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lobelia321On to another writing assignment for Dean Wesley's Smith's "Writing into the Dark" workshop. The brief: Write 500-800 words (I wrote 601), with the trigger 'The Lost Face Restaurant', combining this with the last restaurant I was in. No genre, no action, just depth. Also, I wasn't allowed to think about it at all after having heard the prompt. So I dove straight in! Am loving these assignments; am also learning a lot. And remembering a lot of fic writing fun!
"The Lost Face Restaurant." That's what the writing said on the awning. Which was a weird name, considering it was supposed to be a Chinese restaurant. Diana Winters had expected something like 'Master Xei Wuan's' or 'Golden Balls Dumplings' which, in her admittedly limited experience, was what Chinese restaurants tended to be called. She checked the Google maps app on her phone. Yes, there it was. "Lost Face Restaurant". And the red marker that pinpointed the location of the venue coincided with the blue dot that represented herself on the street map of London, postcode WC1.
She took a deep breath and slid her phone into her raincoat pocket. The outside of the place was unprepossessing. Four tables huddled together under the awning, just outside the rain that had been spitting on and off since dawn. "Unseasonal weather for May," everybody was saying, or rather tweeting. Diana hadn't spoken to an actual live person in fourteen days but she followed the zeitgeist on the socials, and the zeitgeist agreed that even though this was England, and even though England was the green and rain-soaked isle, still, surely, this relentless rain in the middle of May must be a sign of climate crisis.
Crisis or no, Diana had made it out of doors, all the way from Highgate on the Northern Line, and now here she was, on the moist pavement in front of "The Lost Face". She seemed to be the only one on Windbourne Lane which was the address, with the restaurant flanked by a shop selling herbal remedies (its sign proclaimed 'Closed!') and a small white-washed chapel with a brown padlocked door ('St George's the Merciful!'). Nobody sat on the water-speckled outdoor chairs. The air smelled of damp grass and soggy teabags. A soggy-looking sparrow hopped onto one of the forlorn tables and pecked at a crumb. From afar came the rumble of Bloomsbury traffic – the hiss of bus brakes, the whine of delivery bikes, the impatient stops and starts of motorcar engines – but here all was quiet but for the drip-drip of drops from the awning.
Diana Winters squared her Burberry-clad shoulders, strode up to the entrance and pushed open the glass door.
The damply warm interior was narrow and long, like a railway carriage. The room was filled with the aroma of soy sauce and buckwheat noodles. Basket-woven lamps, arranged at intervals along the wooden-beamed ceiling, glowed feebly. The tables were small and square, just big enough for two persons. There was a party of six, seated at the right-hand wall, at three of those small tables pushed together. Couples faced each other along the left-hand wall, squashed up close on wooden chairs with plastic seats. The kitchen was visible at the rear: fluorescent lighting, two men in cook's hats amid steam and clatter.
A maitre d' bustled on over, a small black-haired chap in a short-sleeved beige shirt with a brown collar – but then everyone seemed small to Diana Winters who stood at five foot nine in her stocking feet. And today she wasn't in stockings; she was in jeans and chunky-heeled cowboy boots.
"Good afternoon! Have you got a reservation?" The server's voice was brisk and friendly, the accent fully East End.
"Reservation?" She followed the man's glance to her left. On the faux-wood panelled wall, a thumb tack held up an A-5 sheet of lined paper. Someone had scribbled names on the sheet in blue biro: 'Smith'. 'Alex.' 'Boydon.' "Yes." She pulled off her rain hood and shook out her auburn hair. "Alex. That'll be me."
It was as good a name as any.
Author's notes: Based on the restaurant I frequented yesterday with my son Alexander (who booked under the name of 'Alex' and whose name appeared in biro on an A-5 sheet of tacked-up paper). https://master-wei.com/
"The Lost Face Restaurant." That's what the writing said on the awning. Which was a weird name, considering it was supposed to be a Chinese restaurant. Diana Winters had expected something like 'Master Xei Wuan's' or 'Golden Balls Dumplings' which, in her admittedly limited experience, was what Chinese restaurants tended to be called. She checked the Google maps app on her phone. Yes, there it was. "Lost Face Restaurant". And the red marker that pinpointed the location of the venue coincided with the blue dot that represented herself on the street map of London, postcode WC1.
She took a deep breath and slid her phone into her raincoat pocket. The outside of the place was unprepossessing. Four tables huddled together under the awning, just outside the rain that had been spitting on and off since dawn. "Unseasonal weather for May," everybody was saying, or rather tweeting. Diana hadn't spoken to an actual live person in fourteen days but she followed the zeitgeist on the socials, and the zeitgeist agreed that even though this was England, and even though England was the green and rain-soaked isle, still, surely, this relentless rain in the middle of May must be a sign of climate crisis.
Crisis or no, Diana had made it out of doors, all the way from Highgate on the Northern Line, and now here she was, on the moist pavement in front of "The Lost Face". She seemed to be the only one on Windbourne Lane which was the address, with the restaurant flanked by a shop selling herbal remedies (its sign proclaimed 'Closed!') and a small white-washed chapel with a brown padlocked door ('St George's the Merciful!'). Nobody sat on the water-speckled outdoor chairs. The air smelled of damp grass and soggy teabags. A soggy-looking sparrow hopped onto one of the forlorn tables and pecked at a crumb. From afar came the rumble of Bloomsbury traffic – the hiss of bus brakes, the whine of delivery bikes, the impatient stops and starts of motorcar engines – but here all was quiet but for the drip-drip of drops from the awning.
Diana Winters squared her Burberry-clad shoulders, strode up to the entrance and pushed open the glass door.
The damply warm interior was narrow and long, like a railway carriage. The room was filled with the aroma of soy sauce and buckwheat noodles. Basket-woven lamps, arranged at intervals along the wooden-beamed ceiling, glowed feebly. The tables were small and square, just big enough for two persons. There was a party of six, seated at the right-hand wall, at three of those small tables pushed together. Couples faced each other along the left-hand wall, squashed up close on wooden chairs with plastic seats. The kitchen was visible at the rear: fluorescent lighting, two men in cook's hats amid steam and clatter.
A maitre d' bustled on over, a small black-haired chap in a short-sleeved beige shirt with a brown collar – but then everyone seemed small to Diana Winters who stood at five foot nine in her stocking feet. And today she wasn't in stockings; she was in jeans and chunky-heeled cowboy boots.
"Good afternoon! Have you got a reservation?" The server's voice was brisk and friendly, the accent fully East End.
"Reservation?" She followed the man's glance to her left. On the faux-wood panelled wall, a thumb tack held up an A-5 sheet of lined paper. Someone had scribbled names on the sheet in blue biro: 'Smith'. 'Alex.' 'Boydon.' "Yes." She pulled off her rain hood and shook out her auburn hair. "Alex. That'll be me."
It was as good a name as any.
Author's notes: Based on the restaurant I frequented yesterday with my son Alexander (who booked under the name of 'Alex' and whose name appeared in biro on an A-5 sheet of tacked-up paper). https://master-wei.com/