The window is packed with signs to tempt you inside. "Freshly Made Fish" and "Chicken On A Stick Done In Batter". All the traditional fare with a few modern concoctions of Hugo's own and jars of pickles, both silverskin and gherkins, a-plenty.
"Hello there" says Hugo, emerging from the back to deal with the last golden fry. "I'm just-a finishing up now and get up the road."
The Cosmo shuts at half seven every evening, well, what's the point of staying open any longer than that?
"Aye," he continues, "The street's dead since the Lyceum closes. Look at Geraldo's too - it's a beauty place now, eh - OK when the bingo was even still there, but gradually everythin' just disappear. How's your uncle these days? Great escape away to the sun eh. Just waitin for chips."
"Many years you been here now Hugo? Can I take your picture for the record?"
"Forty-eight, that is. Oh no, I'm no ready for a photo", but then he kindly agrees. "Aye, people say when am goin' to retire, but what would I do - just sit in the house? Naw. So, I do the lunch and then tea till half seven. It's enough."
Enough and more. Grazie Signor Franchi for providing sustenance to Govanites for almost half a century. Lang May Yer Lum Reek.