Joe and The Juice
Last weekend my girlfriend had a party at her family house in Switzerland. I, forever cunning, saw it as the perfect opportunity for some social skills training, pushing my comfort zone, and trying to talk to as many people as possible. Earlier in the day, as I sat at Gatwick Airport, I made vague plans for the strategy, but I was preoccupied with disappointment.
All day I had been looking forward to a deserved sweet treat at ‘Joe and The Juice’ which I knew was at Gatwick Airport. I never go to ‘Joe and The Juice’ except on the rare occasions when I’m at Gatwick or Stansted. If I see one in Central London, I always steer clear. As is the case with food and drink at most chain restaurants and cafés, it’s usually consistent but made without love. Why sacrifice your enjoyment of food and drink - perhaps one of the few things that make life worth living - for ultra-processed, cheap, nasty, chain-food rubbish? Those are just my thoughts.
Not all chain restaurants and cafés are created equal. Places such as Costa, Starbucks, or Macdo, are so popular and so enormously successful, that they only have to do the bare minimum to satisfy the needs of their clientèle. To regularly vary the menus, they rely on the motto of “make it more colourful, make it more sugary, make it more fast food, make it seem healthy.” With their world-famous and depressing interiors, people know what they’re getting. It’s comforting to be able to control your surroundings, even if it takes away a bit of your soul every time you go.
Joe and The Juice is a mega-chain but the food is of high quality, healthy even. It’s also expensive meaning that it can claim an aura of exclusivity. It’s like the chain “Gails” in this regard. But that’s a whole different issue. Once the most adored café chain of the well-to-do in the UK, Gails’ sudden surge of expansion has decreased its quality and its reputation. Not to mention the fact that Gails is now pushing out independent cafés and restaurants from small towns and hippy London Boroughs. The inhabitants of Walthamstow, in North-East London, are violently opposing the opening of a branch. They argue that it will ruin the ecosystem of locally-owned grocers and independent restaurants. To add insult to injury, the CEO of Gails is also a staunch tory and climate change denier. In the Gail-free seas of Switzerland, I don’t have to worry about that moral dilemma.
For the past few years, I’ve enjoyed stopping at Joe and The Juice whenever I have a humble flight from one of London’s minor airports. Back on the weekend of my 22nd birthday, two years ago, I remember the ecstasy of tasting the ‘Power Shake’ which I ordered for myself and the two friends joining me on an early morning flight to Biarritz. Showing a bright potential in the social skills world, even at that age, I somehow convinced the barista/shake maker to rustle up a third drink for free. I was very thankful, he was happy to have made my day.
The “Power Smoothie” is no laughing matter: fresh strawberries and sliced banana blended with the mysterious “vanilla milk” which you can see at the back in large, white and blue, paper cartons. I knew it was special as soon as the milky substance first touched my lips. Though it was barely 5 am, and other English folk were tucking into a well-deserved pint at the airport Wetherspoons, we zoned out and lost ourselves in pink, sugary delight. The happy memory stayed with me as we flew to the Basque country and had fine meals in San Sebastian. I still thought of how nice it had been on evenings of cheese boards and champagne by the roaring Atlantic.
I couldn’t contain my excitement at the thought of being reunited with the drink, last Saturday. I was going to arrive at the airport 4 hours early and give in to my gluttony. With ample time at my disposal, I could order the drink, find a quiet, comfortable spot, and have a private reunion. I wanted to take my time with it, to look at it for a while, to smile and turn my gaze away, unable to contain my blushing. I thought I’d even deign to write a poem about the experience. Once the pink nectar had been finished, I’d be invigorated to plan each step of my social skills training, and what goals I had for the evening.
All was set in place when I rode out through security and scanned my surroundings for the ultimate prize. But it was nowhere to be seen. “Surely the archives must be incomplete,” I asked myself as I looked at the electronic map at the help desk. It suddenly dawned on me that my flight was taking off from the wrong Gatwick terminal. Joe and The Juice, and the power smoothie which had been the pot of gold at the end of my intermittent fast, was in Gatwick South, impossible to reach now that I had checked in. I sighed and descended into a slump for the rest of the day, with Wheat Crunchies crisps and a sugary Kind Bar, unable to fill the void in my heart.
When I got to my girlfriend’s house, it was 19:30 and my plane had been delayed by an hour. On the flight, I had been sitting next to a large DJ who was performing some reggaeton later that night at an event in Geneva. He was a good laugh and we bet on how long it would take us to land. He lightly snored and rested on my shoulder as I read some poetry.
At 21:30, I stood outside the kitchen, in the back garden, far from my girlfriend and her chums scattered around the pool. I looked up at the darkening blue sky, pretty much black except for a ghoulish glow around the edges, like sliding the brightness bar when editing a photo. It wasn’t a colour, but invisible brightness, which only just distinguished the twilight from the oncoming black.
My mission for the night had failed, or perhaps I had never truly accepted it. I had still moderately engaged with her friends, meeting new people, being friendly. But I hadn’t gone overboard. It was peaceful behind the house and I blamed my lack of action on the shadow of regret, the unfulfilled wish of a power shake at Joe and The Juice. I had already scanned the map of Switzerland for a branch and it came up blank. I hope to come back and visit the UK soon.
