Giuseppe’s

In my village, there is a cursed restaurant called Giuseppe’s tucked between a Poundland and a Greggs. I’m convinced it began life as a fish-and-chip-shop which went out of business for nefarious, mysterious reasons. The departing proprietors were so filled with bitterness that they cursed the land with a multiplicity of rituals: rubbing old oil into the walls, hiding chunks of rotten fish in unexpected places, and sacrificing a goat. I don’t know why sacrificing the goat feels important, but it does.

Before Giuseppe’s opened, it was Taste of Deli, which only lasted about six months. Before that there was Szechuan Kitchen, Flying Pizza, and it was Bunny Bunny when I moved here.

For as long as it’s been Giuseppe’s, I’ve been too afraid to eat there. The curse scares me. Taste of Deli had the unfortunate undercooked chicken incident. Szechuan Kitchen was run by a man of such spectacular rudeness that everyone, including his staff, couldn’t wait for him to go. I never found out why Flying Pizza departed, but their pizzas were sublime. It was probably a disagreement with HMRC about how much tax they should be paying. As for Bunny Bunny, I don’t think my sleepy village was ready for their nuclear chilli sauce.

None of this explains why these places didn’t survive. Not really. Two weeks after I ate there for the first time, a ‘for sale’ sign would appear. Every time. It was like clockwork. I am Typhoid Mary, bringer of the curse.

Without me eating there, Giuseppe’s has remained open. All is not well, though. I’ve noticed Giuseppe standing outside in his filthy apron, shoulders stooped, belly bulging. People walk by without even considering going in. Clearly, keeping my distance is no longer helping.

I’ve been wracked with guilt about bringing the fish-and-chip-shop curse down on all previous incarnations. On its current trajectory, it’s only a matter of time before the ‘for sale’ sign appears. I can’t let the curse claim another victim.

That’s why, today, I went in. I confess that I was starting to see the emptiness of the establishment as a sign that the food was bad. When I took my first bite, I knew the problem wasn’t the food. The fluffy, pillowy cheese Agnolotti melted in my mouth. It was the essence of comfort food.

When he brought my Tiramisu, I asked Giuseppe to sit. He sank into the chair opposite and peered at me forlornly. My heart ached for his struggle. He had done nothing wrong, but the curse was destroying his business. I needed to spark hope. It was clear that he was ready to throw the towel in.

I told him of the delight of his cooking. I painted a picture of a rustic bistro, a fixture of the town. Small tables in a line, the chatter of sated customers. Giuseppe himself would spend his nights welcoming adoring, regular customers.

He thanked me for my words and stood. Unsure how to continue our interaction, he hovered next to my table. I knew I had to offer more. Into the awkward silence, I flung out my offer: to help him in any way I could. His scepticism was clear, but he was also desperate. Eventually, he nodded. I won’t tell him about the curse. I only hope that I can finally break it.