Weekend and falafel

Last night at the Lebanese take-away, while waiting for my falafel and houmous, I notice that the staff, a tall blond man and a shorter dark haired man, are moving at a hectic pace in the back of the shop where the cooking is going on.
The dark haired man takes a break from running and shouting and runs to the counter to take my order.
'7 minutes,' he says, after I order my food.
Then he runs back into the kitchen and I stand at the counter looking through the kitchen door while he runs back and forth in the kitchen.
After more shouting the blond man runs out of the kitchen carrying an arm load of pizzas and the small dark haired man who's taken my order runs back into the front of the shop to answer the phone.
After he hangs up the phone he runs over to the grill and puts three little slabs of cheese on it.
Then he takes a spoon full of houmous from the salad bar and runs into the back of the shop.

I watch him making my order, which he then runs into the front of the shop and begins to bag.

'These English,' he says, without prompt, sprinkling my houmous with parsley and then pushing my containered food into the brown paper bag, 'they don't want work,'

I stand looking at him, watching him run up and down to get a plastic fork and then a serviette.

'They don't work weekend,' he says without looking at me, 'They come for interview, then they say, noooo, I can't work weekend.'

Then he hands me the bag and I say thanks and ask him if his shop is open tomorrow because I have a feeling I am going to like his falafel and want to come back for more.

'Yes,' he tells me, 'but I'll be much later. After 5 o'clock,'

'Oh, okay,' I say, smiling.

'Yes,' he says, calling out to me as he runs back into the kitchen, 'I can't get no one for work. These English, they lazy, they don't want work weekends!'

Now look at my shop and get a print. It'll make your life so much better.