THE BIG BOY BRUNCH PART 2

A literary tribute to Britain's greatest bakery chain, with thanks to Jackie Collins 

Mmmmmmm.......those smells. Sauvignon didn't normally eat much during the day time. She looked at the designer watch Benito had given her at Zermatt. That had been some holiday. They had gone to ski, but had spent most of the holiday indulging in rampant sex in their chalet, shooing away the maids and cleaners, ordering up champagne on room service. "These are the only slopes I want to ski on",  Benito had joked, pouring Dom Perignon across her naked breasts. But Benito was gone, taken out by a gang-land rival in Napoli, his naked torso turning up in a dumpster. The watch from her dead suitor revealed it was already 12.15, way too late for breakfast but maybe brunch...

Friends were always scolding her for picking at salads, refusing dessert then slyly stealing a spoonful of chocolate mousse from them. "A little candy is fine and dandy", her best friend Beth would joke. Sauvignon didn't like to point this out, but Beth was heading into the O-zone, the spectre of obesity already there in her fattening thighs. Lucky she had a Toy Boy, Tony, with an obvious thing for Big Mamas. From what Sauvignon guessed, Tony liked nothing better than a hot afternoon of humping and pumping with Beth grinding herself into him. Chacun a son gout...

Trainer Josh was a stickler for macro-biotic stuff and occasionally joked he would put her over his knee if he found so much as a Snickers wrapper in her gym kit. If only....

"What you having?" The man behind the counter, no more than a boy really, sounded a little sharp and impatient.  Sauvignon quickly jumped to and took off her shades. "This is like a deli, right?" she asked, suddenly aware how out of place her accent sounded. "It's a bakery, love..." A middle-aged woman, kind and motherly, was tending to some brown rolls. "Do you have, like a menu....?" To her annoyance, Sauvignon was blushing. She heard something like a muffled giggle behind her. Two young  boys, both in school uniform, were sniggering. Freaking kids. No respect. She had heard that the UK, like the US, had given up on corporal punishment. Treat a lady like that in her old neighbourhood and Uncle Silvio would have been busy with his belt and these little rats would have sore asses for a fortnight after. 

"Excuse me....could I have a Belgian Bun?" A little old lady had pushed in front of Sauvignon. Where were the famous British manners? Jesus Christ. "Are you from America, dear?" the interloper asked, as her tasty sultana-filled bun with sweet lemony icing and a glace cherry on top was wrapped. Sauvignon put on her special "I'm going to be nice to you, because you're obviously quite poor" smile she normally reserved for beneficiaries of the Anaconda Foundation she met at its annual galas. "That's right. From Florida". "Lovely. You remind me of one of those ladies out of Dallas. What lovely skin you have". Despite herself, Sauvignon was delighted by the compliment. "Why, thank you". She was aware of a gentle conversational buzz inside the cafe. They couldn't be used to her class of person here. She could have been Jennifer Lopez.

"Have you made your mind up?" The man again. "Do you have pastrami on rye?" "You what? Sandwiches behind you. Next please". Sauvignon turned around awkwardly to confront a shelf of wrapped baguettes and sandwiches. She picked one or two up, studying their contents with a mixture of curiosity and contempt, wondering if these guys should be trusted with tuna and mayo.  "Have a bloomer, love". Belgian Bun lady again, on her way out. "Mind, I shouldn't say that", she whispered, clutching Sauvignon's arm. "Bloomers is what we used to call knickers in the olden days". 

"Wouldn't mind getting inside her knickers". It was one of those bratty school-kids. The nervous sniggers now turned into howls of laughter. "That is quite enough, you two. Get out". A young man, slick black quiff and leather jacket, was on the scene. Quick as a flash, he grabbed both boys and bundled them out of the door, pointing a warning finger as they scuttled off down the street. Sauvignon noticed that the boys didn't offer any protest. They clearly knew their assailant and wouldn't be coming back in a hurry. Sauvignon also noted the gentle hush that had come over staff and customers. The queue opened up and quiff man, rubbing his hands together, was quickly at the front, chatting away to the woman behind the counter. "Five years....out Tuesday. Wife done a runner. Can't blame the cow.....Now let me take care of our foreign guest". He grinned over at Sauvignon and wagged his finger at here, a clear come hither gesture. In other circumstances, she would have given him the finger, summoning her like some stray bitch. But he had come to her rescue. "Forget the sarnies, love. You look like you need warming up....How's about a Cornish pastie? We'll have a couple of Raspberry Ripple cupcakes for afters"......He laughed a throaty laugh and she was suddenly reminded of that old boyfriend of hers from back in the day....
(to be continued)

