“So, you want to open a restaurant, do you, ya punk?
Well, I’ve got some stories for you, kid. *Spits out tobacco he was chewing*
Where do you get off, jerk, thinking you could do something like that? Who’s funding ya? Where’s the cheese, the moolah, the smackeroons, the paper coming from, asshole? Who’s got your back? Is it Jimmy Snakefingers? Did you rob a bank, rascal? Mommy and daddy rich, are they? Whose shit did you have to shovel and for how long until you came up with that kind of money, jackoff?!
*Downs whatever is remaining of his bourbon, slams the glass back down and signals for 2 more to the barlady in one swift hand movement*
<<Exit scene>>
Ok, so THAT was a poorly depicted moment in American cinema no one ever needs to see (or read). But the message remains the same: Provided you are in the most privileged of positions and find yourself with a war chest of money/investment/or in my case, passed onto you with a world of debt and issues, why would you want to run a restaurant? What’s in it for you?
What I sadly find is that those who can, often open a restaurant, right? Let’s start there. Celebrities reveal they own 1/3 of an awful fusion joint in downtown Hollywood when conducting their strange Vanity Fair interviews. Footballers invest in tacky, glitzy spots where the food is an afterthought, and the concept is a mystery. Wealthy financiers plunge money into smallish venture capitalists who buy up the high street with chain restaurants, hoping a larger venture capitalist swallows up their portfolio and they make an easy profit. It’s all a bit depressing and rarely for the virtue of providing great food, commitment to the cause (to the end), have a bit of a character and relatable backstory, and be an integral part of a community. It’s a business. A reason to show off. A place to host VIPs. Staff revolving in and out the door through agencies, and chefs switching up the menu frequently because nothing lands. A restaurant for a restaurant’s sake. These exist. And more often than not, they suck.
Outside of this alien world are dedicated, hard-working restaurant owners who face a multitude of challenges and for whom this is their livelihood. No exit plans and no quick fixes. Just swimming against the tide of diarrhoea whilst the council drop a piano on your head. The government handing you a measly £3000 when they shut down the country for a third time because they were so reluctant to do so the first time when the rest of the world showed some sense – even though your weekly losses amount to double that amount. £3000 is a very significant amount of money for an individual; for a restaurant in London, it’s a joke.
The fun does not end there. It’s not all monetary.
It’s knowing you can’t switch off on your days off because something always goes wrong. It can be the plumbing acting up and the sinks are blocked after customers stuffed lord knows what down your toilets; A supplier not providing a vital ingredient which ruins your menu for the evening; Your restaurant shutters getting stuck and chefs not being able to access the building on a Saturday when it’s your busiest day of the week, causing you to open 2 hours later than planned; The extraction fan’s fuse blowing up so you cannot grill all night;These issues alone are things my brother, our operations manager, and I have had to contend with in the last 6 months.
Staff you spend months training, investing in, befriending and supporting abruptly leave, with very short notice. This one is fine, actually. Everyone leaves. Everyone. It’s just you in the end, and that’s something you must accept from day one. A bit morbid but also quite synonymous with life and death and those who enter and leave our lives and the final cull at the very end being a very solitary act. That’s fine. Go. Thank you for the memories and laughs and moments, anyway (sincerely).
<<New scene, somewhere in Dalston. A restaurant, Turkish-ish. Let’s call in “Mangal x”. Wait, that’s too obvious. How about “M2”. Yes, that’s better>>
“Still here, are ya, ya punk? What are you, some kinda goddamn masochist? You’re barely breaking even, your Google reviews are an abomination, and I see your eyes, you sad sack of crap. You’re on the edge of a breakdown, ain’t ya? Shit, I bet if I got off my stool rightabout now and flicked your snot-infested nose with my middle finger, that’d just about do it, am I right? That’d be the final straw to send you over. Ha! You’d even be relieved, wouldn’t ya? It would be a merciful act by the high and mighty, one last straw for your hairy-ass camel’s back. Well, I tells ya what, kid. I’m not gonna do that. Ya hear me? I’m not. You know why? You wanna know? Coz you try, kid. You try. Heck, the whole team, they all try. Some try harder than you, when you’re down feelin’ sorry for own your sad-ass and they’re pickin’ up the slack. And those customers? The one’s you’re feedin’ every night, who keep returnin’, saying “It’s the best meal they’ve had this year”. What you’re doin’, what your brother is cookin’, and your crew are servin’, folks seem to like it. They keep comin’ back, don’t they? You see ‘em comin’ back, don’t ya, kid? Now tell me, why in the goddamn hell would they be comin’ back? This ain’t church! They don’t need to be there, spending their last crumb on gruel that turns to shit in 6 hours. They’re there because it’s GOOD. You hear that? It’s GOOD. You’re doing GOOD, ya punk. That’s as good as it gets. Take it. Deal with the other problems like all business owners. Everyone has problems. Shit, you think those assholes in their shiny offices and their pearly gates and their savings accounts and perfect skin, they don’t get problems? Course they do. We all do. Here’s you *thumb and forefinger barely merge to show the smallest gap* and here’s the world *arms stretched out wide*. Look at me, yappin’ away. Yappin’ away whilst you got all of them bottles of natural wines in that fridge of yours. Pour me another glass of, whaddya call it, ORANGE wine?! Ha! Orange. Now that’s some fancy moonshine if I ever saw some. And throw in a Tahini tart with those zig- zag lightning bolt cream thing on top you punks do. Go on. Because it’s good. And it’s all worth it, when it’s good.”
<<Exit scene (for the last time, I promise)>>
He’s right, you know? That crazy old bastard who I just imagined up, having that conversation with me somewhere in America, followed by a late night lock-in at Mangal 2. He’s right. I am an “asshole”. I do feel sorry for myself when the weight of running a restaurant feels overbearing and crushing. And I do have something wonderful that people resonate with that is worth fighting for, improving, tweaking, loving, obsessing, prioritising. I am lucky. I need to be more grateful for that. And I will try to be. Because once it’s gone, it’s gone. And then I really would have something to feel sorry about.