As the weather cools, and the temperatures fall, Mangal II breathes again. The bookings increase, the finances stop getting pummelled, and there is hope. Every year, it’s the same. From June to August, as the fires burn the charcoal at our premises, my brain is inflamed and my chest bursts with demonic fear. “We’re fucked”, I keep telling precisely no one because I can’t bear to share my worst realities coming to light. So I keep telling myself “We’re fucked. We’re fucked. We are well and truly fucked”, as I lay awake at night tossing and turning, seeking peace and knowing it won’t arrive whilst the sun blazes.
Having a homogenous customer base is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, you can make decisions with the menu and know the majority will receive it well. You know your clientele enough to believe that when something works, it will work for most. That’s because a substantial portion of our customers are pretty much the same demographic: Aged 25-45; middle-class; knowledgeable about food and produce; considerably cultured; excited to be here.
On the flip side, the following is problematic (for us, in a business sense):
- They all go to Glastonbury and other festivals, so they eat out less in the lead up/aftermath to save money and social engagements until the party season ends
- They all go on mini breaks abroad during the summer months, again cutting back on spend like meals out to balance holidays outgoings
- They all want to be at a pub garden/outdoor al fresco dining space/a park somewhere, when the summer hits
- They don’t crave hot-fire coal cooking when that is served up indoors, it’s practically the last thing they desire – ironically, anyone cooking up anything as long as it’s feasted upon outside is immediately favoured and sought after
I get it. When it’s 34C I don’t want to be at Mangal II either. Unlike you, the reader, I don’t have a choice. I have to suck it up and pray for rain (I am at my wits end by mid-July and will happily summon an ancient rain dance to the Aztec gods if it will bring results). Throughout these hellish months, the very season that those who are not in my position (as “fretful restaurant owner”) very much look forward to all year, our restaurant sees an average 25% drop off in revenue. Seeing as most hospitality venues are already on the knife’s edge when it comes to the fine tightrope between survival and death, that decrease is monumental.
But today, it rains. The air cools. Our smoke lures you in. And you are hungry. I silently pray my gratitude to the rain gods.
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Last week, much to my great shame, I had to go to a private members club. I can’t get into specifics but it was for a potential event to promote a thing related to the restaurant that is out soon, which you all should buy because the thing itself is great and my brother and I wrote and created it and, yeah, that thing itself – I am supremely proud of. But I digress. I had to go to a stupid club in the middle of central London to meet people who floated the idea of having a special themed evening promoting this very thing.
Prior to my arrival, at no point in the corresponding emails was I informed that I had to wear a blazer at said stupid club for stupid rich people. So, I arrived with my rain jacket, tote bag, trainers, like any normal mid-30s Londoner. I was early, which if any of you know me, is a rarity as I often run on “Turkish-time”. I was early because I was a little nervous, not sure what to expect. Upon entering, I was swiftly told by the man at the door that I may need to borrow a blazer when I go in. An immediate uncomfortable introduction for anyone. I walked in and the reception glanced me up and down a few times and asked me who I was here to see. After informing them, they told me they would check their diary to see if this was the case, and for the time being if I could please take a seat across them.
10 minutes passed and they didn’t say a word, whilst a multitude of extremely wealthy, mostly short men in their 50s arrived. They were greeted with warmth and courtesy, led to the bar, or upstairs. They all seemed to carry an umbrella, which the reception was more than happy to keep hold of whilst your Lucians, and Barnabys, and Bartholomews, were given a freedom pass to mingle and spend presumably £63 on a cocktail.
I sat there and waited, watching the movements of the elite. The lack of stress lines on their skin. The seamless steam of their ironed suits hanging elegantly off their torsos. The softness of their hands, untroubled, never clenched, never scarred.
They’re aliens to me.
That world is alien to me.
I sat there and waited, already regretting even entertaining the prospect of such a collaboration, knowing full well from the get-go I would not go ahead with it, and that I had turned up out of morbid curiosity.
The reception didn’t acknowledge my wait there once. I sat and waited, and by the end felt like one of the discarded umbrellas, lying in storage until its owner picked it back up again. But did I feel bad? No. The lack of hospitality aimed at me was presumably because:
1. I’m not a member there
2. I wasn’t wearing the correct attire
This was not on me, but rather, their outdated rituals. So, I thought “Fuck ‘em”. I sat, and waited.
The people I was there to see arrived, we went upstairs, and they floated ideas. By the end, I asked “Will I be paid for this event” - to which, unsurprisingly, the answer was “No. But you get to dine here one evening with a +1”.
I think the last place on earth I would dine at is a private members bar, even if it’s free. But thank you.
I guess that’s how the wealthy remain wealthy. You invite a restaurant with a 30-year heritage to hold an event at your club, and assume by being invited and “accepted” in the first place, by virtue that is a currency which will feed the restaurant’s insecurities and desire to “belong”. You offer them status and a platform, rather than actual money. Because that’s all for you to keep and spend and circulate amongst your warped circle.
Mangal II does not need you. You clearly need Mangal II, to boost your “authenticity”. To sponsor an inner-city establishment owned by people of colour. To be “in” with the cool lexicon. Or whatever.
I’m not even angry at this exchange, just mildly bemused. That world, the elitism and its protection, seems so removed from reality. Where the rich only mingle with the rich, and a whole majority of society is excluded as they seek refuge inside the gates of gold. Where the food banks and the poverty of London is blocked by the noise of “Yah, yah, yah”.
I appreciate that the version of the restaurant today is not one which can feed the masses like it did in the past. We’ve changed substantially to pursue a gastronomic vision which cheap produce could not provide. I am guilty of that, and I know that in itself was an exclusionary act that shunned a lot of my old regulars who could no longer afford to dine at Mangal II as frequently as they used to. I apologise. I had to, otherwise my business would have gone bust and my livelihood put at risk. The old method wasn’t working anymore (for us), and I had to be proactive. That does not mean I am ignorant to the world itself, to its dangers, to its disparity between rich and poor. And the last thing I will ever tolerate at my own restaurant is a potential customer coming in and being treated as a lesser-being.
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I fully recognise my disdain for the lifestyle of the supremely rich has a strong correlation with me being a business owner who worries about money. But at my core, I hate exclusionary behaviour. I hate snobbery, and I cannot stand exploitation.
So, we stay in our lane whilst they draw lines. Two asteroids orbiting but never colliding. One with substance, the other at a fragile risk if another element contacts it, smashing to smithereens. There’s more light over here, despite the darkening of days. And better yet, no dress code.