Café Calcio
145 Crwys Road
Cardiff CF24 4NH
029 2039 7575
by T. N. Toost
The night before, Patrick killed one of his chickens. We waited for all three to go to sleep. Then Patrick picked up the cockerel – Stacy – by his feet, held him upside down so his head was on the ground, placed a broom handle across his neck, secured it with one foot and pulled up. Stacy made a slight gagging sound and a distasteful face, eyes bulging and then closing. Then his neck broke and he was dead. At breakfast the next day, I went veggie.
There were a lot of couples not talking on Sunday morning at Café Calcio. Maybe they’d just run out of things to say: it was a very long time before our simple breakfasts arrived. Mine came with two eggs, three fake sausages, four pieces of toast, beans and a centrally placed half-tomato, which seemed to mock me. Why didn’t it come with more? Why just a half, and the top-half with the stem-hole at that? It turned out to be perfectly done, but there was still the air of something amiss. In the end, I left some beans, toast, a fake sausage and a whole egg. Everything turned me off: the egg reminded me of Stacy, the toast was dry and I just couldn’t finish the beans.
The veggie sausages were the abominable highlight. While well-spiced, they were rubbery and boxy. I entirely understand vegetarianism, but it’s absurd to be vegetarian but feel the lack of meat so keenly you continually replace it with an imitation. Deal with the realities of the meat industry; if you don’t have a Patrick, watch Jamie. Then eat. There’s enough fakery in the world without fake food.
2 comments:
Mmm...Cafe Calcio. Between that and Raoul's it's a miracle I didn't die long before leaving Wales.
Too young to recall El Grecs in Caroline street I suppose. 4 in the morning is just breakfast taken before you go to bed
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