Per usual, I had to navigate the holy trinity of culinary disappointment before finding Ben tonight.
First stop: an Italian restaurant. Closed for food.
“Try next door,” they said.
Next door: kitchen just shut down.
But they whispered hope into my ear:
“Go to… new-chi-ahh.”
Take a right, then a left. Simple enough.
So I took my right, glanced left… and there it was: absolutely nothing starting with an N.
At this point, it felt like York itself was playing hide and seek with my dinner plans.
(Let’s rewind for a moment, because York never lets me just have a normal night out.)
Last weekend, I met two Irish lads, Connor and James. Friendly enough—until they offered me drugs. I politely declined.
Then they tried to convince me how dangerous the Albanians were here.
“They’re drug dealers and they cut people’s heads off,” they insisted.
“Sounds like a good time,” I told them.
We ended up at a bar, where outside stood a 6’5” man who claimed he didn’t “no English.” Quiet confidence. Solid presence.
Meanwhile, Connor and James were practically sweating bullets, convinced they were seconds away from getting whacked.
“Did you see the size of his fists?” they kept hissing.
Yep. And… do you have a point?
Two days later, I ran into him at the gym. He didn’t recognize me. I said what’s up anyway.
York is a small place.
Fast forward to tonight. I’m staring left into the unknown, when for the third time in my York adventures—I see my boy.
He’s carrying himself like an absolute unit.
I march right up and ask where newchia is.
He smiles, points behind him, and says, “Lucia.”
Just like that, mystery solved.
I thanked him kindly. And while some might argue I narrowly escaped with my life, he decided not to swing his clubs at me.
Something tells me I’ll see him again—and next time, he might even be the one to say hello.
I wander into Lucia, victorious.
I ask for pasta recommendations. Land on the steak Alfredo.
Friends, it was delicious.
And gone in under five minutes.
Mid-feast, a delightful worker named Ben kept stopping by to check in—though he wasn’t technically my server.
Ben swooped in, took my empty plate, and grinned:
“It’s still warm. I like your style.”
I told him, it’s called total immersion. I was all up in that pasta. Other things, I like to take my time with. (Wine and dessert, obviously.)
Ben is a man of quiet heroics. A guy who steps up when duty calls.
He wasn’t my server tonight, but he took charge when mine went MIA.
Ben shared wisdom about York’s ways:
“It’s not proper to ask for a tip here,” he explained. “So if someone does, don’t tip them extra. And we never expect extra either.”
He also confided:
“This probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but I played football at Leeds.”
It didn’t. Not to me. But I knew that carried weight. A proper Yorkshireman would recognize the value of that flex instantly.
Kind man. Great meal. Even better service.
Also, Ben prefers Guinness over wine. Probably because he’s in the Guinness World Records for being the best footballer ever to play for Leeds in the UK. (Okay… maybe that last part’s my own embellishment.)
I thanked Ben for the stellar service and asked if he does more on weekends or mostly works.
He just shrugged and said:
“Always.”
Damn passionate cowboys. I can’t go anywhere in York without finding people I relate to.
I called him Big Ben. He leaned in and asked:
“Do you know what Big Ben actually is?”
“It’s not the clock,” he said. “It’s the bell.”
Internal Thoughts: 🤯🔔🪽
How peculiar..
While wandering around the Minster earlier, I’d spotted a sign.
“The Impact Project: St Michael Le Belfrey.”
Belfry. Meaning bell tower. A bell. Signal. Resonance. Frequency.
But there’s more to it than that. Belfry comes from Old French berfrei, which originally meant a wooden tower used for defense. Over time, it shifted to mean a bell tower.
And then, English speakers gave it a twist—turning belfry into a nickname for your mind or head. That’s why people say “bats in the belfry” when someone’s a bit crazy. Like there’s noise or chaos clanging around upstairs.
The church bell? Traditionally tuned to 432 hertz.
Why did I look that up? Not entirely sure yet. But it feels important, like a random puzzle piece I’ll need later.
At the time, I didn’t have time to follow the full line of thinking, but I responded quickly, “we shall call you Big Ben Belfry”. Then I went home to process the remainder of the thought. Writing helps.. 💭