A Little Something to Take Away

So we know the story by now. I won’t labour the hard-luck details, but in the late 70s and early 80s I was a hungry little kid.

One thing I’d always look forward to was a trip to mothers boyfriend's gaff in West Croydon .

Not for the house itself, oh no .

That was just another filthy dimly lit shithole and held no interest for me at all.

I was interested only in the outside, the main road near Graham's house, London Road.

A great long sprawling high road that basically ran from west Croydon station all the way to Brixton. So many shop fronts, so many different take away shops, all the food of the world right at your front door.

I would help myself to a handful of coins from Graham’s milk round money bag, not something I’m proud of now, but at the time it was the only way I knew how to survive and slip off into the night to get fed.

So, here we are at the point of my little story for today. Deedar was a little Pakistani kebab and sweet shop just around the corner from Grahams gaff. I always called the place Deans.

Years later I discovered the sign probably said Deedar, but I didn’t read too well back then and my brain must have translated it into something easier.

To me it was always just Deans.

Going into that tiny little shop was like entering a whole different world.

The very first thing I noticed was a ruddy great big Jukebox in the far corner , totally out of place in that setting, I’d always go straight in and put on “What a waste” by Ian Dury and the blockheads or whatever other song they might have had that was worth ten pence to hear . The place was small, warm and slightly steamy from the grill. A glass counter ran along one side with Trays of food I’d never seen before ,curries bubbling away, metal dishes of rice, and along the back wall was a dark mirror with writing on it in a language I couldn’t read.

I used to stare at it while waiting for my food, wondering what on earth it said.

At ten years old it could have said anything for all I knew.

Thinking back now, I probably wouldn’t have read much better if it had been in English.

Still, it looked good, whatever it was.

The smells were the second thing to smack you right in the senses, the grill had thick white smoke coming off it and the smell was easily enough to make a hungry kids mouth water , or a vegan gag. We both know which camp I was in.

Then the bread , bloody hell, I’d never seen anything like it. Bread in my house was a mouldy little bag of Nimble if you were lucky.

Bread in that place was a whole meal in itself.

Then all the salad laid out fresh, next to the sauces they would spread on for you. From searing hot chilli to a cooling kind of mint flavoured one and most things in between.

And the dishes, complete with the meat on the bone. I didn’t know what it was called then but it was delicious and filled me up a treat. I just called it bony rice.

Then all the Asian sweets , and there were loads of em . I’ didn’t like those that much, too sweet and far to rich, but I did like a little green thing with nuts on it. The old guy behind the counter would sometimes give me free.

Talking of which, the bloke never made a big thing of it if I was a bit short of cash, he’d still wrap something up for me. I’d put what I had on the counter and we’d both pretend that was the price.

I’ll never forget one night going in there with only about ten pence in my pocket, planning just to play something on his jukebox and warm up for a while.

One of the younger blokes asked what I wanted. I sheepishly said nothing.

He said something to the older man in Urdu. The old guy looked straight at me and started talking, the younger bloke translating.

“You must eat. Don’t worry about money. I won’t let a man go hungry.”

I was about ten years old.

No one had ever said anything like that to me before.

Deans wasn’t the only place along that stretch of London Road. The whole road seemed alive at night. Chinese takeaways, curry houses, kebab shops, places selling sweets I’d never seen before.

Some of the older Pakistani blokes would stand outside chewing paan, their lips-stained bright red. At the time I had no idea what it was. I just thought it looked slightly alarming , man that stuff had one of the worst smells in the world , but they seemed to love it .

This was all at a time when you could travel right across greater London on the busses for 2p courtesy of the GLC. You could literally ride a bus all day looking for exotic food if you wanted to, and man , would you ever find it in a total abundance.

I look back very fondly on those times, all those different shops selling the food of the whole wide world.

What with the internet and jet travel the world seems a whole lot smaller nowadays.

I drove along that same road recently.

Everything gone.

Replaced by fried chicken shops, dozens of them, all selling the same beige shite in brightly coloured boxes. All logo, no soul.

I’m willing to bet not a single one of them corporate run , profit syphons would take a second to see if a kid was hungry and feed him or her free now days , and in that way we’ve lost something important .

Somewhere along that road there was once a little kebab shop called Deans.

As Ian Dury would have said… what a waste.