3 Immigrants: Nick

Nick is Greek (but of course) and makes some amazing burgers. They are huge, jaw-dislocating things, and when I finish one, there’s no room for the fries I always order and end up throwing away.

I usually turn up Thursday, late in the evening, always forgetting that Australian shops close earlier than Malaysian ones. But Nick is there, always smiling and always ready to make me a burger.

And there were the little things.
Every now and again, I get a fried fish fillet or a mutton kebab. Despite my strongest objections, he would give them to me completely free (“It end of day. If you don’t take, I throw anyway. At least you eat!”)
I also noticed no matter how late I was, he was always open. Then I realized he was waiting for me.

After awhile, I couldn’t take the guilt so I lied to him and said my Thursday classes had been shifted to Saturday morning. So I walked in every Saturday morning, and I sat down without a word. Nick would know to bring me what I wanted – a bacon sandwich, toasted, and a cup of strong black coffee.

I took a picture of Nick on my last day in Melbourne. He hugged me and when he cried, so did I. When I moved to my new house, I lost a coupla things. That picture was one of them.