It's Wednesday. The sky is a big blotch of dark purple-grey, like a bruise. The streets of Soho glisten black with a week’s worth of rain. The sharp winds bite through your winter coat, stinging your nose, the tips of your ears.

 

Four near-strangers enter a restaurant. They settle down around a wooden table dimly lit by a buttery light. All worn down from work and two years of strict covid lockdowns.

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Before they start, they make one rule: no work talk.

With that out of the way, the topics naturally gravitate towards food. The food they ate as a child. The food they love and miss. The food they cook after a long day or when they have an entire weekend spare. The food only their mum can make.

As the night rolls on, something special happens.

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The dining room bustles with lulls of conversation, roars of laughter, clinking glasses. The aromas of food from every table fill the air. The candle lights flicker and dance on their faces. They gawk at the large roast chicken, smile in bliss as they bite into the blistered golden-brown skin, and slurp up every drop of its buttery jus. 

 

A tingle of energy runs down their backs. The cobwebs of the past few years clear away. They feel alive.

 

Each of the four – now friends – returns to their regular weeks. But something has changed. Memories have been made. Another Wednesday night scheduled at another restaurant.

 

And Wednesdays was born.

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