Brunch at an Algerian Café

The glass door portal, transporting from questionable South London street to quaint Algerian Café, Circa 1990ish.
The Arabic writing, the not-quite-right cakes, something that looks like calzone.
The unadventurous foreigner (me) clinging to the comfort of the familiar: Full English with a Cappuccino
Amidst a plethora of colour, culture and intriguing smell.
My company: pseudo-date or laptop. All equally out of place.
The distracting slurp of soup ingestion? Whimsically Algerian, I guess.
The Algerian tongue, falling under the ignorant umbrella labelled ‘foreign’.
Chairs without tables. Tables with informal crumbs. Lined up in imperfect lines.
But for all the unfamiliar and unknown, there lies a powerful undertone of comfort. Like a duvet which still smells like home.
Our similarity is our difference. We’re all having breakfast in bed. I’m not from these woods too.

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