I'd Sooner Starve!

I'd Sooner Starve!

Mark Sinclair

Language: English

Pages: 190

ISBN: 1907954147

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub

'I'd Sooner Starve!' is the engagingly true story of one man's quest to escape his monotonous nine-to-five existence and open a charming delicatessen and restaurant in a delightful market town. With naked honesty and occasional breathtaking naïveté, it records his arduous journey and painful reappraisal that customers are always right. Amidst tales of bulimia, public menstruation and day-to-day abuse, this tragic story is an eye-opening account of what happens after you say "I quit!" A warning to some or entertainment to others, 'I'd Sooner Starve!' is a shockingly comical account of culinary highs, customer lows and one woman's fixation with thigh-warmed Stilton.

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authentic Spanish food. Having a ham and pickle sandwich on the menu just because “me mother doesn’t eat foreign muck” seemed like one hell of a compromise. How many egg and cress sandwiches would you find on Las Ramblas? If your mother doesn’t like Spanish food, TAKE HER TO YE OLDE CHIP SHOP! But no: in they came with their shopping list of demands. “I’m allergic to fish but love tuna – what can you do for me?” Throw you out? “I suffer from a severe anaphylactic reaction to citrus – can you

right? Well, yes and no. The business was welcome but the fact that we were no longer running the restaurant in the way that we’d imagined made it all very debilitating. This wasn’t a destination of any refinement – we were now the owners of a full-tilt, factory-like production line of culinary mass consumption. We were working ourselves into the ground to keep the ingrates happy by giving them what they wanted. Sound business, perhaps, but not the stuff of dreams. As we became busier and

running down me leg like a babbling brook. LOOK!” At which point, her skirt was raised for us all to see the claret tidemarks that emanated from her groin. The red trickles down her inner leg appeared as if someone had dropped a glass of Merlot down her skirt at a party and her leg had received the splash back. I looked away as fast as I was able to. I had, however, seen too much. I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard someone vomit. There was a series of gasps, falling cutlery and a few pleas to

wouldn’t have ordered it if you’d told me it was made out of meat!” Without hesitation, I replied, “Can I ask you what you thought chicken liver pâté might be made from?” Her eyes were now fixed on a space on the ceiling. She dodged the question and looked for another horror to complain about. “And is that bread?” she said, pointing at three slices of bread. It was my turn to sigh. “Yes,” I said. It’s very obviously bread. Was the question at all necessary? What’s this all about? She seemed

there was no way I was paying for it. The landlord would therefore have to be persuaded to dig deep, if only to bring the place up to ‘slum’ level. Given his reputation, this was going to be a challenge. The landlord was a modern-day Shylock; a man for whom the injustices of the world were never-ending. His appearance was one of function rather than fashion. He had a frail, hunched posture and gerbil-like timorousness. His eyes were flinty and his fingers bony. He was known as being tighter than

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