Grace

A friend and I are served by a friendly duo in a small eaterie in a covered market in South London.  The lady who waits our table has a tattoo of a butterfly on the inside of her right wrist and lively hair.  She is pleased that we enjoy the food.

When the time comes to pay, we don't have enough money between us and they don't take cards.  They are happy to trust that we will not scarper whilst visiting a cash point but my friend leaves her cycle helmet as guarantee.  The place is called French and Grace and, on return, I ask if they are the two to whom the name refers.  Our waitress points to the other, 'She's French', she says, 'but I'm not Grace.  I'm just a friend helping out'.  Then she adds. 'Although my middle name's Grace'.  My friend (who is aware of this project and has by now picked up her cycle helmet) and I exchange a knowing look but say nothing.  'It seems you have to have it somewhere in your name to work here', the waitress says.

As we leave she says that she hopes we will come back.  We say we will.