Mick Taylor, Sartorialist of Brick Lane
When I took my photograph of Mr Sammy Minzly outside the Beigel Bakery yesterday, I was delighted to see Mick Taylor sidle into the left of the picture. For months I had been hoping for the privilege of a conversation with this debonair gentleman whose striking outfits I have admired innumerable times as I have passed through Brick Lane and this was the ideal opportunity.
He explained to me the origins of his relationship with style.“When I was young in the nineteen sixties, I was blond and good looking – I was young and I didn’t know what I had, I made a few pounds and enjoyed life. When I had some money I went to Albert’s in Whitechapel and got suits, shirts and shoes – everything had class.” But Mick recognises that fashion moves ever onward, “I slung a lot of it,” he admitted, “Nowadays everyone’s dressing down. It’s a different scene.”
That day, in an unusually subdued outfit, compared to his colourful summery ones, Mick paired up a vintage sheepskin hat with a slim blue denim overcoat which followed the lean silhouette of his trim physique and had a warm fleece lining and trim to match the hat. He continued the denim of the coat with a pair of blue jeans turned up at the cuffs, and completed the look with a pair of tan leather boots that he said reminded him of those Steve McQueen wore in “The Cincinnati Kid.” Then Mick astounded me with his next action. Confiding that he treasures a memory of going on a special date with a Jewish girl to the ABC Whitechapel, now the Genesis Cinema, to see “The Cincinnati Kid” when it first came out – he took a mouth organ from his pocket and, by way of illustration, casually played the theme tune which he recalled from that day in 1965. I was overwhelmed by the charisma of the man who is Brick Lane’s top style icon.
“What you wear, and how you wear it, is the most important thing” he declared to me. And, in confirmation of this absolute belief, Mick revealed that he bought his coat for three pounds in the market and found both the jeans and boots that make up his outfit on the street. Through all his many changing outfits of the year, Mick is living proof that style is not about money, it is entirely about ingenuity and imagination. In this particular outfit, I admired his choice of the restricted palette of blue denim and soft browns that complemented his natural colouring – the denim emphasising his piercing blue eyes and the brown fleece picking up the blond hairs in his beard to create a distinctively mellow look.
Although he lives in Whitechapel, for over fifty years Mick has been hanging around at the top of Brick Lane, becoming a connoisseur of – and star player in – the street life that he loves so much. You will find him there between the Beigel Bakery and Brick Lane Coffee most days until around three when he returns home to Whitechapel. I think I noticed Mick at first, not because of his clothes but because of his stance, since Mick stands in Brick Lane as if he owns it, which in a sense he does. With Mick, as with all true icons, it is not ultimately about the clothes, it is about the attitude. Blessed with a natural dignity, Mick has got soul too. Over all this time, he has been observing street fashion with a critical and perceptive eye, long before the Hoxton boys arrived in their skinny jeans and ironic hats. He has seen it all pass by down Brick Lane.
Mick says, “I am Cockney boy born in Hackney within the sound of Bow bells”. Speaking of the old East End, Mick Taylor told me he had seen the gangs, fights, murders and stabbings in the street. “You don’t see it no more, it’s better now without a doubt. No more gangs, no more violence”, he concluded with a thoughtful smile.
Mr Sammy's beigel shop in Brick Lane
The man in the blue v-neck sweater is Sammy Minzly, known affectionately in the neighbourhood as Mr Sammy. He is the presiding spirit of the most famous beigel bakery in the land, situated (as if you needed to be told) at the top of Brick Lane. Any visitor to London only has to ask a cab driver to take them to “the beigel shop” and they will find themselves delivered here to 159 Brick Lane, where the bakery is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week – and everyone is welcome.
If you go out for a big night and only have a few coins left, what can you do? If you go out on a hot date and get dumped in the rain, what can you do? If all your shoes have got holes and your feet are soaking, what can you do? If you are hung over in the morning and you have not even been to bed yet, what can you do? The answer to all these questions is the same. You know you can go to Mr Sammy’s shop and get a beigel for 20p and guarantee that you will feel better at once.
