Finding ourselves in Grimsby on business (oh, the joy!) we decided to pause for a caffeine fix before tackling the rest of the day. The choice fell, somewhat by default, on Bakers + Baristas inside Freshney Place shopping centre — one of those modern, anonymous coffee chains that seem to multiply like mushrooms after rain. Still, ever the optimist, I thought a decent flat white might redeem the morning.
Mrs Wanderer gamely joined the queue while I went in search of a table. My first choice was less than inviting: a scattering of sticky coffee spills, crumbs, and the unmistakable ring marks of recently departed cups. Clearly, table cleaning isn’t high on the staff’s list of priorities. I moved to another. Equally grim. A third. Still sticky. By this point, I’d lost the will to continue my treasure hunt for cleanliness and settled down, trying not to touch too much of the surface.
Mrs W soon reappeared with our order — a cappuccino for her, a flat white for me. I took one look at mine and felt my hopes sink. It had that unmistakable machine-made look about it: the froth as white as snow, piled high and featureless, with none of the silky crema or leaf motif you get when someone actually knows how to pour a coffee. It looked like something dispensed from a button rather than crafted by hand.
Nevertheless, I took a sip. Weak. Lifeless. And then the flavour hit me — not of freshly ground beans or roasted notes, but something oddly familiar. Evaporated milk. It was like being transported straight back to my grandfather’s kitchen in the 1980s, when “coffee” meant a teaspoon of instant and a generous glug of Carnation from a tin. I’m all for nostalgia, but not in my espresso.
I took it back to the counter and, in my politest tone, asked whether it had been made on a proper espresso machine. The young “barista” blinked at me and said, “I like to think so.” That reply alone deserves its own space in the annals of customer service. To her credit, she remade the drink, but alas, the second attempt fared no better. Somehow, it still managed to taste like evaporated milk, albeit with slightly more determination.
Meanwhile, Mrs W was gamely working through her cappuccino, which she declared “fine.” Not praise exactly, but at least drinkable — a small mercy.
By the time we left, the sticky tables remained sticky, the coffee machine was still doing whatever it was doing, and I was no closer to understanding how anyone could make coffee taste like the 1980s in liquid form.
So, if you find yourself in Grimsby and in desperate need of caffeine, my advice would be to keep walking. There must be somewhere nearby that knows its way around an espresso machine — or at least has a clean table.
Verdict: 2/5 — saved only by Mrs W’s cappuccino being marginally acceptable and the barista’s unintentional sense of humour.
The Willoughton Wanderer 
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