I just went to the Gail’s around the corner. And honestly? It rattled me.
The problem with Gail’s isn’t the price. There’s nothing surprising about a £6 croissant anymore. What it has naturally created through its presence and atmosphere throughout London is an expectation among both the clientele and the staff. Gail’s has, I expect, inadvertently recruited both in a peculiar collaboration that makes every visit a predictable source of writing material.
Thanks for reading Toby’s Substack! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
It is full of people who have absolutely no idea how a shop works.
They get to the front—after waiting ten minutes—and look at the pastries as if they’ve never seen flour before. “Oh, what’s that?” Bread. It’s bread. Ignore the labels; a San Francisco Sourdough is exactly the same as a Gluten-free Sourdough, a Good Earth, a Challah or a classic Gail’s. Just get it sliced and get out.
Oh dear. Now they want a coffee. And the way they express this is, “Can I have a coffee?” This is London, not a diner in Bakersville. You cannot ask for a coffee. The barista will not know how to do that. It has to be a dirty flat white, extra dry, with pea milk, served neat.
And they never know their own name. The barista asks, “Name for the cup?” and they freeze. They look at their ID. “I think it’s... Sebastian?” Of course, it’s Sebastian. We’re in Farringdon. Nobody with less than four syllables in their name would dare enter a Gail’s. Oh, great, now they’re asking how to spell it, and of course, this Sebastian is spelt with a silent and invisible Q as in rhubarb.
Usually, when you walk into a Gail’s, the vibe is strictly “Art Gallery where you are the trespasser.” You ask for a ham & cheese croissant, and now they don’t know what’s happening as they look dumbfounded at baked goods they have apparently only just realised are part of the job.
You ask for a flat white, and the barista looks at you like you’ve just asked to borrow their toothbrush. That is the social contract: I pay £4.80 for a coffee, and in exchange, someone in a fisherman’s beanie judges my hairline. It keeps me humble. I am paying for the privilege of being an inconvenience.
But this morning? Total anarchy. I went to the counter, braced for the sigh, and she just looked me in the eye and said, “Hi there! What can I get you?”
My fight-or-flight kicked in immediately. I didn’t know what to do with the lack of hostility. I panicked. I started apologising. “I’m so sorry for bothering you with my commerce. I can leave?”
It was the first time I’ve left a bakery without feeling like I needed to go to confession for buying a croissant. I probably won’t go back.