This establishment is a place of unceasing drama where, at any time of the day and night, there is a constant stream of all kinds of people lining up to create an egalitarian mix that I shall probably not come across anywhere else this side of the pearly gates. Here in Brick Lane they are lining up for beigels to satisfy their appetite and restore their spirits. Stepping in from the cold into the warm vaporous atmosphere, you find yourself one among the expectant congregation shuffling forward towards the counter where two large-hearted ladies are distributing consolation in the form of beigels with different fillings. The question now is, of which denomination are you? Salt beef? Smoked salmon and cream cheese? Egg? Or maybe you are of a puritanical disposition and like your beigel plain?
As you advance along the snaking line, you come round to view the spectacle of the open kitchen where the bakers are at work and the salty bittersweet fragrance of dough fills your lungs. I interrupted Mr Sammy here, just as he had finished shelling a hundred eggs, and we stood among the impressive steel machines for mixing up the dough to have a quick chat as the other bakers continued their work. While we were talking he began cutting beigel-sized pieces off a vast pile of dough. There is an inescapable sense of imperative here because as soon as one batch of beigels go on sale in the shop, another is going into the oven, and so it goes on for eternity. Mr Sammy makes sure there are always enough fresh beigels and no-one is ever disappointed.
A dignified unassuming man with the eyes of a poet, Mr Sammy has been working here since 1976 and is one of the three joint proprietors of the shop with the two Cohen brothers, who took over from the Liebermans fifty-five years ago. All three are bakers and it is their conscientious approach and years of experience that account for the quality of the beigels here, that are unsurpassed on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Mr Sammy is usually around in the shop, though technically he only works two all-night shifts, Wednesday and Saturday.
“We use the old system, boiling the beigels, before we bake them” explains Mr Sammy pointing to a vat of cloudy hot water. It is this slower process that creates the distinctive chewiness though few bakers do it anymore because they want to create their beigels fast. Mr Sammy uses a recipe that his forefathers brought from Poland, but it is not simply a case of following the recipe, “it is how you work the recipe and how you treat the dough” qualifies Mr Sammy, revealing his professional baker’s sensibility.
When I ask him how he finds the work, he halts and casts his eyes proudly around the crowds in the shop waiting for beigels, “It’s like a club for me, I see all kinds of nationalities here. It’s the hot spot!” he declares. Then, as an example, he tells me how the Japanese love his smoked salmon and cream cheese beigels, and he follows this with the disclosure that the beigel shop is also a celebrity haunt – running his mind through the long roll call of glitterati that have eaten his beigels, he chooses Henry Winkler, the Fonz, as his personal favourite.
A hundred years ago, this was the Jewish neighbourhood and now the beigel shop is the only vestige of that entire world. But every beigel baked here today by Mr Sammy serves as a living reminder of the journey that so many thousands took from Poland (and all of Eastern Europe) to Brick Lane, and from here over successive generations out into the wider world.
Gavin Cornwell, A Haircut At The Morgue
If you go down to the morgue today you are sure of a big surprise, because now you can get a haircut there from Gavin Cornwell.
My last haircut was done on the morning before I wrote my first daily post to you, more than a hundred days ago in August. Over recent weeks, I have taken to wearing my sheepskin hat, not just because of the cold weather but to conceal the straggly mop underneath. So last week, I pointed my nose northwards and walked from Spitalfields up the Kingsland Rd to Stoke Newington to visit Gavin the hairdresser who lives in a morgue.
At end of a quiet street of well-kept nineteenth century terraces is an unassuming building that you could walk past without noticing, if you did not know. It has a large chocolate-brown rolling door with signs that say GARAGE IN USE 24 HOURS and more stridently VEHICLES OBSTRUCTING THIS GARAGE WILL BE REPORTED TO THE POLICE AND MAY BE TOWED AWAY. You might assume this is merely a garage but in fact this is the morgue where you can get a haircut.
