Nevio Pellicci grins as he sets down a triangle of jam roly-poly in a square bowl welling over with custard. “I like you,” he announces, for the benefit of the cafe. “...Easily led.”
Pellicci — Nev to his regulars — is the cajoling sort. In the clamorous Bethnal Green cafe bearing his family name, E.Pellicci, refusing food is futile; it will arrive either way. Easier to acquiesce. “This is Elizabeth,” he says, nodding to a lady across the Formica. “Baker extraordinaire. Best hash brownies in the business. Just mind her hands under the table.” Nev winks at the blushing Elizabeth who, with her chatter of retired life, does not seem the handsy sort. She catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. Perhaps she is.
