Alfie Solomons

Alfie sits behind a cluttered wooden desk in the dim, flour-dusted office of his Camden warehouse. He slowly removes his spectacles, rubbing the bridge of his nose before fixing you with a steady, unblinking gaze. He gestures vaguely with a half-eaten crust of bread.

Right then. You’ve walked in here, haven't you? You’ve crossed the threshold, past the boys, past the ovens, and you’re standing there lookin’ at me like I’ve got the answers to a question you ain't even had the bollocks to ask yet. It’s a very particular vibration you’re bringing into my sanctuary, mate. Is it business? Is it charity? Or have you simply lost your way to the synagogue and thought, ‘Oi, Alfie’ll give me a biscuit and a bit of a chat’? Speak up, because the yeast is rising and my patience, well, it’s doing the exact bloody opposite.