Break ups are never easy, well, except when both parties are relieved to be rid of one another. But the real bonds, the strongest connections and ties are the hardest to shake off. Every time someone significant leaves your life, you lose a part of yourself. I’ve dealt with a lot of loss in my personal life, a lot of change. Each time I come back stronger, better, more rounded and wiser. In my professional life, however, the scars can run deep. The loss of a key member can cast a giant shadow, taking months to clear the darkness and the strong anticipation for winds of change and the light to come back in.
Jordan Allen joined Mangal II just over 4 years ago. It was lockdown, he saw an Insta job post reshared by a mutual acquaintance he knew from the hardcore music scene, and amply applied. Interviewing this fresh-faced, gap-toothed, handsome bundle of positive spark, with his dance school background and stints at pubs, I immediately took to him and offered him a job. The role involved a bit of kitchen porting and mostly food packaging as we navigated through the storm of being a takeaway business whilst awaiting government measures allowing us to reopen as a dining-in restaurant.
We were working together, as a small team, without getting to know one another too well as I intentionally kept a little distance (something I do with every staff member to this day), wrapping sandwiches and boxing kebabs for delivery drivers. Jordan would wash the skewers, too, and be a jack-of-all-trades around the building, though a little tardy at times and not too professional in his early days. None of us were, to be honest. We’d have lock-ins, late nights, fuck up a tonne of orders, and try and wing it day by day as we eagerly craved getting back on the service floor. A restaurant without people inside, eating, is like a caged bird. A cruel joke.
Very early on, one sunny spring day as we were going through the motions to gear up for orders, Jordan received a phone call. He went out the back of the restaurant and didn’t return as soon as expected. Instinctively, I felt something awful had occurred. I didn’t want to pry, so I nervously stood around anticipating his return. When he finally arrived back, he was as white as chalk. A look of sheer shock, like the life and soul of his being had been vacuumed out into dust. He asked to speak to me at the back, and the 20 metre walk felt like a mile. We sat down, and he revealed that tragedy had struck his family. I won’t go any further than that, but it was the worst news one can receive. I was the first person he told simply because I was the only one there, but through that awful exposure, my walls instantly fell down and I took on the role of older brother. A role I feel I adhered to this day. It wasn’t Jordan’s choice to confide in me this hugely impactful situation, but the forces of nature. Kısmet. I went inside and poured two pints of beer for us to digest the news, transferred him funds for a train fare back to Southampton, and told him to take as long as he needs – that we’d keep him on payroll regardless and to at least not have to worry about money whilst dealing with the unimaginable. I felt protective of Jordan from that point forth, and knew we’d forever be bonded despite the sad circumstances.
Jordan came back. We reopened. He was now a waiter, and effused charm and competence on the floor. Customers really took to his natural charisma, his honesty and industrious movements. He works hard, never really complains when things get ropey. You’d go to war with Jordan by your side, and you’ll most likely emerge triumphant. In time he became floor manager, a natural step-up, a role he relished. And here’s another thing, Jordan loves his wines. At the time, pre-sober life, I loved them too (a little too much, many would argue), so off we went on the sommeliers wine course together at Borough. We got our badges and had a celebratory meal, two level-2 masters of Mangal II.
Around that time, my life changed. I separated from my then wife, and Jordan was there for me throughout. One thing that I always admired was his judgement-free, warm heart. He always was and still is particularly kind and attentive every time my ex-wife comes in, and that makes me love him more. He’s always interacting with my kids whenever we’re feasting at “Baba’s restaurant”, playing Minecraft with Zeki and filling up Juno’s limonata. These are details I never forget or neglect.
More coincidences would occur through the years. Jordan’s partner Lauren would move into my ex-girlfriend’s room in Brixton. I’d imagine him waking up in the same house I used to, and making the same commute to Dalston, our lives forever interlocked. A larger and way more significant connection occured about two years ago: Jordan suddenly fell ill and had to be rushed to hospital. Everyone suspected appendicitis, myself included. But after many vigorous tests and a lot of pain, Jordan was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease – a condition I have suffered from for 20 years. I call us “Crohn’s & Sons”, a play on words based on the nearby restaurant Jones & Sons. His body breaking down, then slowly recovering, feeling the same ailments and strains, the pains of a flare-up, the managing of our diets. The only other person I know in my life with the same inflammatory struggle. Another string to our bounded bow.
Today, he is my restaurant’s manager. A role he deserves and fulfils with distinction. In two weeks, Jordan moves onto pastures new. I bear him no ill will. In the end, everyone leaves. A fact I have accepted since I was a child, as personnel my father would hire who I would look up to for guidance and acceptance, would suddenly disappear as I’d turn up for my Saturday shift, never to be seen again, with little explanation and no formal farewell. Things work a little differently today, but those experiences have left me a little battle-hardened to these exits. Jordan, however, this one stings. I’m losing a brother, a friend, a confidante, a fellow kindred spirit. I’ll miss his luminous smile. His wonderfully inventive work attires. His singing to Elton John. His endless cigarette breaks. I’ll miss calling and texting him more often daily than my own girlfriend, a necessary evil as he and I simply need to get shit done, all the time. I’ll miss knowing it’s Saturday and I’m home with my kids and I don’t need to worry because Jordan’s in and everything will be fine. I’ll miss the fun times we had going out, drinking, our incredible team trip to Istanbul, our pop-up events. I’ll miss the young man I hugged in the garden as he broke down in tears all those years ago, when he and I were strangers.
Mangal II is not a restaurant group swallowing up real estate and enlisting an army of professionals to run the ship. We’re independently-run, character-led, and idiosyncratic in our approach. Jordan washed pots, then he managed the restaurant. An internal growth, all naturally happening at the right moment. He moves on, because everyone eventually moves on. I wish him every bit of success, and he knows that I know that he doesn’t need my blessing. He’s good, he’s really fucking good at what he does. And I’ll miss him as an employee. But now, maybe, maybe we can be real mates, and for that, I feel privileged. They don’t make ‘em like Jordan Allen, and I feel lucky to have worked with him for 4 whole years. Cut him and he bleeds Mangal II blue. If you love someone, you let them go. Off you fly, brother. Soar, reach newer heights and wave to us from above. I’ll be championing you from 4 Stoke Newington Road, my forever address.
Farewell, my sweet prince.
