A few months ago in Primrose Hill, I overheard a woman from the Camden New Journal, the local paper, asking in a café about rumours of a Gail’s opening in the famously anti-chain neighbourhood. Just a few weeks previously, there had been uproar in Walthamstow about a new branch – an unpleasant alliance of the anti-gentrification brigade, anti-business and anti-Brexit types who protested at investor Luke Johnson’s politics, and anti-Israel fanatics who objected to the fact that the bakery chain was founded by two Israelis. The latter element was what caught my attention, given the extent of anti-Zionist nastiness since 7 October. If Primrose Hill were to join in the anti-Gail’s protest, the sense of sinister anti-Israel sentiment would grow stronger.
Everything naughty at Gail’s is delicious: the naughtier the better
I need not have worried. Gail’s will open in Primrose Hill – joining Joe and the Juice in the chain gang. It seems that, as is often the case, the market acts as a moral straightener, since demand and supply is thoroughly unmoved by dodgy armchair politics. Reliably good cinnamon streusels, room-temperature parmesan chicken brioches and chocolate chip cookies that felt like a huge step forward in the mid-2000s still speak a more powerful language than even anti-gentrification and anti-Zionism.
So Gail’s – far from being squashed – is set to massively expand, with up to 40 more stores planned for next year and another 1,000 staff to be hired. This is satisfactory for many reasons. One big reason is the ongoing pressure Gail’s exerts on independent coffee shops, which (contrary to the bleating of the anti-gentrificationists) are everywhere and going gangbusters, to keep improving. If your only goal is to be better than, say, Pret, Costa or Nero, then you don’t have to be very good at all.
But if the competition is Gail’s? You’ll have to be good. And if there is no independent artisanal vendor to hand, which is often the case, then Gail’s is a lifesaver. The coffee is made with decent espresso machines with individual spouts for the coffee rather than the array of buttons sported in Pret.
And the food, which is why I go, ranges from the serviceable to the absolutely delicious. This is more than you can say for most high street chains, Greggs included (the allure, beyond price, of those awful sausage rolls and plasticky cookies and doughnuts mystifies me).
Interestingly, the signature Gail’s product – bread – is the least remarkable. A friend confided when I said I was writing this that he hated their bagels. The challah bread, which I have sometimes sought out in a pinch on a rare Friday in which my Jewish identity is remembered with a pang while shops are still open, is not my first choice.
But everything naughty at Gail’s is delicious: the naughtier the better. I used to go with a friend as a treat to the original branch, in Hampstead on a weekend. We’d sink in delighted silence into the blueberry muffin and the giant chewy chocolate chip cookie. The latter was my perennial purchase in the old days (Gail’s version has since been equalled and sometimes, very rarely, exceeded by a general improvement in understanding of the squidgy point of the American ‘cookie’). The muffin, meanwhile, was great, exploding with the fruit and the stodge, packing the double hit in a way that was, again, very hard to find in 2000s Britain – and frankly remains so. I always had confidence in Gail’s not in spite of, but because of its Israeli origins; there is no better country on earth for food, including baked goods.
Gail’s offering has only improved. I love the chestnut, ham and turkey ‘hand pie’ – salty satisfaction in filo pastry, and the spinach and feta pie is good too. The sausage rolls pioneered the stuffed-to-bursting model – not bad at £4.50. The aforementioned parmesan chicken – a piece of schnitzel served in a cheesy sauce with pickle and lettuce, encased in non-stale brioche – is a gross-sounding idea but is actually a stupendous one. One friend craved it constantly while pregnant. The fresh soups are excellent and have brought me much warming pleasure after a freezing swim outdoors. Pancakes, porridge and other fresh breakfasts are surprisingly delicious.
The reason I would find it hard to be on Ozempic, as I have written previously, is that the existential embrace, the warmth and cosiness, of cake would cease to mean anything. I judge bakeries by the gap between promise and delivery of that embrace. Just a pretty face under the perspex isn’t going to cut it. And while some call Gail’s cakes too doughy, I find the heavily crumbled, sugared, cinnamon-doused, slightly too-large array of sweets as comforting to eat as they are tempting to browse. There have been times when I’ve managed my dough addiction by having a daily ‘plain’ scone from Gail’s, but at other times I just go for the pecan and cinnamon crumb cake and have done with it. Eat one of those and all cravings die.
I do understand the grim sense of being imprisoned by a market delivering homogeneity to areas that once felt distinctive. When Pret opened in place of a dry cleaners near me, I threw an impotent tantrum for months. I do not think the world needs any more branches of Costa or Nero or the deeply weird Perky Blinders. But Gail’s is always good and somehow cheery, a beacon in an often dire set of options. London progressives may not be grateful for its expanding presence on our streets, but the market has made the decision for them – and it’s the right one.
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