“Kitchen plans? Already? This place is a dump.”
The warehouse was a shell of dust, rubbish, and broken glass. But it was the Urban Soul way to make something out of nothing, and Nero’s curiosity outweighed his cynicism.
He took the plans from Jake and unrolled them on the floor, weighing them down with his phone and wallet. “Pizza ovens? How’s that gonna work with a sandwich shop and a jazz café?”
“We scrapped the jazz café. Too poncy, even for Tom. I think the sandwich thing is a dead end too. The markups are too high.”
The logic made sense. Sandwiches had to be fat to be good, which meant they were expensive to produce. Pizzas cost fuck all, especially if the dough was made in house, alongside a working bakery. The mixers could go over there, the workbenches—
Jake peered over Nero’s shoulder. “You look like you’re plotting.”
“Me? Not really, mate. Just trying to get a feel for the place. I don’t know much about pizzas.”
“You know a lot about bread making, though, don’t you? Cass told me you’ve worked in a big bakery before?”
Yeah . . . in prison. “I made cut-white loaves for Sunblest, not posh sourdough shit.”
Jake clicked and shook his head. “Aw, don’t give me that. You’ve developed all the bread recipes for the company so far, including a dozen sourdoughs, and you did the pizza bar at Rascal’s. Cass’s plans for this place are right up your street.”
Nero couldn’t deny that he did enjoy the art of bread making—real bread making, from scratch, with natural yeast and old-fashioned flour. It was an ancient art that was far better for his battered soul than dicing with chargrills and cleavers. Less dangerous for those around him too.
“There’ll be a flat upstairs eventually.”
“So?” Nero glanced up, half a mind on the Spanish pizzas he’d seen in Stockwell a few years ago. “Who the fuck wants to live in Vauxhall?”
“You, maybe?”
“Kicking me out of Pippa’s?”
Jake chuckled. “It’s not mine to boot you out of, but I wouldn’t worry about that. We just want you to be happy. I know you haven’t forgiven us for closing Pink’s.”
Nero pictured the tiny Covent Garden fish café that had been his pride and joy before a monumental hike in the rent had forced Urban Soul to pull the plug. “True that. And what you done with me since, eh? Got me running around like a fucking headless chicken.”
“That’s not—waffle tits—fair. You’re the one who won’t commit to anything.”
Nero grunted. “You spend way too much time with Tom.”
Jake flipped Nero the bird, his dark eyes shining with mirth, and Nero had to look away, unable to stomach the obvious love Jake had for both his partners. He didn’t begrudge it, but he didn’t get it. Two soul mates? Seriously? Cass deserved all the love in the world, but who the hell had time to do it twice?
Stop being a cunt. Just ’cause you’re dead inside.
“Cass said you were brewing the sourdough,” Jake said.
“Hmm?”
“Sourdough. Cass said you’ve started it.”
Truth be told, it had slipped Nero’s mind, and his first jar of bubbling yeast had died a death. “When do you think you’ll need it?”
Jake rolled his eyes, and Nero couldn’t tell if it was a tic or if Jake had seen straight through him. “The architect is coming next week, the builders at the end of the month. Tom wants it done in six weeks—which means the construction will take eight—so we’ve basically got three months until D-Day.”
Three months was a long lead time for an Urban Soul project; they’d opened the Stew Shack in three weeks. Nero and Cass could handle the kitchen, but the rest? The recruitment? The branding? Nah. “Have you got a name yet?”
“Dude, we’ve barely got a concept. Cass reckons the food will do the talking, but you’d know that better than me.”
Nero snorted. “Why don’t he just call it Dolly’s? After his nana?”
“’Cause what’s dead stays dead.”
