Guy Marchetti
Marchetti Cafe
The moment you step inside, it’s clear, this isn’t just a café. It’s a gathering place. A neighbourhood hub. A “new kind of local.” Inspired by the warmth of a family-friendly pub, Marchetti Café was built to bring people together. Here a perfectly brewed coffee, a fresh juice, or a dish that feels both familiar and unexpected is refined.
With 40 years of combined experience. Michelin-starred kitchens, gastropubs, and hospitality groups. Guy and Nadine have infused their expertise into every detail. Even a sandwich. Simple but elevated - crafted with thought, technique, and a little surprise.
Guy calls out to me from the kitchen. Before I can say a word, Guy sweeps me into a bear hug, his energy infectious as he asks what I’d like. It’s still early, just after the school run, so I keep it simple—my usual black coffee and a pastry.
As I glance toward the barista and waitress, I’m met with beaming smiles—genuine, welcoming, the kind that instantly make you feel at home.
I take the bench by the big window. The morning light pours in, golden and warming the wood, the walls, the quiet. The café breathes around me—soft colours, low voices, the clink of cups. There is laughter, easy and real. It feels like something familiar. Something good. Not just a place for coffee, but a place to rest. A place where time moves gently and the day begins the right way.
Guy’s journey into food wasn’t linear. By 14, he was hooked on cooking but pursued management and economics. Realising he didn’t want to be an accountant, he wanted to run a restaurant. He dived into Catering College, worked his way through kitchens. Eventually became Group Executive Chef at Fuller’s, overseeing 200 kitchens. He was poised for the next corporate role when COVID hit. One evening in the garden, Nadine asked, “Do you really want to do that?” The truth was, he didn’t.
A café, a neighbourhood spot? When they couldn’t find a space, they bought a van, got a park permit, and started making coffee. Guy didn’t even like coffee at first. They surprised people with the quality of food coming from a van. When they finally secured a café space, it took fifty weeks of paperwork, but in January 2024, they opened their doors.
“It quickly became clear, this wasn’t just a café. It was a restaurant without limits. No strict concept. No rigid cuisine. Just a space to experiment and create”. Guy preps garlic and mushrooms for later. He’s Italian roots run deep. Family cafés on both sides serving ice cream, coffee and small concessions in Scotland. The family mantra: Don’t go into the café business. Guy found himself right back where it all began”.
“The van had been a lifeline for parents at the park. The café followed suit. Every part of the space, from the interior design, crafted by our neighbour to the locally hired team, is woven into the fabric of the neighbourhood. Ninety percent of the staff walk to work. The rest cycle. The menu evolves based on customer feedback. If something doesn’t work, it disappears. If it resonates, it stays”
The café hums with life all morning. Friends reunite over steaming cups. Mums linger after the school drop-off. Stories of after-school clubs and weekend plans. Others breeze in. Greeted by name and a bright smile.Their perfectly brewed flat whites and lattes crafted with care by Peter, who moves with precision behind the espresso machine at the heart of it all. This isn’t just a coffee shop. It’s a place of connection. Fueled by the rich, complex beans from Mont 58, roasted just down the road.
Community has always been the heart of it. You see it in the small things. A space for buggies by the door. It doesn’t seem like much, but it matters.
Guy and Nadine know. They’ve got three kids. They’ve hauled strollers through tight doors. Tried to drink coffee with one hand.
Nadine, especially, has built the place for people like them—for parents who are tired, for families who just want a break. She sees them. Talks to them. Asks if they’re alright.
One woman posted online. Said Nadine noticed her. Asked if she was okay. If she needed anything. That was it. But it helped. Some days, that’s all it takes. Someone seeing you.
Now, cafés are second nature to Guy. First thing he does in any town is find one. Sit. Watch. Drink the coffee. He never knew how much a café meant until he built his own.
Saturdays prove it. Busy. Loud. Full of life. The kind of chaos that feels right.
But he can’t see it like the others do. Not fully. Not as a customer. Even on days off, he’s there. Eyes sharp. Hands itching. Always something to fix, something to change. That’s the trade. When it’s yours, you never really leave it.
Everything they serve starts simple. Familiar. Then they make it sing. Take the scrambled eggs and mushrooms on sourdough.
The bread comes from a bakery started by one of the founders of Franco Manca. Born in Napoli 45 years ago. Still alive. Still strong.
The eggs are Clarence Court. Rich and golden. Scrambled slow. Pushed through a sieve so they come out smooth as cream. Then more cream for richness.
The mushrooms are chestnut. Wine, double cream. The flavour deepens over six hours. No rush here.
“This is what I love,” Guy says. “Taking good food and making it better. We don’t do avocado on toast. We’ve got avocados. If someone asks, I’ll make it. But it’s not going on the menu. It’s just avocado on toast.”
The food comes from two places—what’s known, and what’s found. Some of it’s in the bones, like Nonna’s Lasagna. It’s his mum’s recipe. Built on memory.
Other dishes start with a spark. A new ingredient. A method worth trying. They play with it. Change it. Make it theirs.
Everything, except the bread and pastries, is made from scratch. Most people don’t see the work. The prep. The time. But it’s there. In every bite. The small things matter. They always have.
What he wants—what they both want—is for people to feel good when they walk in. Safe. At ease. Like they belong. And when they leave, he hopes they feel more than full. He hopes they feel seen. Maybe even a little surprised.
Peter slices over, carrying fresh coffee. Guy’s flat white, rich and velvety. Mine black, bold and smooth. The cups hit the table just as a voice from the kitchen cuts through the quiet.
“Guy! What’s the veggie sandwich today? What should I call it?”
Guy’s eyes light up. “Like a hash brown, but with a twist. Thick, crispy. We’re layering it with smoky romesco. Rich. Full of bite. That’s the feeling we want.”
He shoots me that look - the one that says he’s off to the kitchen to make something new.
I grin. The couple beside me catches it too.
“He loves this place,” I say.
“We come every week,” they say, smiling. “There’s a reason for that.”
