The Trader’s Bell

Maharaj and Co.
General Suppliers, Established 1888.

the floor’s these wide, beat-to-shit planks of Canadian pine, scarred and grey like the skin on an old whore’s thighs, been there since the clippers came in heavy with tea from the east. sailors with arms like dock ropes drag crates, sweat cutting channels through the grime on their necks, cursing in three languages while some pencil-neck accountant in a waistcoat two sizes too tight stands there with his clipboard, breeches hiked up to his nipples, quill scratching numbers like he’s jerking off to inventory. dockhands in rags that used to be shirts scurry around like rats on Benzedrine, coughing up yesterday’s rum.

you can almost smell the salt and the puke still hanging in the rafters.

now it’s some half-assed spice joint, three sachets for a pound, hessian bags leaking cumin and coriander into the air till your nose feels like it’s been fucked by a curry. old tin scoops dented like a drunk’s face, wooden handles greasy from a thousand desperate palms, brown paper bags waiting to carry home your little taste of elsewhere. ghee and chili oil for two quid an ounce, sweet and sour shit promising to make your miserable shepherd’s pie taste like Bombay or whatever the hell you never had.

the bell over the door jangles like a drunk trying to get back into the bar after closing, another lost soul wanders in looking for something to make the day less ordinary.

it’s a dump, sure, stained walls, flickering light, the ghosts of a hundred busted dreams still hauling crates in the corners of your eye.

but Jesus, it’s beautiful,
this rathole stinking of aniseed and broken voyages,
even just to stand there with an empty wallet and breathe it in,
it’s the best goddamn place on earth.

Limehouse to Shadwell,
then a short walk to Wapping,
marinara sauce.