The Song, The Memory, The Marinade

Service is black and white. Hospitality is colour.

At 11pm on Friday, I was alone in the kitchen making a marinade for Cuban pork.

Did I want to go to bed? Yes.

Was I absolutely fucking loving putting it all together? Of course.

Our son—the Boy, the child formerly known as #Babybernie—and I had planned to make Cuban sandwiches together.

The ones from the film Chef. We went to the supermarket, hunted down the exact ingredients, and had a conversation with the butcher about the best cut of meat.

The marinade: freshly squeezed lime, orange juice, coriander, cumin, olive oil, black pepper, and I'm sure there was something else.

I was hoping we'd do the whole thing together. Instead, I found myself at 11pm with "Cavern" by Liquid Liquid playing, five different spoons out, measuring everything in the right order.

I'm chopping things up. I'm putting them in the blender. And as I chop, I think of a scene in the film, and I think of a scene in my own life, and I think of being in the kitchen here. I laugh at myself because I'm being so serious about what I'm doing.

But it's all building toward people taking a bite of the sandwich and being amazed at how it came out.

Twelve hours marinating. Two hours slow-roasting. No panini press, so I stacked two cast-iron pans to mimic a panini press. We didn't have the right bread, so I had to improvise, but Galicia is great for fresh bread.

The pork was amazing—we'd flick it, and it would fall off the bone. We stacked the cheese, the deli ham, pork, and pickles together, brushed the bread with butter, put it on our makeshift panini grill to finish it off, then cut the sandwich into three pieces and had a chunk each.

Fifteen minutes eating. Hours to make.

The Boy's friend was there. I'm sure they think I'm insane. Going to that much trouble to make a sandwich.

I love it when people are in our home, and we cook. I'm not that good at communicating and making small talk, but I love to cook and have people feel at home.

The art of being hospitable.

When I'm in flow

When I'm in these moments in the kitchen, I get transported back to a restaurant from a past career.

Not metaphorically. Actually transported.

I can't chop a fajita pepper without thinking of my mate Kevin Depree. I'm at the Texas Embassy Cantina, Trafalgar Square. Or Chilli's, Canary Wharf. At both places, I served and made too many fajitas.

Gary Stevenson used to go to Chilli's for the BBQ chicken wings. He references it in his book.

So much of my life in the 90s was spent in kitchens, listening to Kiss FM full blast while prepping food. Paul "Trouble" Anderson on Saturday nights. "Dangerous" Dave Pearce with Sarah HB for breakfast and drive time.

When I worked at Break For The Border, Tottenham Court Road, the sound system would thrash out Blur, Jimi Hendrix, Oasis, and Blondie. Then, around 8:30 PM, Bruce Springsteen's "Streets of Philadelphia" would come on.

Everything was calm for four and a half minutes.

Then, about 10 minutes later, the live band would start. The calm before the storm.

There's something about music and hospitality that cannot be separated. The song, the memory, the marinade.

One of the things I'm most grateful for from my time in catering and hospitality is the massive cross-section of society I met. From working in the Mayfair Intercontinental to Pizza Hut in Lakeside Shopping Centre.

So many people from so many different places. Intense kitchen situations. Opening so many new restaurants. So many good times, so many bad times.

All seared into my brain like a steak on a hot grill.

Jon Favreau's Chef is a film about rediscovering joy. A father, a son, and a friend are having fun on a food truck road trip. Loads of excuses to visit places about food. A great soundtrack.

There's a scene where Favreau's character is alone in his apartment, losing his head, cooking way too much food for one person. The song is "Cavern" by Liquid Liquid. 80s new wave punk. Pure private delight in the act of making.

Nobody's watching. It doesn't matter. He can't stop.

That was me at 11pm. Loving every second.

Very few films accurately depict the joy and hell of working in a kitchen. The Bear is one of them. Chef is another. The tension between father and son is real for me. The film touches on the same sentiments I've always felt about food, music, travel, starting a business, taking care of people, and cooking something that gives people joy.

The whole plot rests on the characters' ability to make Cuban sandwiches. That sandwich is the proof they got their soul back.

For me, when I'm at my lowest in life, I lose interest in food and music. That "Cavern" song by Liquid Liquid gets me back in. If I play that and nothing's happening when I'm in a kitchen, I know I'm fucked—time to call my therapist.

The riff from that song is what's used in the hip-hop tune "White Lines," so it ends up being the connection point for so many things. Musical transportation.

And when I get ridiculously excited—which is most of the time—about food and music and the song going with the food I'm making, I feel alive.

The way Favreau's character loses his voice and then gets it back really connects with me. Near the end, Oliver Platt's character, the restaurant critic, says to him: "You seem to be cooking for yourself again now." It shows how Platt's character originally respected Favreau's cooking and was moved by the way he got his voice back.

Narrative transportation

I think of the scene in Ratatouille, where the food critic bites the ratatouille and is transported back to his childhood. Food can transport you the same way reading can.

J.J. Peterson talks about narrative transportation in his dissertation—the way a story can literally move you somewhere else. When I was listening to George Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London, I really did feel dirty afterwards.

The way he described it: the clothes that were filthy being put on by people, the stench of the urine in the boarding houses. Even when Orwell visits Ilford and has a cup of tea and tripe, I was standing in Ilford—even though that was the Ilford of the 1950s, not when I lived there.

