Of all the furore and backlash of Hugh Corcoran’s post about dining etiquette, the one detail which struck me wasn’t the fact that his establishment does not have an Instagram, or that they’re also a book shop, or that they serve £40 pies, or that you can book a table via sending a post card. It wasn’t even the language used – however divisive and reeking of an age of tradition, almost coming across as elitist or pompous.
I didn’t care for any of these details because I always expect this level of contempt for your average diner who does not have the means to fork out £60 on a meal by someone who refuses to even have an email set up for bookings or enquiries.
A couple of months ago I wrote a newsletter in the heat of the racist uprising in the summer, through the viewpoint of an actual thug. I wrote via the prism of racist individuals I’d encountered growing up in Chingford, and particularly channelled my neighbour in Waltham Abbey – whose horribly abusive behaviour towards my then wife and family forced me to sell our home and escape the daily harassment and fear we lived in.
I wrote it and received a lot of backlash for being classist. The racism I have encountered throughout my life has very often been at the hands of the working class, and with myself coming from a working-class background, I did not realise the discriminatory nature of the prose I produced until it was brought to my attention. Whilst I stand by what I wrote, because it was real to me and my experiences and my interactions growing up as a person of colour in the suburbs of London, I can also appreciate the condescending voice the piece may have elicited. But I always write what’s real to me and my feelings, and I have suffered substantial horrors at the hands of the protagonist-like figure in my piece. So, you know, it is what it is. I wrote what I knew, and it was channelled in anger and resentment at how I’ve been treated in this society. I should have mentioned it at the time, but the discourse and comments became so polarising (with some defending the piece and others condemning it) that I left it alone, hoping not to stoke any more fires.
Which brings me back to The Yellow Bittern. Whilst I could condemn his manifesto for dining out, I feel it would be hypocritical on my part after my recent creative output. What he wrote was tone-deaf and dripping in aristocratic belittlement towards your average diner and their modest means in the age of a cost-of-living crisis. But it was probably real to him and his blinders, shaped by his way of growing up and understanding of restaurants and what they should embody. So, I can’t knock that. I mean, I can, and I disagree wholeheartedly with so much of what he said, but I’d rather not dissect it bit-by-bit because I do not know this man and know how he thinks, feels. And I’m certain he wrote his piece in earnest and with the best intentions of preserving the future of his spot.
What really bothered me, however, is the fact that their café/restaurant/bookshop, is cash only.
This really irked me because it wasn’t scrutinised enough, nor was it the main topic of discussion.
When an ethnic restaurant is cash only, the narrative is “They’re tax dodgers”, “They underpay staff and use cash so they can claim benefits”, “They’re not contributing to the economy”.
When a painfully middle-class man runs a cash only spot, no one screams injustice. No one questions the intentions. No one accuses them of stealing, of ducking and diving, of hiding their figures from the tax man.
I’m not accusing them of doing so. The same way I don’t feel like Mangal 1 around the corner being cash only does. I just want a level playing field. And when questioned about their ethos with the stacks of cash in the register and none of the electronic receipts, the proprietor explained “Cards leave out interesting people in society who are cash-in-hand. Frankly, I’d also prefer it if clients didn’t use their phones.”
Erm… Ok then.
Before all this kicked off, a month ago I went to one of my favourite caffs in London – The Hope Worker’s Café in Holloway Road. I’ve been going there for years. It does all your breakfast classics, and lots of Greek homecooked dishes too. It’s cash only and it’s run by a middle-aged Greek couple. I love it.
I was there having breakfast on my own, minding my own business (I was allowed to use my phone here – imagine the luxury – being allowed to conduct such brutish behaviour in public!) when two builders came in, much like my old neighbour Terry who terrorised my family in Essex. As soon as they walked in, one of them said aloud “AHH this is more like it, a proper caff. Lovely” and he went to order at the till (as you must at this fine place). He requested some items, I forget which, because the next thing he asked was for a glass of tap water. The lady, the owner taking the order said, “I’m sorry but we do not serve tap water here, you can buy a bottle of water for £1”. The man, much like my old neighbour who I portrayed in my newsletter “We Want Are Cuntry Back (scroll down for it)”, was immediately apoplectic. “YOU DON’T SERVE TAP WATER? WHY THE FUCK NOT?!” His response was dialled up to 11, instantly. The lady calmly explained “Well, since Covid we stopped doing so because then everyone wouldn’t pay for drinks here and we lost money. It costs to use washing up liquid and there are water bills”. See, I think this is absolutely fair. In a caff where you can fill your belly for £4, it is completely right that the owner tries to squeeze profit out of the dried-up lemon, extracting the last sip of juice it can, because everything there is unbelievably cheap (and delicious – go, go, go). The man did not take kindly to her explanation and said “YEAH? WELL WITH AN ATTITUDE LIKE THAT I’LL TAKE MY BUSINESS ELSEWHERE! FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKING CAFF, YOU FUCKING GREEK BITCH!”, and stormed out.
I was gobsmacked – did I really just witness what I did?! The entitlement of that bastard, the way he spoke to the older woman, the racist language, the contempt. It was horrible, and it triggered a lot of painful memories of men like him speaking to my own mother growing up, whether it was my parents’ ex-neighbour shouting at her because my siblings and I were being loud, or another tradesman in a van yelling at my mum in traffic for a driving discrepancy, or my old head teacher at primary school berating my mum for making my brother and I have a circumcision (as is Turkish custom). I felt an immediate urge to console the woman but after asking her if she’s ok, she seemed to bat it away and started angrily reacting to what happened to her husband at the back in the kitchen in Greek. I left them alone, walked out, and felt rage. Rage at how easily and readily this man abused this woman.
The caff is cash only, prefers not to serve tap water, and is run by a small team. Much like The Yellow Bittern. I wonder if that horrible man went to the latter and tried to order anything, and was gently informed that they prefer if he didn’t have tap water but a gallon of wine instead. Would he react the same? In fact, I don’t have to wonder because I know the answer. Not a fucking snowball’s chance in hell. People feel more entitled to scrutinise ethnic minorities over the bourgeoise/white middle classes here because they feel above them. They can take the piss out of cash only takeaways in Whitechapel run by Bengalis when they turn up at 12am, belligerent and disrespectful, but not bat an eyelid at The Yellow Bittern because they explain that cash brings in interesting characters (in an age where reporting of crimes is rarely followed up by police and muggings are a-plenty in inner-London, who the fuck even carries cash around?!).
This for me was the most revealing reaction. Not the ridicule they received, but the apathy towards their outdated cash-only stance. I guess everything they preach is outdated. And that’s the way they want it.