'The Bow-Tie Caff' - by Richard Riding

One place that I do remember is a greasy-spoon caff, called the Bow Tie, that was in Chelsea Manor Street, on the opposite side of the road to the darkroom. Patrick Morgan used to have breakfast there every morning, and then spend an hour and a half on the bog regretting it. By the time he was finished there it was time for lunch and back to the Bow Tie. I think the caff had been condemned during the war as a hazard to health. It was later offered to the germ warfare centre at Portman Down but they refused, saying it was too dangerous! Hitler was interested but the British Government would not play ball.

From the outside the Bow Tie looked like an aquarium. This was because of the inch-thick veil of greenish Mazola cooking fat that oozed down the inside of the windows at the speed of a glacier, but twice as lethal. Inside, grease-coated blow-flies the size of sparrows careered around the smoke-filled room as though on instruments, knocking over 2ft high bottles of Dad's Sauce like ninepins in a bowling alley.

The clientele, mostly pop-bellied lorry drivers with terminal acne and covered in livid scarlet boils, used to sit 'reading' Reveille or Parade coughing up damp Woodbine fag ends and oblivious to the constant dive bombing of the dogshit-covered flies. The woodworm infested tables were covered in grease-soaked plastic table cloths on which the occasional knackered fly could be seen doing the breast-stroke across a sea of grease in a last desperate effort to escape its inevitable fate. In the corner, half-submerged under a pool of lard and covered in 1950s vomit, was a juke-box long silenced by a surfeit of grease. A thick haze of burning chip fat fortunately hid the black hole where the 'chef' carried out his atrocities. At least he had the sense to wear a gas mask.

The Bow Tie was run by a character who looked like a cross between Arthur Mullard, Michilan Man and Margaret Rutherford. Weighing at least 20 stone he had a face the colour of a dirty sheet. As he 'cooked' so the grease streamed in rivulets down his cheeks, dangled from both chins like harpstrings, before contaminating (he called it flavouring) whatever he was 'cooking'. There was always at least one fag burning in his mouth, tipped with two inches of ash. Though he coughed ceaselessly the ash miraculously stayed in one piece, no doubt held together by grease but nonetheless a true art form if ever there was. His customers, and everyone else within a 50-yard radius, suffered from his terminal flatulence - every time he walked, or rather skidded, across the greasy floor a sound like muffled gun shots coincided with each laboured step. His problem became even more apparent whenever he bent over to pick up another dead mouse for the casserole!

I think Trev used to eat at the Bow Tie whenever his personal grease level fell below 90%, or when his boils showed signs of healing. He of course loved the place and used to starve himself for several minutes before eating there. A day or so later he would come out having eaten a hundred-weight of grease-saturated chips, each the size of bananas, and the equivalent of several feet of sausages of doubtful but possible human origin. You could always tell if he had been to the Bow Tie, his glasses were covered with a film of grease and a glazed look of passion remained on his pebble-dashed face for hours afterwards. Poor Trev, he even had boils on his mac! I remember that his catch phrase was, "alright matey?" - the usual reply was - "only when you go away, Trev", or words to that effect.

May 16, 2003