“We’re sorry the machine isn’t working now.” This was the crushing notice greeting shoppers looking for a free hit last week in Waitrose’s Finchley Road store in north London. The unpalatable fact was that neither of the two complimentary coffee makers were in operation.
Taking into account apocalyptic fires and geopolitical instability, this mechanical breakdown may not have qualified as a harbinger of global crisis. Indeed, customers took the malfunction in their stride, gamely going about their business uncaffeinated.
But the freebie americano or latte, at a time when Sainsbury’s is dispensing with its cafes, is a critical part of Waitrose’s new campaign to lure back shoppers who have decamped to supermarket rivals, in particular Marks & Spencer. Last week, Waitrose announced that its 9 million loyalty scheme members would once again be entitled to a free coffee or tea a day, without needing to buy anything from the store – a perk controversially scrapped during the pandemic.
Waitrose also reversed a decision to reduce the number of sheets in its Essential Waitrose bathroom tissue after an online revolt from customers upset that their lavatory rolls were delivering less wipe for their money. The sheet had hit the fan following recent figures that showed M&S increasing its share of the grocery market from 3.76% to 4.03% year on year, while Waitrose had shrunk from 4.02% to 3.91%.
The point of Waitrose, of course, is that it’s pitched as posher than the rest, thus more exclusive. It’s not like Tesco, which accounts for more than a quarter of the market, or Sainsbury’s, which has about a sixth. But in retail you can’t afford to be too exclusive. The very concept of an upmarket supermarket is, after all, a kind of oxymoron in which the contrary ideas of the elite and the mass, the special and the mundane, awkwardly collide.
Britain is almost as addicted to consumer convenience as it is to social status, so a battle is raging between these two high-street institutions for the hearts, minds and stomachs of the nation’s middle class.
The problem is that this demographic seems a little more sophisticated in its shopping habits than the cliche exemplified by the comedian Michael McIntyre’s skit. Waitrose shoppers, he says, like to advertise their custom, because it shows they can afford it. But at the Finchley Road branch almost everyone testified to their consumer promiscuity.
“I’m not loyal to any supermarket,” says customer Pam Clarke. “And nobody sees me shopping here, so there’s no status effect. It’s more of a treat shop. If I’ve got family coming, I’ll tend to spend more for nicer food.”
Tim Harrison, pushing a pram with two toddlers, shops online with Sainsbury’s but frequently visits Waitrose, where he tries to buy what’s on reduced offer. “We also shop in M&S, but it’s a girl’s shop, ideal for a tasty but healthy lunchtime snack. I’d have to buy six or seven of them to satisfy me,” he says with a grin.
Christine Murtin divides her custom between M&S and Waitrose, but thinks M&S has slightly superior food. “I prefer to pay more to get better food,” she says, then complains that prices have soared since Brexit.
It’s true that import charges have pushed up the cost of produce such as cheese, fish and sausages, but both supermarkets have announced price cuts on a range of foods in the past year to compete with one another.
Marie, a 71-year-old, says she shops at Aldi, Sainsbury’s, M&S and Waitrose. “If something is £2 cheaper elsewhere, I’ll leave and go there,” she says. “I’m from Yorkshire, so I like bargains.” Yet despite her eye for the bottom line, she is unconcerned about the free coffee, which she rarely picks up – one disincentive is that you need to bring your own cup.
Just over a mile away, in South End Green at the foot of Hampstead Heath, is a Marks & Spencer food hall, a development that the company is fast rolling out across the country. Bianca Fitz says she likes the convenience of M&S but her preference is for Waitrose, which is too far to walk to. She doesn’t care what people think about where she shops. “It obviously means a lot to others, but I just go where I need the food,” she says. “I’m a very visual person. I look for environment and presentation.”
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As for the free beverages, she says she doesn’t drink coffee, but if she did, she would go to a proper cafe.
Naomi Simpson, who patronises Aldi, Waitrose and Sainsbury’s, says her favourite is M&S. “If you do a price comparison of the basic things, they are very close to Aldi,” she says. “I don’t really like Waitrose.”
What about its upper-middle class reputation? Let’s face it, we’re standing in Hampstead, practically a synonym for metropolitan privilege. “I can afford to shop anywhere, but I’m still going to be careful with my money,” says Simpson. “I’m not interested in walking around with a Waitrose carrier bag.”
Nowadays, in any case, it’s less the carrier bag than the online delivery van that is the true signifier of status. But with food prices up to 25% higher than two years ago, the social cachet of a high-end choice of supermarket probably isn’t as appealing as it once was. Besides, the kind of people who relish being seen to splash out on food are more likely to be found in the Harrods Food Halls, Planet Organic or their local farmer’s market.
Perhaps the real battle isn’t between Waitrose and M&S, but between those seemingly antithetical demands of gastronomic quality and economic value. And this, in part, is a cultural matter. Even the finest Waitrose or M&S would struggle to match a half-decent supermarket in France, Italy or Spain, where glorious delicatessens and fresh fish counters put our apologetic versions to shame.
Not until that experience is rivalled on these shores can the middle class really crow about their supermarket of choice.
