All men are created equal. Some more equal than others. If George Orwell had written “Animal Farm” in 2025, it would have been called… “Food Bakery.” Maybe. While a groundbreaking book, I don’t think it’s a very good read. Even if Stephen Fry is the one reading it. But I’m no literary critic; I just know when I’m being managed. Let’s just say that when one enters the ideological confines of a Gail’s Bakery, you are automatically transferred into the governmental system dreamt of by the metropolitan liberal elite.
I once found myself queuing at a Pret right behind the CIO of the company I was working for. In that moment we were the same. Almost. Because I have the firm opinion that avocado does not belong in a baguette or a tortilla wrap; it should only be on a guacamole station. But we both got a can of ginger beer. I wanted to fist bump as I replaced him at the front of the queue, but he didn’t see me. Later on, I choked—as I often do—on the fiery fizz, and I think he saw me then. It’s probably for the best I didn’t try the fist bump.
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We were the same, and the power was in the hands of the staff. They have their own ecosystem happening. At a Pret, the CIO and I (a lowly reporting analyst at the time) were equals. At a Gail’s, we would both be equally irrelevant.
This really comes into its own when an Executive Assistant is part of The GQ (The Gail’s Queue). They do command a certain amount of respect because they remember numerous different coffee types, and the barista is doing their best to hide their admiration. They’re also juggling two iPhones and an iPad, clearly trying to manage a hostage negotiation. This has brought the staff back to the healthy disdain that every customer deserves.
This EA, on this day, was obviously in a hurry. (When are they not? It’s not their fault; their employers believe that their time is somehow able to expand into extra parallel universes to achieve what is being expected of them.) There was a seven-minute grace period in the board meeting and he’d been sent to restock with bespoke espresso drinks, rather than let the VIPs upstairs use the coffee machine. He had met his match with what I assume is the “Lid Custodian.”
The frantic assistant has met their opposite: the barista’s assistant. Their sole purpose is the ‘integrity of the cup seal.’ Each cup is a different size requiring a different lid and, to the normal observer, this is anarchy. The EA has a choice: return to the chaos upstairs and wait for the £5 flat white to become a dry-cleaning disaster in full view of the mahogany, or wait for the plastic visa that would allow him to return to normal society—where the rain drizzles at a slight angle and your meter reading makes no sense.
Visiting these artisanal bakery chains is supposed to be an escape from the stressful world of sitting in front of a 24-inch monitor. We are reminded the “hard work” is being done elsewhere—namely, by the member of staff in the fisherman’s beanie and heavy-duty dungarees. His appearance is that of someone who has just stepped off a North Sea trawler, while his demeanour is one of surgical precision, carefully removing the most deformed and smallest cinnamon bun for the next customer from the game of ‘Pick-Up-Cinnamon-Bun’ laid out before him. This combination of raw trawler energy and the hyper-focus of medical service intimidates all who enter the sacred space.
There is something deeply grounding about being less important than a loaf of Good Earth. It’s the only place in London where the ‘Customer is King’ mantra goes to die, replaced by the quiet, truth that the bread was here before you, and it will be here after you leave.
If Pret is a functioning democracy, Gail’s is a flour-dusted autocracy. And like every autocracy, it is governed by a set of unshakeable, top-down decrees that prioritise the regime over the citizenry. While the boardroom are trying to adjust their brand to be seen as less evil than the competition, here we find The Gail’s Manifesto:
* Grain over people.
* Remember every loaf, forget every face.
* The sourdough starter is older than you; respect it and its children.
* Treat sourdough with more tenderness than your own children.
* (If you don’t have any children: a spaniel or cat will suffice.)
* We wait for the bread to prove. The customer can wait this long or longer.
* The Barista is a protected species.
* Beware the laptop.
* (Unless it is a MacBook.)
* Work at the speed of patience for pastry.
* In here, a customer’s 9:00 AM meeting is meaningless.
We have heard the question many times: what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? The classic image of Batman vs. The Joker. But philosophers have long thought this to be a mere thought experiment. These philosophers have never drafted their latest theses in a Gail’s Bakery. The unstoppable energy of the hustle and grind that the city of London bows to in reverence is met with the immovable passive aggression of the staff hired to ensure this chain is a consistent experience on every street corner.
Our importance is irrelevant in light of the—and I don’t mind saying this—utterly fantastic carrot cake.
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