Wrapped

I had a craving for chips, proper chip shop chips, cut from real potatoes unlike their more widely available and substandard counterpart the French fry. We had just been swimming and my belly felt the ache of a black hole ready to be filled. The closest shop was Simply the Best Fish Bar on Hackney Rd, I’d passed it many times on the way to visit Clare but never before ventured inside. Two men stood behind the counter the one who took my order had dark hair hidden under his chef’s cap and thick black eyebrows. He smiled at me kindly as I asked for a large portion of chips, wrapped and a can of coke. I watched in amazement as with out even looking he grabbed a can of coke from the impeccably arranged row of different canned beverages behind him. Tossing the can over his head with the lightest flick of his wrist the can stayed in the air as he scooped chips in to a bag, as it came in to land he caught it in his left hand placing it lightly on the counter and continued scooping chips in to the bag. He looked up at me for salt and vinegar distribution clearance, I gave the nod. He then took several layers of newsprint and with the grace of an origami master wrapped the fat sweaty chips in to a neat bundle. His hands moved in double time. He spun round and whipped a bag off the hook on the wall behind him, returning unfazed and centred he smiled at me holding out the bag of masterfully wrapped chips. With one last impressive flourish of his expertise he threw the coke can between his legs and over his head guiding it gently in to my right hand.