THE BIG BOY BRUNCH

A literary tribute to Britain's most loved bakery chain, with thanks to Jackie Collins

Sauvignon Anaconda looked in the hotel mirror, studying her naked form. Her make-up might have been smudged, but that was what came from crying herself to sleep. Fuck Frederico. She tossed her mane of auburn hair and put her hands on her hips. 41,  but nothing sad or saggy about those breasts. If Frederico wanted to get his hands on those he would have to beg, get on his knees, kiss her feet, kiss her all over.  But she knew the preening Monte Carlo millionaire’s son wouldn’t do that. He had phoned last night, all simpering apologies. He couldn’t make the flight. Business at the casino. Like hell. She could just see him, hanging up the phone, going off to get blown by some bimbo while he snorted cocaine. He had sent flowers, ordered her to carry on the party without him. But who wanted to drink champagne on their own? She had sat there in the hotel restaurant, dining solo, but the sea trout had tasted sour and salty. She had skipped dessert. She had thought about getting drunk, sinking a few bourbons and acting the wild child, party animal she used to be in her teens. Hell, even  now, on the wrong side of forty she could have had any of the male guests she wanted,  but they were a dreary, sexless lot. Not worth getting in the sack with. She had asked for a coffee, lit a first cigarette, then snapped at the waiter, camp as a row of tents, when he reminded her it was a no a smoking zone.

So that was her first night in England.  Dolled up in Dolce and Gabbiana to no avail. Alone on the silk sheets of a hotel bed in a Mayfair suite that cost $2,000 a night. Not even her favourite vibrator for comfort. Maria, the dumb Guatemalan housekeeper, had forgotten to pack it.There would be hell to pay when Sauvignon got back.

She was hungry, but had slept too late for breakfast. She showered, trying to clean herself of the frustration and disappointment, the numbing ache between her thighs. She was in London, she might as well see what it was about. 

Sauvignon decided to go casual. It had been raining yesterday, but looking out of the window onto Hyde Park she saw a bright blue sky. If only her personal trainer, the well-hung but elusive Josh, had been around to get her out running. She went for a pair of blue slacks and a cream coloured blouse. Federico had organised a limo for the duration of her stay. But she hadn’t liked the first driver. “Don’t get any ideas, mister”, she had snapped after he had ‘accidentally’ touched her butt while handing over a suitcase. You didn’t do that with an Anaconda. Not unless you wanted your balls served up in a rocket salad….

Sauvignon took the lift, dropped the key at reception and offered a brief smile to the doorman. Kind of cute these English retainers, all uniformed and deferential. She strode out onto the streets. Maybe she would go check out Buckingham Palace or Harrods. She clasped her handbag tightly as she walked. She had heard bad things about crime in London. A few years back, she had dated Derek, a Brit who had moved to Florida. There were rumours he was ‘connected’, but what the hell. The Anaconda family had made millions off real estate deals and had not been shy about using enforcers when the going got tough. Derek was always coy about his line of work. “Nuffin to worry your pretty little head about darling”, he’d grin, ruffling her hair. And he would chuckle. She missed his gritty, streetwise humour and the massive cock that went with it. What she didn’t miss were the long Sunday mornings when he would stay in bed, watching episode after episode of The Sweeney. 