For over ten years now, Gavin has been trimming my hair regularly. I first met him when I worked in Clerkenwell. I used to rent a tiny office at the top of an old building in Clerkenwell Close where I went every day to write. One summer’s day, as I was walking down Exmouth Market to buy my lunch, I noticed a bowl of water set upon the pavement for dogs. The next thing I saw was the head of a string mop making its way towards the dish for a drink, like some strange Dougal dog. Like a marionette, it was moving by means of a line attached to a stick and at the other end was a skinny guy almost apoplectic with laughter. This was Gavin.
Exmouth Market was enjoying a moment then as the most fashionable street around. As Carnaby St was to the nineteen sixties, Exmouth Market was to London in the mid-nineties, and it was a few charismatic individuals like Gavin (who had a salon there at the time) that brought this about. Before I met him, getting my hair done was an experience comparable to visiting the dentist or the bank manager, but having my hair cut by Gavin has been one of unrivalled hilarity. Each time I sit down in his chair, an hour of carefree good-humoured banter passes quickly and at the end I discover my hair has been cut.
But I have not yet disclosed the reason I keep coming back to him. The first time he cut my hair something extraordinary happened, as I walked away down the street, someone said to me “Nice haircut!”. It had never happened before in my life. At that time, I was working a lot in New York and there complete strangers came up to me all the time to compliment the haircut and ask who did it. It was ridiculous but it was wonderful too.
Please understand that these are modest haircuts, not show-off hairdos, though I guess he could do that too if you asked. What I particularly like is that when Gavin cuts my hair, it never looks like it has just been cut, there are no harsh edges to give the game way. Best of all, the cuts get better as they grow out, so there is none of that “just walked out of the salon” phenomenon that looks like a wreck two weeks later.
When he cut my hair last week, I tried to discover why he is so good. He explained to me that he does what he calls “classic” haircuts that he learnt at the Vidal Sassoon School of Hair Dressing where he trained after he ran away from Kent to London as lad. As a rising star there, he was responsible for cutting the hair of celebrities like Kim Wilde and Dale Winton in the West End salon. I think it was a relief for him to move East and do haircuts for indie types like Adam Cornish and Louis Theroux.
Gavin’s approach is to respond to the quality, texture and form of your hair, and he cuts it to enhance the natural growth. I regret to disappoint you with the news that he does not do highlights, colouring or perms, he works with what you have. He cuts both women’s and men’s hair, and while for women the styles are diverse, for men his inspirations are Steve McQueen and Jean Paul Belmondo.
As for the morgue, there is nothing there you would recognise from “Six Feet Under”, it is now a happy family home where it is my delight to go and get my hair cut in peace and quiet with no fuss. If you ask him nicely, I am sure Gavin could be persuaded to cut your hair too and you can discover the magic for yourself. He can be reached on 07984 636678 or gavincornwell@blueyonder.co.uk
Spitalfields' winter berries
If you come from the countryside to live in the city, as I did, you always carry a thought in your mind of what is happening at each season of the year out there in the landscape beyond all this. Then sometimes you are surprised by the unexpected reminders of the rural, even in a place as urban as Spitalfields – as I was this week when these red berries caught my eye.
There is this beautiful stand of Mountain Ash or Rowan in Hanbury St that are heavy with berries at present. I do not know who had the notion to plant these trees here twenty or thirty years ago but it was an inspired choice. I will not go into all the folkloric associations of this native species, except to say that the Scottish crofters grew them outside their homes to keep bad luck away. Their lyrical presence evokes the wilderness where I have seen them growing to cover whole hillsides.
These sinewy Mountain Ash trees create an anachronistic yet sympathetic contrast with the powerfully geometric housing on the south side of the street, and their scarlet berries counterbalance the dark brickwork of this modernist scheme against the bright terracotta-coloured bricks of the nineteenth century Deal St School (where Mark Gertler was educated) on the north side.
