“The usual?”—the two words any aspiring regular longs to hear, especially in London (or indeed any large city). Whether they’re uttered by your local pub’s landlord or that hot barista you flirt with every lunchtime, these words mean something. They mean you’ve made it; you’ve permeated the thick visor of anonymity that separates all urbanites from one another. Because, in a city that’s always moving, changing, hustling and bustling, it quickly becomes impossible to distinguish one face from the next. To be recognised is no mean feat.
Having lived in London for three years now, I’m ashamed to admit that I’ve yet to achieve “regular” status with my local landlord or hot barista (it would have helped if the Old Kent Road had any pubs or cafes). But I’m pleased to announce that I have made it to regular status—within six weeks of moving north of the river–at Choix, my local chicken shop in Limehouse. Throughout November and December last year I stumbled into Choix (open until 4am Fridays and Saturdays) countless times. I even have the chicken shop saved in my Uber app as “home”, so that—no matter my state—I will always make it there as a pitstop between the pub and my bed.
As someone who regularly stays up well past any reasonable woman’s bedtime, I’ve come to value the community of late-night-food places. There are no sofas, no plants, no tasteful prints on the wall, but there’s the sobering glow of fluorescent lights and the wafts of deep-fried fat to ground you.
Back when I lived south of the river—but before I discovered the delights of Morley’s—I often sought refuge in a pizza place a five-minute walk from me. Even though it’s totally inadvisable for drunk and outrageously dressed women to roam the Old Kent Road alone, I would regularly scuttle down to my chosen pizzeria between the hours of three and five in the morning on a quest for greasy carbs.
Not to worry; all risks were mitigated by the familiarity of the pizza chefs, who knew exactly who I was. And they knew the drill: I totter in, they greet me with warmth and enthusiasm, they ensure I have a seat to sober up in, they prepare my usual (an American Hot). I’d often get into conversations with other locals (mostly older gentlemen), who would regale me with tales of the Old Kent Road’s heyday—before the council gutted the community with the closure of the Aylesbury Estate. Sometimes they would even offer me a slice of their pizza as I was waiting for my own.
Cynics among you may question the motives of the “friends” I made on these early morning pizza excursions and, to be honest, you may be right to do so. But I (naively or not) learned to appreciate the conviviality of sharing 3am pizza with people who I’d otherwise never, ever encounter.
Now, in the age of Deliveroo, it’s easy to skip altogether the portion of the night where you sit waiting for a portion of chicken and chips. I, for one, prefer staring blearily up at brightly coloured menus to scrolling through them on my phone from the comfort of my own bed. It’s my version of community.
Community needn’t be cosy and shouldn’t only be found among your peers. Community can be found in late-night kebabs, chicken burgers and stone-baked pizzas.
“The usual?” needn’t refer to your favourite premium lager or blend of coffee; for me, these magic words refer to the “tower burger” (number 10 on the menu)—a slab of fried chicken and a hash brown wedged between two buns, oozing with mayo and cheese and a sprinkle of lettuce. Oh, and a can of Pepsi Max, to ease the inevitable hangover.
