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Book extract: BabyBarista and the Art of War

BabyBarista and the Art of WarMonday 2 October 2006

Day 1 (week 1): TheBoss

‘Where’s the strong ground coffee?’ I asked, starting to panic slightly. I spent the summer working for Starbucks in preparation for today but it didn’t seem to be standing me in any stead so far.

‘Where you’d expect it to be. Over there.’

‘And the filters?’

‘Ah. We may have run out of those. You’ll need to go to the kitchen on the second 8 oor west for those.’

I took out the little map I’d been given and worked out where this was before making the dash across corridors and staircases. I arrived back, sweating, only to * nd that the kettle was now empty and needed re-boiling. Time was ticking and my stress levels were rising. Eventually it was all done and I made my way through to serve the coffee, albeit somewhat belatedly.

‘Just put it down over there, young man.’

I did so and only just stopped myself from making a bow before withdrawing to my desk.

So there it is. My first day as a pupil barrister in chambers and this is truly the diary of a nobody. I’ve been warned about it by those who’ve gone before. ‘Glorified coffee-maker’ and ‘underpaid photocopier’ were the most common descriptions. Such is the ordeal through which the Bar Council continues to force its brightest and best. Interviews and offers might be suf* cient for Goldman Sachs or McKinsey. Not so the Bar. Twelve months of four pupils fighting it out before chambers vote for which one of the four they want to take on as a tenant. A sort of upper-class reality show in microcosm where every one of your foibles will be analysed and where a blackball system exists so that if you annoy one person, you’re out. As with Big Brother, you’re playing to the lowest common denominator. Attempting to be as inoffensive as possible in the sound knowledge that it won’t be the votes in favour that get you in but the lack of votes against. Sure, they’ll go through the motions of checking my work and ticking the Bar Council’s equal opportunities forms. But the crunch comes in the unsaid so-called ‘Tennis Club Test’ – would they have me in their club . . . or not. All of which for a comprehensive school kid from north London might seem a little daunting were it not for the fact that I’d already had ivory tower practice for three years whilst studying law at Oxford. Still, as I sit here at my laptop in the corner of the office reflecting on my first day, I realise that the Bar takes that whole elitism to a new level. Not that I didn’t know what I was letting myself in for, nor can I pretend that wasn’t part of the attraction of it in the first place. That, and getting paid huge sums of money to prance around in silly clothes all day.

Anyway, after a sleepless night I’d rocked up at chambers at 8.30 a.m. on the dot.

There were no signs telling new pupils where to go. Just a board with the names of the members of chambers below an ancient archway. The entrance hall was all old Punch cartoons and tatty leather armchairs and from there it went through to the clerks’ room which in contrast looked more like a city traders’ office with a collection of seven or eight computer screens and a bunch of people talking at top speed on the phone. I made my big entrance, the start of my new life, and was completely ignored by everyone in there. A couple looked up before resuming their conversations. The others didn’t even acknowledge my presence at all. I stood there for a few minutes not wanting to interrupt before deciding to leave and try my entrance afresh. Ten minutes later I’d been around the block and was met by an immaculately dressed man in his fifties, with a paunch and a well-groomed, Richard Branson-type beard the same size as the bald patch on top of his head, as if one was somehow cancelling out the other. He looked at me in a slightly intimidating way and boomed, ‘Where did you go, young man? Taking breaks before you’ve even started?’

‘Er, no, Sir. Wasn’t sure if I’d got the right place. Went to check.’

‘Never call me Sir, Sir. My name is John. Head Clerk. You must be young Mr BabyBarista, Sir?’

‘Yes, that’s right – er – John. ’

‘Welcome aboard, Sir. We run a tight ship here in the clerks’ room. Never forget to tell us where you are when you’re not with your pupilmaster. We’ll always have something else for you to be doing. Now, where is your pupilmaster?’

One of the junior clerks eventually got around to leading me up the bare stone stairs of chambers to a decent-sized room overlooking a large car park. I’d already checked out my pupilmaster online. I’ll call him TheBoss. Educated at Winchester and Trinity College, Cambridge, he had a pretty traditional upper-middle-class barrister background. Upper second in law and then called to the Bar in the Middle Temple in 1986. He’s therefore been a barrister for some eighteen years and I found with a bit more of a Google search that he is married with two kids. Official interests: chess and tennis.

Even on first meeting you could tell that he was a vain man and he was at that stage of life where he was just starting to lose his looks but hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet. This was fairly obvious from the fact that he had clearly outgrown both his shirt and his suit trousers to the extent that they were beyond even ‘fitted’. Up top, his dark hair was receding and where it still remained it was greying. All of which he seemed to be trying to hide with a kind of arrogant air, as if trying to tell the world that nothing could touch him, not even time itself.

He showed me my tiny desk, the size of a small laptop, and before even mentioning his work or anything like that he said, ‘Now BabyBarista, let’s get the important things out of the way first.’

He led me through to a poky little boxroom with a kettle, a sink and a fridge.

‘I take my coffee on the hour but if I’m working hard, I’d like it more often. It’s something you’ll have to learn to judge. Now, I will provide you with the coffee beans and you will take it from there.

Take the grinding slowly and make it as fine as possible. Increases the surface area you know. Gets that extra bit of flavour.’

He started to look animated. ‘Then I insist on paper filters.

Only the best as well. Can’t be too careful these days. Lot of rubbish on the market. Once you’ve filtered then you’re home and dry. Mugs are here and you’ll provide the milk each morning.

Semi-skimmed. Just a dash along with half a sugar. Get this right, BabyBarista, and you’ll be destined for great things. Remember, it’s all in the grind.’

This was no joke or amusing metaphor. He was absolutely serious. This would be the heart of my job. Then, as he led me back into the room grumbling about coffee-makers he’d had in the past, he went on, ‘Oh, there’s one more important thing I like to give my pupils.’

He rummaged in his desk and then handed me a strange little book entitled The Art of War, by Sun Tzu.

‘Litigation is like war, BabyBarista. Read this and learn.’

© Tim Kevan

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