What I say to customers: 04 (London)

I’ve been giving food to one of the doormen (Jamaican, in his 50s) at the pub where I work.  Let’s call him Terry.

Sometimes it’s milk at the end of the day (which would’ve been chucked down the drain otherwise) for his breakfast cereal.  Sometimes it’s uneaten food — our portions are very generous, so customers often fail to finish the whole lot, or they order too much and don’t want a doggy bag for the rest.  

(One regular customer, a Bulgarian doorman at a hotel in central London, once offered me some of his pizza, saying he couldn’t finish it all, so I said, “Thank you, but can I give it to homeless people at the church instead?”  Sure enough, he left half the pizza neatly sitting on the plate, and made sure I was the one to collect his plate.  So sweet.)

I also give Terry red shiny apples that I buy from the roadside stalls near the pub.

He, in turn, offered me some fresh dates one day last year.  I asked, “Are you married?  I cannot accept dates from you if you are,” which creased him up.

Last week, Terry brought another batch of fresh dates, saying it’s the start of the season now.  They are so scrumptious that I couldn’t wait until my shift was over, so I popped one into my mouth.  An African couple, also regulars, spotted my bulging cheek, and asked, “What are you eating?”  I said, “I’ve just accepted some dates from the doorman Terry, but it’s OK, he’s not married — I’ve checked.”

They fell about laughing.

(London, 2019)