From The Floor is a celebration of ‘the iconic, the new, and the unassuming’ hospitality gems of London. You can be forgiven for asking why then, given the wealth of independent and speciality coffee houses in the city, I am writing this from here, the back of a Caffè Nero across from Wandsworth Common.
There’s something sticky on the faux-leather banquette beside me, chips in the blue paint on the wall, a dirty cup and saucer that has been left on a nearby table since I arrived—all in all, a typical experience of sitting in any one of the numerous chain-coffee outlets to be found up and down the country. Some branches are cleaner than others, some are light and airy, some dispense their goods out of machines in service stations, and others are downright miserable, such that it brings pain to spend £3 or more on a cup of joe.
Then why feature them so soon on a newsletter I hope to grow? Hard as it is to write, I want, in a way, to recognise these chains. They might not always be pretty, but they do a good job—frankly, they help caffeinate and fuel the nation.
They are undeniably social incubators too. Mid-morning and I’m readying myself for another long weekend on the floor, wishing I was instead on a green hillside in Somerset overlooking the Pyramid Stage. The surrounding tables are taken up by all walks of life: the retired with their hot beverages; the young on the terrace outside with their iced velvet americanos, phones and vape pens; the dog walkers coming in for takeaways; and stay-at home parents with kids not yet old enough for school. Everyone and their dog comes to Nero. The jazzy piano music in the background, the smell of ground coffee; it really can be pleasant (if only someone would clear that dirty cup).
Still, that’s not what brings me here. It’s bracing to admit but I write at Nero once a week because I get a free coffee. A perk from our energy supplier, you know the one—with the child-like branding. I’m sure I’m not alone in taking advantage of this. Times, we’re not able to ignore, are tough.
There was a collective ‘Phew!’ recently after UK inflation dropped back down to around the 2% mark, after reaching as high as 8-9% over the last year. This is a relief, but unfortunately the hurt is everywhere to be seen. Since those early pandemic days, consumer prices in the UK have risen over 20%. This bites, hard.
“After spending a bunch of time in the UK, I think (…) whoever's running the economy here is (…), I don't know, what's the term? They have their head up their arse.”
Professor Scott Galloway, Prof G Markets
I told myself time and again when conceiving From The Floor to keep it a celebration. Don’t dirty it with politics. And for the love of something, don’t start ranting about Brexit! When the UK decided to jump off that cliff, sans parachute, we had no idea where we would land—truth is, we still don’t. It’s been a sad and scary few years of falling. (Relax, the cup has been cleared.)
Everyone knows times have been equally tough for the hospitality industry; energy costs rising to eye-watering heights after Covid first forced most businesses to their knees, fighting for air. All-the-while re-budgeting for the increasing cost of everything from cooking oil to paper napkins, and all-the-while fighting so hard not to put these increased costs onto the guest’s bill. Why add to their own burdens or encourage them to ask, will Friday night be a drink out or a cheaper drink in?
For better or worse, I’m unable to stop my emotions from colouring my narratives. My non-fiction books are examples of this. One took me to the Holy Land where I tried to understand this most upsetting and helpless of conflicts. Out of my depth, I wrote for peace but I fear there’s now nothing left of it. In another quest for answers, I wrote a book about poverty.
I see destitution daily in the UK. It’s outside my living-room window, in the many homeless or out-of-work watching the waves of people flowing in-and-out of Clapham Junction station. It orbits my place of work, in the chap who sleeps close-by under the warm vent of air bellowing from a fast-food joint off the King’s Road.
I was in Madrid when I re-read Orwell’s Down & Out in Paris and London. From high-up in a friend’s apartment, I watched a man walk the line of traffic held by lights at a junction below. The light turned red, the cars backed up and he shuffled past with a paper cup asking for change. After one-hundred yards of most drivers, not all, closing their windows, the light went green and the cars drove by. He walked back and forth under the Spanish sun for six hours or more. The next morning, he was there again.
In Down & Out, Orwell recounts his experience as a plongeur (pot-washer) in Paris, working all hours to find he simply needed to work more to stay fed and sheltered, leaving no time or money for thoughts of something else, something more. Putting the book down, I asked questions like, why does poverty persist? I also asked myself questions I felt uncomfortable trying to answer. Is poverty, in fact, built into the system?
The book I wrote, unlike reading Orwell’s, didn’t leave me satisfied or inspired. I came away from writing it feeling I hadn’t done the subject justice. Worse, it felt contrived. I was left pessimistic and foreboding over times to come. It left me with more questions, and those too were uncomfortable.
These words are going out on July 4th, election day in the UK. Am I excited, not really. Do I want things to improve, desperately. Do I believe they will? Well, you have to…right?
The coffee grinder growls and a jug of milk is being steamed. It’s nearing noon and the morning meet-ups are heading their separate ways for lunch. It’s time I head back across the common. The floor awaits.
