I didn’t get a gap to dash across the road to check out the Herbert Baker house today, things were too busy, starting with breakfast. Here’s proof to our Australian friend, Nurse Myra, that people (Moi!) do eat fish paste at breakfast. My trolley choice todat was anchovy toast and assorted melon.
My friends think that I am co-coordinating my working wardrobe with my daily packed lunch; today was a tuna salad which didn’t really match my brown shoes, but –anyway – there’s no room for debate as I didn’t eat my lunch; I was too full from the mid-morning surprise.
It turns out that our MD, a formidable businesswoman and a global industry player, is a foodie too. I found her in the kitchen whipping cream; a pile of impressive almond meringues and a bucket of mixed berries at her side. On a whim she had decided to spoil the agency with a mountainous Eton Mess. For some reason this incident filled me with bubbly mirth and I had to restrain myself from rushing to the balcony and screeching my good fortune, to have landed amongst this group of fascinating people, at the milling traffic on the road below.
What strikes me in this company; despite the frequent and discerning attention to culinary enjoyment, is the mature attitude of the staff at large. Time is made to eat, sure. But – boy oh boy – when they work they work. Everyone seems to own their particular function with a sombre sense of diligence and … pride. Yes, the pervading impression I get, having spent some time trying to analyse it, is pride. People seem very proud to work here.
I really can’t say I blame them.
I’m kinda proud too.