At this time of year, there is a certain moment in mid-afternoon when the light begins to fade and the individual twigs upon the trees can no longer be distinguished, then they merge into a grey mistiness like a tangible darkness gathering between the branches. With the Mountain Ash covered in berries, this effect is amplified because they seem to acquire a reddish glow in the dusk. Then once the street lights come on, the berries shine brightly like rubies, glistening with translucence in the orange halogens and, to my mind, there is no man-made festive decoration that can compete with these Mountain Ash berries – which seem even more exotically beautiful in such a harsh urban environment.
Walking round the corner to Victoria Cottages, I photographed these fine red hips on a wild rose in a pleasantly overgrown garden of an attractively un-renovated cottage, just through the iron gate of this quiet nineteenth century terrace up an alley off Deal St. My grandmother used to say that all these berries were a sign of a harsh winter to come, nature’s provision for the birds. Though I choose not to ascribe to this belief, I have noticed an increase of activity among the birds and squirrels in Spitalfields this last week as the temperature has dropped – searching for food – and I am reminded that once these berries are gone it will be time to begin putting out bird seed again.
Columbia Road Market 15
I had reason to doubt my own sanity this morning as I got out of bed in the dark and walked up the road to the market in the rainy dawn. Then a couple came round a corner carrying a Christmas tree and then another couple also with a tree. You may conclude that there are those who have reached further depths of depravity than myself or you can celebrate the Christmas spirit that is undiscouraged by the meteorological conditions.
Arriving at the market, I was amazed to find it crowded at this early hour with a brisk trade in Christmas trees, further evidence that the approach of the festive season is underway. There were pine wreaths and holly too, but no mistletoe to be found anywhere. “It’s too early for kissing yet!” quipped Jo, one of the traders, by means of explanation.
I bought myself a Christmas Rose (Helleborus Niger) for £4 to stand in a pot outside on my kitchen window sill to give me some inspiration when I look out at the endlessly falling rain. I love their waxy petals that glow in whatever light there is and incarnate the silent anticipation of these weeks leading up to Christmas.
Women Sing East
On an especially rainy night last week, I stumbled upon what appeared to be a wild party happening at the Brady Centre in Hanbury St, in fact it was Women Sing East gathering for their final rehearsal for their big concert next Wednesday. As I stood there, more and more women poured into the hall. “Oh you look like drowned rats!” exclaimed one as yet another posse of excited females arrived from the deluge outside into the steamy atmosphere inside, breathless and cheerfully dripping puddles everywhere.
All around me there were passionate greetings and animated conversations, as if it was some great reunion going on. What was it that was getting everyone so excited? I decided to take advantage of the cocktail party atmosphere and quickly work my way round the room as a means to find out more. The first woman I spoke to was Annie Cornbleet, “There’s something so therapeutic about us all singing together!” she enthused. Then Natalie Skefer, who has been a member for five years, confided to me that being in the choir was a way for her to “come home” to Spitalfields. Her great grandfather had been a Presser who lived on Hanbury St but when she went to find his house, the building was gone, so participating in this lively chorus of singers allows her to be part of the neighbourhood again.“It is a great deal of fun” declares Jane Sugarman, another member of long standing, who told me proudly she had joined to perform in Jonathan Dove’s large scale community cantata “On Spitalfields” which won a Royal Philharmonic Society Prize. Another woman admitted to me how much she valued “the challenge of taking myself out of my usual world for a couple of hours” but I never found out her name because the choir was about to be coralled into action by Laka D, the artistic director who everyone treated with awestruck respect and admiration.
Realised everything was getting started fast and wary lest my interview got lost in the momentum of the rehearsal, I hurried over to snatch a few words with Laka D herself. Graciously tolerant of my impertinent timing, the choir goddess put it in a nutshell for me, “It’s about singing together, having a laugh and stretching yourself further than you thought possible. It’s women of all ages, the youngest in their early twenties and the eldest … we won’t go there!” and she cast her eyes around the room inducing hilarity among the eager and passionate women, ready to give voice.
I managed to snap the group photo you see below, which I am sure you will agree serves as an ample illustration of the diverse and admirable qualities of the female sex. Then before I knew it they were all in a circle and the space was filled with divine singing. On this dark night of early December, as the freezing rain poured down upon the dark streets of Spitalfields, inside the bright warmth of this heavily curtained room all the women were singing together for joy.
