NO ONE SHOULD EAT LEFTOVERS

The city was freezing. That kind of cold that doesn’t go away with a scarf or with your hands in your pockets. It was the kind of cold that seeps through your bones, that reminds you that you are alone, without a home, without food… with no one.

I was hungry.

Not that hunger of “I haven’t eaten in a few hours”, but the one that nestles in your body for days. The one that makes your stomach sound like a drum, and your head spins when you bend down too fast. Hunger for real. Hunger of which it hurts.

I hadn’t eaten a bite for more than two days. I had only taken a little water from a public fountain, and bit into a piece of old bread that a lady had given me in the street. My shoes were torn, my clothes dirty, and my hair tangled as if I had fought in the wind.

I was walking along an avenue full of elegant restaurants. The warm lights, the soft music, the laughter of the diners… everything was a world alien to mine. Behind each window, families toasted, couples smiled, children played with their cutlery as if nothing in life could hurt.

And I… I was dying for a piece of bread.

After wandering around for several blocks, I decided to enter a restaurant that smelled of glory. The aroma of roast beef, hot rice, and melted butter made my mouth water. The tables were full, but no one paid attention to me at first. I saw a table that had just been erected, still with some leftover food, and my heart skipped a beat.

I walked carefully, without looking at anyone. I sat as if I were a customer, as if I had a right to be there too. And without thinking about it any longer, I grabbed a piece of stale bread that had been left in the basket and put it in my mouth. It was cold, but for me it was a delicacy.

I stuffed some cold potatoes into my mouth with shaky hands, and tried not to cry. An almost dry piece of meat was next. I chewed it slowly, as if it were the last bite in the world. But just as I was starting to relax, a deep voice shook me like a slap:

“Hey. You can’t do that.

I froze. I swallowed hard and looked down.

He was a tall man, impeccably dressed in a dark suit. His shoes shone like mirrors and his tie fit perfectly over his white shirt. He was not a waiter. He didn’t even look like an ordinary customer.

“I… “I’m sorry, sir,” I stammered, my face burning with shame. I was just hungry…

I tried to put a piece of potato in my pocket, as if that could save me from humiliation. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at me, as if he didn’t know whether to get angry or feel sorry for me.

“Come with me,” he finally ordered.

I took a step back.

“I’m not going to steal anything,” I pleaded. Let me finish this and I’m leaving. I swear I won’t make a fuss.

I felt so small, so broken, so invisible. As if he didn’t belong there. As if it were simply an annoying shadow.

But instead of kicking me out, he raised his hand, beckoned to a waiter, and then sat down at a table in the back.

I stood still, not understanding what was happening. A few minutes later, the waiter came over with a tray and placed a steaming dish in front of me: fluffy rice, juicy meat, steamed vegetables, a slice of warm bread, and a large glass of milk.

“Is it for me?” I asked in a trembling voice.

“Yes,” replied the waiter, smiling.

I looked up and saw the man watching me from his table. There was no mockery in his eyes. There was no pity. Just a kind of inexplicable calm.

I approached him, my legs like jelly.

“Why did you give me food?” I whispered.

He took off his coat and placed it on the chair, as if he were getting rid of an invisible suit of armor.

“Because no one should have to search through the leftovers to survive,” he said in a firm voice. Eat quietly. I am the owner of this place. And from today, there will always be a dish waiting for you here.

I was speechless. Tears burned my eyes. I cried, but not only because of hunger. I cried because of the shame, because of the tiredness, because of the humiliation of feeling less… and for the relief of knowing that someone, for the first time in a long time, had really seen me.

•••

I came back the next day.

And the other.

And the next one too.

Each time, the waiter greeted me with a smile, as if I were a regular customer. I would sit at the same table, eat in silence, and when I was done, I would carefully fold the napkins.

One afternoon, he appeared again: the man in the suit. He invited me to sit with him. At first I hesitated, but something in her voice made me feel confident.

“Do you have a name?” He asked me.

“Lucia,” I replied quietly.

“And age?”

“Seventeen.

He nodded slowly. He asked no more.

After a while, he said to me:

“You’re hungry, yes. But not only food.

I looked at him confused.

“You’re hungry for respect. Of dignity. That someone asks you how you are and not just sees you as garbage in the street.

I didn’t know what to answer. But he was right.

“What happened to your family?”

“They died. My mother from an illness. My dad… he left with another. He never returned. I was left alone. They kicked me out of the place where I lived. I had nowhere to go.

“And the school?”

—I left her in the second year of high school. I was ashamed to go dirty. The teachers treated me like a weirdo. My classmates insulted me.

The man nodded again.

“You don’t need pity. You need opportunities.

He took a card out of his sack and handed it to me.

“Go to this address tomorrow.” It is a training center for young people like you. We give them support, food, clothing, and most of all, tools. I want you to go.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked with tears in my eyes.

“Because when I was a child, I also ate leftovers. And someone held out his hand to me. Now it’s my turn to do it.

•••

Years passed. I entered the center that recommended me. I learned to cook, to read fluently, to use the computer. They gave me a warm bed, self-esteem classes, a psychologist who taught me that I was not less than anyone else.

Today I am twenty-three years old.

I work as a kitchen manager in that same restaurant where it all began. My hair is clean, my uniform is ironed, and my shoes are firm. I make sure that there is never a lack of a hot dish for someone who needs it. Sometimes children, the elderly, pregnant women arrive… all hungry for bread, but also to be seen.

And every time one of them comes in, I serve them with a smile and say:

“Eat quietly. Here there is no judgment. Here it feeds.

The man in the suit still comes from time to time. He no longer wears such a tight tie. He greets me with a wink, and sometimes we share a coffee at the end of the shift.

“I knew you’d go far,” he said to me one night.

“You helped me get started,” I replied, “but the rest—” I did it hungry.

He laughed.

People underestimate the power of hunger. It doesn’t just destroy. It can also push.

And I knew it well.

Because my story began among leftovers. But now… Now I cook hopes.