13th March 2010

It’s been a year since I started my ‘career’ at Yaiks. The project I came to lead is no longer called Buzzplaces; it’s become Wovox. ‘Wo’ for ‘Workplace’ and ‘vox’ for ‘voice’. We want to give places where people work an authentic, honest voice.

We built a first website and filled it with a first batch of company profiles. Of customers no sign yet. All of the photos and videos we posted on Wovox.com came from the Internet. Of a business model, also no sign yet. Wovox is financed by the websites that Michel and his team build for other clients; my pay comes from my savings account.

What if my piggy bank runs empty before we figure out how to make money through giving people in companies that authentic, honest voice? I don’t know, and today I’m going to worry not. It’s Saturday morning, I just came from a yoga class, and I’m at a bakery, queuing for a loaf of bread.

I look at the people queuing before me, watch the bakery staff and hear myself think, Funny… It’s hectic here, yet the whole thing feels calm. Every person being served is backed by a long line of people waiting, yet each person is served attentively, and every question receives a detailed answer, without hurry.

I’ve been here before, so I know the bread is worth waiting for. But only now do I notice something beyond the smell of freshly baked goods.

Again, my eyes wander around the bakery.

What if I…

Shall I do it?

…

Yeah, I’m gonna do it.

I open my rucksack, take out my small camera and start taking pictures.

It’s me looking through the lens, but I feel watched, as if I’m doing something naughty. Then, suddenly, it’s him, right in front of me.

Fred Tiggelman, owner of the bakery. I recognise him from photos on the wall. He looks at me inquisitively; I look back like he just caught me red-handed.

‘So, I saw you taking photos,’ he says with a calm, slightly serious look. ‘What’s your interest?’

My head starts glowing; it must be bright red.

‘Ehm… I’m working on a website that gives people an inside look at companies. A real look, to help them find their dream job. I also want to show inspiring companies on that website, and today, this feels like an inspiring company.’

—‘Well, come along then.’

Fred opens the low door that separates me from him, and I step behind the scenes of Hartog’s Wholemeal Bakery & Mill. I’m about to receive an unscheduled and highly personal tour by the owner himself on the busiest day of the week.

As Fred takes me along, I meet staff, take photos of the ovens and dough machines, ask questions, listen, and ask more questions. Then Fred tells me we’re going to walk to the Sandwich Shop. It opened last year and is just around the corner.

Walking outside and approaching the shop’s entrance, I see a bin full of umbrellas, each with a laminated card attached that reads, ‘Feel free to borrow this umbrella.’ Inside, I’m greeted by a sign.

‘How nice,’ I say.
—‘Yeah, there are enough obligations already.’

‘We have free Wifi here,’ Fred explains, ‘and you can bring your own food and drinks. Okay, if you sit down with your laptop all day every day, never ordering anything… yeah, then we might say something.’

This isn’t a sandwich shop, I think, this is an artist’s studio… and a social experiment.

Fred continues with a bit of history. In 1997, he took over the Hartog family business. No one advised him to do it; his enthusiasm did. He is the seventh generation owner and the first from outside the family.

‘I don’t believe in business plans,’ he says while preparing me a sandwich. ‘I’ve never made one. Those things push you in a direction and leave zero room for change.

‘When we started work on the sandwich shop, we had no idea about the furnishing. First, the old interior had to come out; only then, in the space, did I start getting a picture. After that, it was just small steps. For instance, the decision for a floor came when I walked into a place where they had exactly the kind of floor I like. You can’t plan for things like that.

‘Just before the start of last year’s Summer, the shop was ready. I doubted whether to open immediately, but I wanted a holiday, so we opened six weeks later.

‘I work 45 hours a week; more feels unnecessary. And I won’t turn Hartog’s into a franchise or a chain. I could easily do it, but I want to keep the business close. It needs to remain personal. The bread has to stay real.

‘We post our recipes on the wall, and you can find them in our books. We also organise regular baking classes, but not for large groups. I want people to come and learn something, not just have fun with friends. Yeah, because once, I was in the car and heard on the radio that thousands of people in the Netherlands would get laid off. And then I thought, Yeah, maybe we should give something back. So if you can’t buy our bread, you can make it yourself.’

I’m a sponge soaking up inspiration. What a river of passion, a mountain of abundance—a consumption not obliged!

When I say goodbye to the man who gave me ninety minutes of his undivided attention—plus a sandwich, it’s well past midday. Not once did he ask whether I’m ‘legit’; not once did he want to know ‘what’s in this for me?’.

I step outside, fulfilled.

Oh, wait, I came here to buy bread.