A Russian car thief. A Mancunian ex-heroin addict who’d proudly upgraded to methadone. A Cambridge boy estranged from his trust fund. A former academic who, after a brain injury, could no longer read the tickets but somehow knew exactly when the lamb was resting. Rico, a 6ft 7in Ghanaian kitchen porter with hands so burnt and scarred he could pull cast iron from the oven bare-handed.
They all walk into a bar.
Well, past the bar, down the sticky stairs and into the kitchen for Tuesday morning briefing.
Before escaping into the nomadic world of private catering five years ago, I’d…
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