A Grave Situation...But Where Am I?

Legions of black cabs, each holding just one guiltless person with a hefty carbon footprint, smoothly pull up outside our destination, gliding to a halt. I enter a little single-floor building awaiting my arrival through exhausted double doors, passing two adjacent windows with blinds positioned to make them look like those of a prison cell.
I sit among a group of strangers, all huddled around the same stark, wooden table, despite every other one being vacant. Although really, we’re not unfamiliar of one another: we are equivalently-defeated rivals, beaten to the proverbial post by a team who worked together better, who are now probably jet-skiing or fine-dining, who made just fifty more pence than we did. And now it is us who face eviction, so we argue who really is to blame over a rather weak-looking beverage: stale brown tea served in mismatched-coloured mugs.
Looking over one of my associate’s shoulders, not only do I avoid her deadly, accusing eyes and pursed lips, but I spot cardboard boxes full of packets of crisps idly stacked on top of one another on the counter. They’re residing next to a bottle of half-empty disinfectant and a faded white-tiled wall which groans devitalisation, just like the rest of this spiritless space. A pessimistic outlook is inevitable to consider when here.
Worn tea towels cover a rather large microwave. Whilst situated on the other side of the room, I can see engraved stains of faded yellows, reds and greys from where I am sat. This depressed, desiccated rainbow of colours in the form of food and drink remnants is perhaps one of the brightest aspects of this otherwise unfortunate scenario. These stains offer more character than any of the competitors who are involuntarily sat here with me.
Oversized condiment bottles stand close together on each table, their opened lids encrusted with dried residue- but this sight isn’t as unpleasant as the repulsive, loud-mouthed individual who confidently reclines in his plastic seat, claiming that he will not be the next to leave. He won’t be relaxing like that when brought face-to-face with the soon-to-be disgruntled director of this expedition.
Under a dim strip light that begins to flicker slightly, offering very little illumination to my increasingly sombre surroundings, I listen as the quarrels become more heated; raised voices almost echo through the spacious air as roles and responsibilities are passed to one another like hot potatoes. I wonder: what could be on the menu at this place? So long as I didn’t have to return in the near future, this would be my only chance to try one of the delicacies here.
I peer up towards a wide whiteboard, on which a marker pen has been attached with a lump of Blu-Tack. Pukka Pies…bacon sandwiches. My stomach rumbles with impatience, yet my mind remains apprehensive. Do I dare order a fry up before the potential grilling of a lifetime?