At the Crossbones Cemetery
I walked down to the Borough Market yesterday and once I had bought sausages for supper, I turned a corner and walked fifty yards south under a railway bridge down Redcross St to meet John Constable, the poet and urban mystic, at the site of the Crossbones Cemetery. He explained to me that the unconsecrated cemetery originated as a burial-place for prostitutes in medieval times. Thomas a Becket (who was then Archdeacon of Canterbury) signed an ordinance in 1161 permitting the existence of licenced brothels in the Liberty of the Clink beyond the jurisdiction of the City of London, enabling the church to profit from immoral earnings. The prostitutes were affectionately known as the “Winchester Geese” because it was the Bishop of Winchester that issued the licences. As a consequence, Southwark became the destination for all kinds of illicit entertainment and the theatres set up here in Shakespeare’s time to capitalise upon this reputation.
John Stow in his “Survey of London” writes in 1598 “single women were forbidden the rites of the church, so long as they continued that sinful life, and were excluded from Christian burial, if they were not reconciled before their death. And therefore there was a plot of ground called the Single Woman’s churchyard, appointed for them far from the parish church.” Recent excavations by the Museum of London revealed an overcrowded site with many bodies showing evidence of disease including smallpox and syphilis – and around a third were babies unborn or less than a week old. A discovery of this nature casts a shadow upon the history of London, exposing the abject human cost of centuries of exploitation. In this story, an unfathomable grief lies buried that we must recognise if we are to truly understand where we have come from and value the lives we lead today in this city.
The cemetery was closed in 1853 and it is John Constable (speaking as John Crow) who has drawn attention to the importance of this neglected site in recent times. In his work, Constable takes on the enormous challenge of creating a language to speak about the inhabitants of the cemetery and explore what they have to say to us now.
He first came across the site in 1996, while researching his cycle of plays The Southwark Mysteries. “I am a writer who does experimental writing and it led me to a place I never expected” he says. In the winter of 1996, he took friends on walks around the Borough retelling the histories of places that fascinated him. This imaginative obsession climaxed on 23rd November when he returned alone at three in the morning to walk along Redcross St towards the cemetery. “As soon as I entered this street I felt I was walking through the footsteps of those who had been before me”, he confides. It was in this moment of inspiration that he heard the voice of “The Goose”, one of the Winchester Geese buried at the cemetery, speaking the opening line “I was born a Goose of Southwark, by the Grace of Mary Overie…” Along with Constable’s alter ego “John Crow” (who writes doggerel in the tradition of English popular song) he had found the male and female and voices at the core of “The Southwark Mysteries”.
Constable has certainly succeeded in capturing the imagination of people, drawing them into the story of the cemetery and bringing them to visit for vigils and acts of remembrance. Nowadays the railings are covered in flowers and ribbons and affectionate messages. And as a result of all this interest, Southwark Council have recognised an imperative to preserve and respect the site with the intention to create a garden of remembrance. I visited out of curiosity for the first time on the night of 23rd November, the anniversary of Constable’s extraordinary vision, and found a group of people gathered at the gates in the dark, led by Constable in rituals of chanting, envisioning and pouring a circle of gin – recalling the primary solace of those buried here.
On paper, it sounds pretty daft and I was puzzled to understand what relationship these individuals could have to those who were buried there in unmarked graves so long ago, the outcast dead. “There are people who take this all literally” admits Constable a week later, and I understood that he had been performing as John Crow at the vigil, which was a piece of living theatre drawing everyone together in a shared imaginative moment of connection.
Looking back, the irreconcilable grief that is present in the story of the Crossbones cemetery unlocks a passion to connect with the past and those who came before us. Looking forward, the site and the community initiatives to protect it create a inspiring context for people to connect today. Among the relentless redevelopment of Southwark, the Crossbones cemetery proposes a quiet place to meet, recall those who have been forgotten and to recognise our common humanity.