It's a skill, and it's an emotion, and I think it comes from the intent and connection you have with your work, whether it's food or words.

The sandwich didn't teach me anything about hospitality. It just reinforced the thrill of people, music, and food.

Service is black and white

Will Guidara helped run what was called the number one restaurant in the world. Even he says it's ridiculous to say you run the number one restaurant in the world.

But before that, he asked every job candidate the same interview question: "What's the difference between service and hospitality?"

The best answer he ever got came from a woman he ultimately didn't hire. She said, "Service is black and white. Hospitality is colour."

Black and white means you're doing your job with competence and efficiency. Colour means you make people feel great about the job you're doing for them.

Getting the right plate to the right person at the right table is service. Genuinely engaging with the person you're serving, so you can make an authentic connection—that's not gimmicks or commercial stunts or clickbait. It's intent and giving a shit about the person in front of you. That's hospitality.

Here's the translation for coworking spaces: WiFi, desks, and coffee are services. Going to unreasonable lengths because you genuinely love what you do—that's hospitality.

Often, people confuse gimmicks and perks with hospitality. Giving people cupcakes as a present in the hope that they'll do more business with you is a transaction disguised as hospitality. Remembering someone's drink and having it on the bar when they walk in is hospitality.

The 11pm marinade. The cast-iron pans. The conversation with the butcher. That's the colour.

Ian Minor defines hospitality not as a service, but as an art form. "Hospitality in coworking is about the art of being hospitable. Not about being a servant." The true product isn't the physical workspace, but the experience and the human connection. For Minor, genuine hospitality is found in the random acts of kindness that make a member's experience memorable and build a true sense of belonging.

The coworking space is the kitchen. The community manager is the chef.

Will Guidara made it simpler: hospitality is a selfish pleasure. It feels great to make other people feel good.

European Coworking Day

European Coworking Day is May 6th, 2026.

Independent spaces are opening their doors across Europe. Pop-up Art Clubs. Pop-up Write Clubs. Talk Clubs. ACTionism screenings.

No one in your neighbourhood is going to get excited about "European Coworking Day."

But when you run a pop-up coworking event, host an ACTionism screening, or do something around food—because food and kitchens always work in coworking spaces—you can host people. You can practise your own version of hospitality.

Most London Coworking Assembly events we do, someone from Urban MBA makes the food - thats Unreasonable Hospitality.

One of the first things that comes to our minds when we're planning an event is: what are we going to do for the food and coffee?

Because that little detail is what brings energy to the event. And you can too.

As Ellie and Jon say in ACTionism: this is how you find the others.

Saying "Do you want to come to a European Coworking Day event?" probably won't get a result.

Inviting people to have lunch and talk about their work with each other and saying "we got this food from the local bakers and here's some gorgeous drink made by someone in our coworking space"—that creates connection and hospitality.

This is your moment to be the colour in your neighbourhood. To host something you genuinely want to host. To go to unreasonable lengths because you love what you do.

Every coworking space I've ever been in is looking for ways to connect more deeply with its local area. European Coworking Day is the collective answer to that question.

And if you're in London on May 19th: Unreasonable Connection at Space4, Finsbury Park. 60 people. Limited tickets. The room where operators who genuinely love this work come to compare notes.

What's your 11pm marinade?

Coming up on the Coworking Values Podcast

We've taken a week off from the podcast because we've been moving websites and hosting platforms.

Koder, Hannah Mojica, Mathias Vanluchene, Carlos Ballesteros, Gislene Haubrich, Rosie Sherry, Mark Masters, Sonya, Julie.

We're talking local neighbourhood creativity, S Club 7, how democracy emerges at work, why LLMs and interfaces don't create moats, what the decline of nightclubs and offices have in common, how to connect people before an event, unreasonable hospitality, and story.

⚡️ Bernie's Picks

Books

Unreasonable Hospitality - Will Guidara
Service is black and white. Hospitality is colour. The entire book is proof.

Down and Out in Paris and London - George Orwell
Narrative transportation. You can smell the greasy kitchens.

Citizens - Jon Alexander
You don't need global reach. You need neighbourhood power. The Citizen Story is how we build it.

Film

Chef (2014) - Jon Favreau
The apartment scene with "Cavern" by Liquid Liquid. That's what I was doing at 11pm.

Music

"Cavern" - Liquid Liquid
80s new wave punk. The song I was listening to at 11pm making the marinade. This is the version filmed live at the Licon Centre 2009

"Streets of Philadelphia" - Bruce Springsteen
Everything was calm for four and a half minutes. The calm before the storm.

Articles

Service is Black and White, Hospitality is Colour - LCA

You Don't Need Global, You Need Neighbourhood - LCA

Activate

European Coworking Day - May 6, 2026
Independent spaces are opening their doors across Europe. Find your nearest event or register your own.
https://coworkingday.eu/

Unreasonable Connection - May 19, 2026
Space4, Finsbury Park, London. 50 (ish) people. Limited tickets.
https://luma.com/LCAMay2026

Monday (Tuesday) Domino

Write down your 11pm marinade - the thing you do at unreasonable hours because you can't not. Then build your next event around it.

p.s
We have 29 seats left for Unreasonable Connection live! 19th May London