s. Either it's me or the radio, one of us has gone bad. Here's alright. You can hear yourself chew. Don’t know why they did the face lift, the food still tastes the same. I come in every Wednesday night. You'll have seen me in here. Price keeps rising but it's got to stop sometime. I mean really, how much can they charge for salt-beef on rye?