Halal Katsu Wraps
Nine o’clock on a Monday morning, and Petticoat Lane market is slowly waking in the argent winter sun. Just to the west of the market, beyond the boundary between the old East End and the financial quarter are a growing cluster of colossal obelisks sheathed in tinted glass and metal. High up on the thirty-fifth floor of one of these hives of high finance is Charlie, a broker. In between answering his morning emails from Geneva and Tokyo, he sips a coffee he picked up from the truck outside and glances out of his window, absentmindedly observing matchstick men tiredly assembling the spindly frames of the street market a quarter of a mile to his east.