I perch on a sticky chair, sipping tea the shade of a urine sample, as sour-smelling grease permeates the air so thickly that even breathing is difficult. The menu consists of a limited selection of trotter-laden meat products, deep fried in what I suspect is the same fat that was installed in its pan when they first fitted the kitchen. My fellow diners and I are regularly assaulted by a lardy cloud of black smoke billowing ominously from a set of double doors. This is accompanied by a symphony of four-letter words whose source – a large and uncommonly grubby chef – emerges every couple of minutes with his culinary delights, most of which are swimming in so much oil they almost qualify as soup. If other customers are unimpressed, they don’t show it. The place is doing a roaring trade courtesy of the building site next door – although the waitress’s inexperience in silver service is apparent each time she chucks down a plate and slaps a customer round the head if they dare ask for ketchup.
