h a r r i e t m a y

Category: Marketing

On greed

IMG_20170312_121600We’re young and urban and busy, so not much about our lives is about ritual, and when it is, it’s the ritual of morning coffee from Pret or of cramming ourselves into a Victoria line train before someone with greater mass pushes us back out (“Pull in your bags and jackets from the closing doors!” the train drivers bellow across the PA and then a beat later, predictably dismayed, “Somebody didn’t listen!”). We were raised with various half-hearted religions, or none at all, and whatever spirituality our parents hoped we’d gain has now been replaced with YouTube videos. “I think running is your spirituality,” Sam tells me, when I declare I’m not at all spiritual. “It occupies a lot of your mind and your time.” Does this mind-space and time-taken equate to spirituality, or distract from it? “It’s spiritual,” Sam assures me, “the way you use running to focus, to connect with yourself.” I’m not certain. All I know is I’m glad I have no obligation at all to pretend I believe in anything beyond stardust and electricity and sure even dark matter.

We meet Amy at a workers caff for eggs and toast before making our way over to Conway Hall, a beautiful art deco building that houses the oldest freethought organisation in the world. On the surface it’s church-like, but rather than bible verses the walls remind its congregation TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. It’s the kind of place where I can forget I’m hungover, rather than be made more aware of it. We are here for Sunday Sermon, another reminder of what we owe to those who normalised weekly meetings around the world to share ideas which is not, by itself, a terrible idea. The theme is greed and the first order of the day is to belt out the hymn, ABBA’s ‘Money Money Money’, before Jack Monroe, fresh from legal victory, takes the stage. I’m a little greedy, for success, for Karen Millen dresses, certainly for sourdough bread. I’m also a marketer whose work is based somewhat on manipulating the greed of others. I need this.

“I apologise for the general state of me,” she says, smirking beneath a flash of orange hair. Even suffering from a cold and not, like me, the consequences of the previous night, Jack is vibrant and rebellious and it’s easy to see how she has made a career out of appealing to the public, pushing back against modern pressures to be anything other than herself. The pressures to be aspirational, as she says. We can be successful without taking up all the space, all the resources, we can want things without damaging ourselves and our communities and each other. And this is the difference, as she tells it: following on from the success of her first book, A Girl Called Jack, her publisher had plans to grow Jack from “the face of modern poverty” into an aspirational success story, with a high-gloss, hardback book retailing for £26.99, more than double the £10 maximum selling price she had demanded for her first book. “The only way you can take every one of my readers on this journey with me,” she recalls saying, “is to give every one of them a book deal. Can you do that?” Yet at the time, Jack was sleeping on a mattress on the floor, in a flat with five other people, a stark contrast to the space the publisher had arranged in which to take the highly stylised photography for the book. And in the end it didn’t become Jack’s book, it was something else entirely, not made for Jack’s audience but in spite of them: “and it flopped.”

Jack doesn’t manipulate greed but questions it. I resolve to question my greed, turn it into creativity and curiosity–focus is called for, and connection, and suddenly spirituality doesn’t seem so outlandish– and maybe then it’s even ok to want more.

Brand Hackney

finch

“Should we go somewhere else?” Sam asks, eyeing up each full table, one by one. It’s 10am on a Saturday morning, and we’d forgotten to eat dinner the night before after getting wrapped up in the after-party for the London premiere of Lady Macbeth. (“And how was your first industry event?” Sam, actor and screenwriter, had asked me afterwards.) So on our way to Broadway Market for a mooch we’ve beelined to E5 Bakehouse and I am only currently thinking in carbs.

It is a pillar in Hackney– in a borough built on artisan bakeries and market stalls, cafes boast about serving E5 Bakehouse bread, and it’s not uncommon to see the E5 Bakehouse cargo bike making morning deliveries. Started by a guy with no previous baking experience, just a love of great bread and the desire to pass that on, E5 Bakehouse now has a brand as tangible as the brick walls and curved metal roof in accordion folds of their headquarters, nestled in a railway arch by London Fields.

Sam and I often describe things as “so Hackney”, things like minimalist interiors shops next door to corner shops where patrons often appear not in pajamas but underwear, or dining out at 9pm on a weeknight at a local place that serves eel broth and bone marrow dumplings only to find ourselves next to the designated kids’ table of a larger group. E5 Bakehouse not only fits into this juxtaposition of effete and authentic, but knows its place there; it’s that self-assurance we are eager to bask in.

Usually when breakfasting at E5 Bakehouse, we order a simple round of coffee and toast, which we then slather with lashings of jam or peanut butter from jars that float from table to table. After all, the bread is the thing. We don’t mind first squeezing in then shimmying up to the bar that runs along the far side of the arch. Everyone who is in E5 Bakehouse becomes intrinsically a part of it. But today the only spare seats are out front. Although not intolerably cold, it is October in England– not the ideal time or place to be seated outdoors, and we’re not sure we fancy braving it. Sam shrugs, and we leave. I try not to be disappointed.

Just next door is Finch Cafe, a perfectly sound little spot, I think, but when we peer through the glass door it’s empty. “Let’s go here?” Sam asks while I gaze skeptically at lonely chairs. But the menu looks hearty, so we order scrambled eggs with tahini and halloumi. There has been an attempt at a granny-chic interior, books piled up and oversized picture frames that overstate the art, but it doesn’t quite jibe with the cuisine, and leaves the alienating feeling of being in the outdated, untouched childhood bedroom of someone you’ve only known grown up. When the eggs arrive they’re good, distinctly middle eastern (Palestinian, I discover later), although the accompanying flatbread lacks the ideal chew and swollen softness. Nothing is bad though, especially on an empty stomach, and we devour it all.

It’s not clear from the name or the decor or the menu what this place is about, and if they don’t know, I don’t know either. But it takes time to build who you are– nothing appears in the world fully formed. So there’s time for Finch, and I hope they grow into themselves. E5 Bakehouse is one (great) thing, and Finch Cafe could be something new entirely.