[crisps] Sheet cake

I had hatched the perfect plan. The perfect plan to maximise time, to be efficient, to remove the need for chores over the weekend. I washed all of the sheets, overnight and early on Friday morning, and loaded them into a big blue plastic IKEA bag to lug to the laundromat five minutes from home to dry. I packed my laptop into my backpack, and planned to sit in the laundromat working my way through corporate performance reports while I waited for everything to tumble, tumble, tumble.

But my plan was thwarted. Thwarted because the laundromat I went to closes on a Friday. I kicked myself as I rounded the corner towards it and saw the shuttered windows and door. I knew this. Dad had told me, because he’d spent some time at the same laundromat a week ago and made friends with the owner John. I remember telling Dad that taking Fridays off work was a good call.

A bag of wet sheets and duvet covers is heavy, so I made a quick call to the dry cleaners close to home, knowing full well they didn’t offer a drying service, but trying my luck. A wasted call, as expected. Google suggested the closest spot was a 12 minute walk away - through Northampton Square Garden and just past King Square Gardens - and so off I trotted.

The King Square Launderette saved the day.

Tom, the friendly proprietor, dressed in a pale blue sweatshirt and dark blue jeans, told me to load my sheets into a dryer while he fossicked through the pile of shrapnel I handed him to pull out the mandatory minimum spend of five quid. I still can’t get my head around British money. He asked my name, wrote it in a big diary, and told me to come back in half an hour. I asked if he was sure, and he said I’d be foolish to waste my time sitting around waiting for sheets to dry.

I decided it wasn’t worth walking all the way home, only to have to turn around again. And there were corporate performance reports to review. So, I found myself at the King Square Bakery next door to Tom’s laundrette.

King Square Bakery is as much stainless steel as it is baked goods. There are stainless steel cabinets, stainless steel fridges, stainless steel bread racks and stainless steel tables and chairs. But despite the sterility, there’s a chaotic energy about the place. Other than the concentration of (stainless steel) trays and bowls of ingredients for making sandwiches in one stainless steel glass-fronted cabinet, food seems to be placed wherever space can be found. Above the sandwich ingredients there are flaky pastries, and stainless steel roasting tins of iced cake. Next to the counter there is a cabinet of more cakes, as well as iced donuts and cream filled eclairs decorated with small pieces of chopped up Kiwifruit. In between there is a cabinet of hot food. Bacon sits next to a tray of stir fried beef and vegetables with noodles, sausages sit next to a tray of tin foil wrapped baked potatoes. There is no rhyme or reason to any of it. Beneath all of the cabinets is a shelf lined with packets of crisps, alternating red, blue, yellow and green. Someone has taken their time to arrange them. Artfully. The menu that lists each of the sandwich fillings, and the fact you can choose a roll, bap, sandwich, baguette, ciabatta or jacket potato sits to the side of the counter - completely out of view as you stand before the big leg of ham, and stainless steel bowls of assorted tuna salad mixes.

I order an Americano from one of the men behind the counter who also has a chaotic energy about him. He laughs anytime he says anything, and laughs every time I speak. He is clearly surprised by my thick Kiwi accent. The man who makes my coffee sounds as if he is singing to me when he announces, “Mam, here is your coffee”, which comes in a sturdy white mug.

I ask the man who took my order what the yellow cake in the stainless steel roasting tin is. He tells me it’s lemon, laughing as he does. I say I’ll have a piece, and he cuts me a big lump which he plops onto a flimsy paper plate. Now I’m laughing. I sit outside in the cold reading corporate performance reports, drinking mediocre coffee and eating surprisingly good cake. It strikes me as the kind of place where I’m better to hide outside, because they might scoff at someone thinking they’re important reading corporate performance reports.

I head back next door to pick up my drying. Tom tells me it’s nearly ready. He asks where I live, and he tells me I could’ve gone to a laundromat much closer to home if I wanted, but that I’m welcome at his anytime. I tell him the one closest to home shuts on Fridays. “I don’t know why ‘e does that, but ‘e must have ‘is reasons.” Tom asks where I’m from originally, and he asks if I like living in London. I tell Tom I’ll definitely be coming back to his laundromat, because I can do my washing and have a piece of cake next door. He asks which flavour I picked. I ask whether the sandwiches are good, and instead he tells me that the fish restaurant next door does a very good meal. He takes me outside to show me where it is - even though it is only next door - and tells me they do karaoke on Wednesdays. He helps me pack my dried sheets into my bag, shakes my hand, and tells me he hopes he’ll see me again soon.

He will.