There’s a specific feeling, not unlike vertigo, when it suddenly hits home, mid-service, that you’ve been comprehensively had. A stomach-loosening, head-reeling, doors-of-perception-opening hit of pure visceral nausea, as the reality of a total stitch-up dawns upon you. One hour in, half of your expected and confirmed guests have not arrived, and you aren’t taking concerned calls. The nightmare unfolds.
Last Sunday was a Sunday like any other, only more so. Mother’s Day is typically a busy and jolly affair, as mums are pretty universally popular, many people are fortunate enough to have one, and a high proportion of those take the opportunity to celebrate the fact over lunch. At my restaurant Brunswick House, in Vauxhall, London, (a somewhat over-decorated Georgian mansion doubling as dining room and architectural salvage yard), we probably had about twice the amount of diners booked in as usual, and had corralled all available staff, filled the kitchen’s fridges, emptied New Covent Garden market of flowers, and generally rolled out the barrel. All morning as we busied away, anxious guests calling to beg a spare table were regretfully disappointed, and all the guests who’d reserved tables, many weeks ahead, were called to confirm their expected arrival time, allergies, and so on. However, by about 1pm it was clear something was up. Guests were not appearing. They were suddenly not taking or returning our calls. This was the moment my head started spinning, and the sharp, biting pang of my least favourite gastric ulcer started nibbling away in nervous torment. I clutched on to the nearest stainless steel counter, wincing, seeing exactly what was coming.
None of us got into this to make money. They are very few restaurateurs who could be described as wealthy
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