h a r r i e t m a y

Tag: Hackney

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.

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Taste Test

stourspace.jpgWhen I get there, Sam is locking up his bike outside Stour Space, where in just under a year we’ll have our wedding. It’s an art gallery and a community space that hosts evening yoga sessions and midweek, midday ping pong aimed at freelancers. We like it mainly for two reasons: it’s really close to where we live, in a cool part of London, still rough around the edges; and it has an element of surprise.

We knock loudly on the side door and hope we’re heard, and when we gain entry we’re introduced to the chef, Michel. He is French, lean and quietly amicable. Standing in the Counter Cafe the sun is slowly descending behind him, threatening to wipe out the views of progressing construction across the canal. He points to the only table that has been laid out for diners, and we drop our backpacks and our bike helmets and very nearly collapse into the respective seats. House white is promptly offered up; we are tonight’s drinking crowd.

Have you ever planned a wedding? We haven’t, not yet. Being of a certain age though, we have a growing number of friends who have. “How far are you?” sings the chorus, and– having already picked the venue and bought my dress— I confidently reply, “Quite far.” But I know that if we pull this thing off successfully it will most likely be due to the international team of doctors, lawyers, film directors, project managers, poets, architects, and accountants we’ve assembled to help. They call it a wedding party, but I hate the Shakespearean fantasy of the phrase, a mocking nod to the theatrical, sometimes tragic. On the other hand, it wouldn’t be a stretch to use the oft misaligned “hashtag squad goals”.

When the caterer, Hugues (also French, but more emphatically amicable), arrives he approaches to say hello. Momentarily disappearing he returns with three additional bottles of wine, this time red, each referred to in terms of character and robustness that in our uncouthness Sam and I can’t quite associate with a taste. We are left alone with four bottles of wine, enough food for six, and a pen and paper with which to jot down our thoughts. Hugues returns to very little, just a splattered scrap of paper that reads in lazy scrawl: Yes, we like this.

Following a debrief with Michel and Hugues, Michel leaves for the night, and, pouring himself a glass of red (full of character, robust) Hugues tells us about managing the Counter Cafe of Stour Space. We love Hackney Wick; the fairy lit bars and restaurants here, the canal, the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park– my favourite of London’s outdoor spaces. “We’ve been here for five years,” he says, “but it’s changing. Everywhere is being bought up, smaller places aren’t surviving.” And the arrival of West Ham? “The fans have not affected us, really. There have been one or two incidences elsewhere; a lot of the bars have simply banned colours.” There is a game on tonight, immediately across the canal from us. Every so often we hear a distant roar, but it is negligible.

Having now consumed a large ratio of the wine, I stand up and grab my helmet, as does Sam. Hugues winces. “I didn’t know you were cycling! I wouldn’t have let you drink so much!” I slur something that I intend as a farewell. Confident about our anti-destination wedding on the Hackney Riviera, we stumble to our bikes and zig zag home.