Wednesday, 10 February 2016
A queue forms in Gaynor's Cafe on Langlands Road for Govan's late breakfasters. Gaynor herself is handling the rush with her usual air of tranquility, a smiling, detached interest in the customer chat, efficiency in cooking up multiple orders of eggs fried with perfect yolks, sausage link and sausage square, succulent bacon and triangles of potato scones, all ready for last minute shallow frying. The cafe maintains a pristine kitchen of polished stainless steel and bleach clean sinks and worktops.
"Put me oan a breakfast Gaynor, will ye?" says a local biznessman as he pushes open the door and settles at the counter.
Gaynor nods her spiralling black curls and holds him for a moment in the gaze of her startlingly blue eyes, "Bacon?" she enquires.
"Aye, fry us a wee roll n bacon, nae fat an a crispy roll."
Gaynor smiles benignly.
"Tottie scone. Like ma tottie scone," he declares.
She nods, turning a line of Lorne sausage, laying down bacon on the griddle, wiping and polishing as she goes.