Sauvignon was soon picking up the pace, sniffing the late September air. She had no map, no driver to show her the way. What the hell, it was an adventure. Suddenly she turned a corner and wow….the river, with Big Ben standing tall. She laughed, putting a hand to her mouth as she remembered this was what Derek called his manhood when he was up and ready. She was enjoying herself. He had talked about ‘Sarf London’, as he liked to call it, telling stories about his boyhood gangs, getting into fights, popping out for jellied eels, going to watch Millwall at home and getting a bit of what he called 'aggro'

She decided to cross over. It was getting towards midday now. The sky had darkened a bit. South of the river turned out to be a big disappointment. Not a hint of a designer shop. You couldn’t imagine Princess Diana out on these streets. Sauvignon was aware she stuck out amongst the down-at-heel people moving to and fro. She wanted a break, but where to go? This was not Beverly Hills or Malibu. No brunch at the Four Seasons. She saw a sign for the Elephant and Castle and was intrigued. That sounded kind of exotic. 

To her irritation, she realised it was now beginning to rain. Goddammit. Fuck the English and their weather. No umbrella. No limo. No raincoat. No freaking cell-phone. Not an elephant or castle in sight. She could always go into a shop and wait until the worst was over, but what kind of boutiques would she find here on what she saw was now the Walworth Road. She winced at the shoppers poring over bargain toilet accessories in a place called 'Poundland'. She thought for a minute of taking shelter in a launderette. But the people looked shabby and unwelcoming. Shit.

It was the smell that first got to her, a warm, bready aroma, taking her back to the Little Italy bakeries she had visited when she visited her cousins Lucianio and Garbriella in New York. Luciano had taken her virginity in the back of a yellow cab on 74th street. Gabriella had died of a cocaine overdose in Switzerland. Dumb bitch. Would she find find fresh canneloni here in deepest south London? "Are you coming in, or what?" A man held open the door for her. She got herself back from the streets of New York and nervously moved herself towards the back of the queue, not a place the Anaconda family was familiar with ... (to be continued).

TWO SAUSAGE ROLLS PLEASE

A literary tribute to the finest bakery chain in the UK, with gratitude towards David Peace.



1985


Breakfast, sweet fucking breakfast. Sweating and shit-scared on Kirkgate. I look at the clock. 8.15. Shakin Stevens singing “Merry Christmas”. Have this and get over to Wakefield cemetery. The Breakfast Special: mug of tea and a bacon roll, ketchup seeping out under the flap. Take a first bite. Blood and vomit. Think of Pauline Batty. Skull bashed in with a spade. Sip the tea. A Bradford sewer. Clear throat. “That will be £1.35, love”. Fumble for change. “Are you alright?” Lady at the counter can see I'm out for the count. Crinkly grey hair, glasses. I nod. Catch my reflection in the window, count the bruises. Matted blood on the scalp, mixed with mud on the pavement where they kicked me. Man in a white raincoat orders a Belgian Bun. Cherry looks like a small of pool of blood. White icing like a cold slab of mortuary flesh.


“How’s it going, Dave?” Shit. Turn round. PC Bob Bates. Last seen in the municipal car park at Selby. “I’ll beat the crap out of you”. And he’d done just that. Bates sits down opposite. “Two sausage rolls for 99p. Can’t go wrong with that. Here, have one”. Reaches over and tries to cram the gritty flesh and pastry into my mouth. “Suck on that, you bastard”. Tasting blood and gristle, gagging, crumbs flying across the table. The café empty. Woman with glasses has gone. “I’m a soup and sandwich combo man myself”. Look up. Detective Sergeant Harris. Known to his pals as “hard as fuck”. Did most of the kicking in Selby. Handy with an iron bar kept in the car boot. Pushes face close up to my mine. Stink of cheap whisky in the moustache. Dips in his bag. “What have we got today? Hello. Gone a bit exotic with the Soup and Sandwich combo. Tuna bloomer and…what have we got here? Ah….a minestrone”. He takes the lid off the plastic cup, pours the soup over my trousers. Orange-brown firewater. Cock burning. Carrots and peas and God knows what else blending with the piss seeping down my inner leg. Black rain pounding on the windows outside. “This is nowt”, says Bates. “Wait until lunchtime”. “Gents is back there”, grins Harris. “Welcome to the north”.