Saturday, April 25, 1981

El Dorado

I had a stiff neck, headache and my ears were still ringing when I woke up; I can see why Angela passed out at one of their concerts! Maybe I could write something for the mag’?

The snow is thicker than ever. I agreed to stand in for Grant at his Saturday job at the El Dorado Coffee Lounge and Grill Bar on Bentley Street. I didn't really want to go, but dutifully set off at nine fifteen. I got there early; it's small (just 20 tables), reasonably seedy, and informal. The three owners are Italians: a young, thin Che Guevara lookalike; Tony, the older one smaller and Asian looking, with a large moustache and thick hair, the crotch of his trousers level with his knees; and a young plump woman with black, frizzy hair and a nice face.

I immediately felt really awkward and out of place, and I didn't know what to do, but gradually things got easier and eventually I started to quite enjoy it. I was waiting tables, but most people must’ve stayed away because of the snow and the hectic conditions outside, and for long periods I had nothing to do. I sat about, waiting. I made the occasional mistake and delivered the wrong meal to the wrong table, which was mainly because of Che’s pidgin English; most of the time it made him really hard to understand. It got really busy at twelve, but the rush died away by two, only to build up again around four. I ended up being bored, and after mopping up and cleaning out I got out at seven. Tony (low-crotch) gave me £7. Seven pounds, just for one day's imbecile work! It’d make all the books, records, clothes so much easier! I wish I could get a job!

Materialistic swine.

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