Andy Hawthorne

Mick again, now trying to get a bacon sandwich…

The grey stuff had been hot, at least. But it wasn’t food. It was fuel. Mick needed something that crunched. Something that dripped grease down his chin.

He found a place called Noodle-X. The windows were steamed up, which was a good sign. Steam meant heat. Heat meant cooking. Cooking meant—hopefully—bacon.

He sat on a stool that was too small for his arse. The menu was floating in the air, projected from a little puck on the table. It was all squiggles and pictures of bowls.

—Right then, Mick said.

A waiter appeared. Not a robot this time. A human lad, with hair spiked up like a startled hedgehog and glowing tattoos on his cheeks.

—Irasshaimase,  the lad said.

—How’s it going, Mick said.

—Listen, I’m looking at the menu here. Very nice. Very colourful.

—Ramen, the lad said. —Udon. Soba.

—Yeah, fine. But here’s the thing. I’m starvin’. Absolutely ravenous. You got bread?

The lad blinked. —Bread?

—Bread. White stuff. Sliced. Ideally thick sliced, like a doorstop.

—We have gyoza wrapper?

—No, not a wrapper. Bread. And bacon. You know bacon? Pig? Oink oink? Mick tapped his nose. 

—Smoked, preferably. But I’ll take unsmoked if it’s crispy.

—Pork? the lad asked, brightening up.

—Chashu pork. Very good.

—Is it in rashers?

—It is... slice. Round slice. In soup.

Mick rubbed his face. The noise of slurping around him was deafening. Everyone was burying their faces in bowls.

—Look, son. I don’t want soup. I want two bits of bread, buttered on the inside, with three—no, four—rashers of bacon in the middle. Maybe a squirt of brown sauce if you’ve got it hidden round the back.

—Bacon sandwich, the lad said, the words feeling clumsy in his mouth.

—Yes! Exactly! The breakfast of champions.

—We do not do sandwich. We do noodle.

—Can you put the pork between two clumps of noodles? Like a... like a noodle burger?

The lad looked horrified. —Disrespectful to broth!

Mick looked at the steaming bowls passing him on a conveyor belt. It smelled good. It smelled like ginger and garlic and meat. But it wasn't a bacon sarnie.

—Alright, Mick said, defeated.

—Give us the pork soup then. But if I find a vegetable in there, there’ll be words.

—Spicy?

—Go on. Burn the hunger out of me.

—Big bowl?

—Bucket, Mick said. —Bring me a bucket.