I have been living in what feels like a village, just outside of the M25 for a couple of months, due to… reasons. It is classed as a town and has a train station that is suitably functional; with the newsagent kiosk stocking the local papers as it tries to deny the proximity to the BIG CITY, with headlines that can be easily misinterpreted, due to the amateur nature of the journalism. One headline recently read, “Horror after teen stabbed by park”. This could easily be misread as a plot where a local park becomes sentient, starts stabbing teenagers, and that’s not even the worst part about the story… read on if you dare.
That’s not what this is about. The scene is set.
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Just outside the entrance to the railway station there is often a long queue of taxis, hopeful for ad-hoc fares in a growing app-based culture. And tucked away, you’d barely notice it, which is part of it’s charm and joy and salve to my emotions of not being in the middle of zone 1, is a coffee cart. A three-wheeled number, with a barista and fully functional espresso appliance sticking out of the boot. I can still get a decent flat white. The relief is palpable
But so is the familiarity as I get to the top of hill; another coffee shop. Confusingly, this one doesn’t open until 8am, so that’s already off to a bad start. Village life is being forced upon the local establishments, in a way that defies the surrounding area. And this coffee shop is, almost thankfully, modelled after the coffee shops of inner London. You may read about them in my previous work. This familiarity is welcomed. I can get a decent flat white and be served with the attitudes and elevated price that I thought would only be possible within walking distance of the Embankment.
You would think this would be enough to convince people that this is what we should be doing here. Close enough to London, but I don’t have to hop on a train to be questioned about my milk choice.
It isn’t. The management have put up a sign to try to justify their pricing structure.
This is that sign.
At first glance, it’s the passive aggressive nature that really doubles down on trying to be a big city coffee house with big city prices. But wait there’s more.
Starting with:
The coffee cart by the station gives me the same flat white for over a quid cheaper. AND he’s an easy bloke.
“What would you like, mate?“
“Flat white, please, mate.”
“Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
The sugar question is important. The man simply asks, ‘Sugar?’ and adds it during the brewing process—recognising, quite rightly, that the structural integrity of a hot beverage should not be left to the stupid person who bought it.
And this whole interaction is ~25% cheaper which, in a “village” like this, is significant enough to be a class chasm. This man has set this up right by the station where city workers make it a morning routine to hover and chat around this cart before getting their train to the trading floors or whatever it is they think it is they’re doing that’s important in a suit in the city of London, and have this little extra community microchosm. I am invading that by being short, quiet, and untalkative, getting my coffee promptly, but not being made to feel bad about that in any way.
The most beautiful moment is when I am handed the cup and I haven’t been asked “Eat In or Take Away?” I wouldn’t dare get so familiar that I get in to the only ‘eat in’ seat available, the passenger seat, because I wouldn’t even do this in a regular shop. I’m already feeling very exposed because I can’t hide myself in the generic hubbub created by the low conversation and background music of a brick and mortar coffee world.
Let’s head up the road, shall we?
It’s bad enough I have had to traipse to the top of the hill anyway, so let’s explore if this static version of coffee vendor can outdo the station cart. Spoiler: no.
Maybe I’ve arrived by walking up the road from the station, or I’ve just finished a run, but either way, I’m making as much effort as possible to portray that I cannot get out any more words than I’ve already volunteered, “Flat white, please.”
As if they’ve read my previous work, the next minute is spent what feels like completing an identity challenge when you call your bank. “What milk?” “Hot or iced?” “Cash or card?” “Eat in or Take away?” “Name for the order?” An internal invented desperation for coffee forces me through the answers, regular, hot, are you serious? Take Away.
But I’m not happy. To be fair, my wife tells me to smile when I am happy, so I don’t think this would matter to them anyway.
Order placed my eye catches the sign above.
Let me draw you to the details of the justified cost of the oat flat white at £4.50:
* VAT = 75p
* Staff = 94p
* Rent = 70p
* Business rates = 32p
* Ingredients and cup = 55p
* Everything else = 66p
* Profit = 13p
This has serious problems. Presumably putting VAT up top is to point you to blame the government for the higher prices; kind of missing the fact that this is not an operational expense it’s a pass through. It’s a redirect that tries to make your eyes look away while they work on their margins. “We are in this financial tragedy together, we would appreciate you obeying our laminated instructions.”
The everything else category is, supposedly, going to utility, merchant fees, insurance, that Spotify Premium subscription being put to incredibly poor use. Hiding behind an everything else is a bit of an odd thing to do. Especially when business rates is already called out. What else are they hiding in there? Are the beans being ground under the feet of private school children as part of their diverse education and extra tuck shop money?
What started as a bit of a premium, but accepted, price has suddenly forced me into a guilt trip for thinking that this price was unjustified. Of course, for the eagle eyed among you, the price is, indeed unjustified.
The sign doesn’t actually add up. “About 13p” tries to mask the terrible mathematics being performed in front of everyone, but, if this sign is supposed to make me agree to the price, then I’d like 45p back please.
Total = 405p (£4.05)
Why did they feel the need to do this? I don’t go into the local butchers and ask about the lease agreement associated with the sausages. I don’t get drawn into the interconnected legalities behind a green grocers celery sticks. I don’t get asked to drop some extra pennies in the coffee cart’s diesel fund. In fact, he’s got a little table for me to help myself to a free Biscoff biscuit if I so choose.
The final moment of payment asks if I want to tip them. They are taking payment before they’ve made the drink and I’m already gritting my teeth at their questions that delayed them starting the process. So no, you are not going to get a tip. You’re getting a magical 45p anyway.
I would like to hope that these businesses offering an outside moment for community in the form of hot bean juice by various names have a future, but a cart doing the core service feels like it’s got a better chance at surviving, especially if more people like me move into the area.
The Shop may last but, more likely, the owner of the establishment will be appearing in court in 2028 for embezzlement. When they ask how on earth this could have happened, the sign will be the only exhibit required. It reads, “rising taxes and costs are killing independent hospitality.” This might be true in the general sense, but I think, in this case, it is abundantly poor accounting practices.
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