I once ran a Gastropub back in Melbourne. A large venue, based in an inner-city, pocket of a neighbourhood. I didn't work there for a very long time and neither do I think we every got to truly be a Gastropub. When I came onboard, it was essentially operating like a confused and earnestly hip restaurant, that some nights would convert into a cheap nightclub. I immediately decided that my first aim was to try and make the whole product function in one cohesive presentation. One easily defined product.
Businesses that wish to operate as a neighbourhood venue and profit through attracting and building a reputation amongst a specific local and returning demographic, must be easy to define; easy for the locals to put into a box. For example, a place that you and your mates might refer to as 'The Burger Joint on the Corner', is profitable if for no other reason than a whole bunch of people refer to it - lovingly or otherwise - by that exact handle. If one is hungry for fast food and doesn't wish to travel far from home, they wont have to scan the rolodex in their mind for too long to come upon ‘the place on the corner’. Customers love a place that does what it says on the label.
I love the Gastropub concept. It's essentially an English version of the Italian Trattoria. A Trattoia is local restaurant, catering regional and seasonal food, aimed at those within the immediate vicinity of the venue. Simple, unpretentious and completely warm and inviting, the personalities of the long-term staff dominate the character of the place. Whereas it shouldn’t be trying to compete with the comfortability of your Mum's, it should have the familiarity of, say, an uncle's beachhouse - homely without being home. The English edition has the very English addition of beer. The English feel more comfortable when there is a pint or twelve close by and so the Gastropub was born. Healthy, grown-up and intelligent food, served in a pub environment, without the complications and restrictions that one would expect in a more formal restaurant environment.
I tried hard to maintain the venue and it's baroque, mismatch of green and white fittings on this one path. But I kept coming up against the schizophrenic meddling of the owners. They really had the best of intentions and certainly weren't short on effort, but in retrospect they had probably taken the business as far they could on their own and it was time to let someone else's expertise take over. Ego is a cruel mistress and their previously acquired financial handicaps did not allow the time to overcome Mistress Ego and relinquish total control. A theme, that I am sure quite a few of you reading this now have heard played before in businesses that you have been involved in or with.
One evening, towards the end of my short tenure there, The Owner informed me that he had leased our private function room for the next day to a friend of his that owned a smallish chain of shitty coffee shops. He would let them in himself early in the morning and they'd be gone by the time we opened for lunch. They would be holding a sort of Annual General Meeting for their head office staff. I'm not sure why they couldn't hold their AGM at either said head-office or at one of their own little venues, but I was distracted from these considerations when I was served with the additional information that The Owner has also surrendered our coffee machine to be used by one of their baristas to make coffees for their entire group.
If you have never been to Melbourne, you will not truly appreciate how seriously we take our coffee. Coffee consumption to Melbournians is as impassioned as Guinness is to the Irish or Cricket is to Indians or Heavenly Virgins are to people who chose to blow themselves up on trains. Coffee is that serious. To serve that end, I had just earlier that very same week had an Egyptian Barista - one of Melbourne's best - install and precisely set up a beautiful two-group Wega. We had spent an entire afternoon getting everything from pressure and temperature, to the grind and dosage just perfect. Perfect, that is, to our taste; perfect to our particular aim.
Baristas are a funny lot. The better they think they are, the more they fight their right to be individual and independent. As soon as I learnt that another barista would be using our new machine and grinder, I knew he or she would reset all my settings. Furthermore, I knew that these guys serve pretty insipid, flat and drab coffee. Whatever changes they would make to our set-up, would not have a positive net result.
"We're a Gastropub." I thought, "Not a living room to let your friends play shop in."
The next day, I thought I'd come in an hour earlier than normal. Hopefully, I'd catch the dodgy barista before they could do any real damage. No such luck. As soon as I turned back from the front door I caught the sight of a Brunette Waif, riding my new Mazzer Grinder like a demented retiree pulling violently away at one of those Poker-Machines in Las Vegas.
"This don't look good" I announced just loud enough for her to hear.
She turned around and smiled a toothy grin, showing off a full set of braces. The Waif was probably in her early twenties, but anytime I see someone wearing braces, I find it impossible to perceive them as any older than eight years old. She informed me that she was just finishing up one last coffee and then would be done for the day. I nodded a curt acknowledgement and trooped off to the upstairs office, to dump my things and check for any emails. When I returned some five minutes later, she was gone. Nowhere to be seen. The same couldn't be said for evidence of her handiwork. The Steam Wand on the machine was still covered in sloshed, burnt milk. The Group Handles lay strewn like dead soldiers in the bar sink, still full of used Coffee Grinds. There were dozens of used, dirty coffee cups and spoons scattered all over the bar-top. Dark coffee stains littered in small explosions all over the whole back-bar area and several empty cartons of our milk stood beside the Grinder. They had emptied our Grinder to make way for their dry, over-roasted, stale beans and left our perfect, glistening coffee beans in a bowl further along the bar.
Even writing this memory to you now, draws a dramatic spiking in my Ire-Levels. I could be verbose and eloquent in summing up the scene I found, but nothing would be more precise than simply calling it a 'Shit Fight!'. This mole had trashed my bar, my grinder, my machine and had stolen my milk. And, she had braces!! Who hires a barista with braces?!?!
I stormed off to look her for her. I barged into their meeting, demanding to speak with her. A 40-something, balding hipster, rose from the head of the table to inform me that she had left for the day and asked what the problem was. Wordlessly, I lead him back to the bar and stood with folded arms awaiting an apology and an immediate rectification to the aforementioned 'Shit Fight'. No apology came. Instead, I got this brilliantly grandiloquent (how's that for a word?) response:
"What?"
This was all the spark my fuse needed. To mix in another cliché, I flew off the handle. Want another? I went off like a frog in a sock! I can't remember exactly what I yelled at him, but what I do recall, and will probably never forget, is how I finished my tirade. It's the whole reason I’ve given you the above story. I took a long silent pause, looked him directly in the eye, shook my head a few times and said in a low, even voice:
"Disappointed. That's how I feel. Disappointed. You disappoint me. I can't believe that you are considered part of my industry. This performance of filth and your reaction to it is not Hospitality Industry. This is not the actions of an industry that most of the greatest people I have ever met, belong to. I am disappointed in you and I'm disappointed that you belong to my industry."
His face fell. All the pride and arrogance that carried him, just collapsed. He must have felt just like a schoolboy being lectured by his mother upon being thrown out of school for beating up the Special Ed kid. There really is nothing worse than feeling like our actions are disappointing. It alludes to the other person at one point having a higher opinion of ourselves than we really deserve, but now they see you for the trash that you really are. No one wants to hear that we are actually less of the man than we think we are. It cuts. Especially when it relates to our career choice; when it is aimed at one of the very things that defines the input we make upon this planet. Disappointed- it stings.
I don't want to disappoint anyone. I know that unintentionally and accidently I do - probably more often than I even care to admit to myself - and I can live with that. I have to. We all do. But what I never wish to live with, is consciously disappointing someone when it can be avoided.
This is why I now have to move on. Real soon. It’s time to buy another ticket and take another ride. You can't give me what I want and therefore I'm gonna end up editing down what I am willing to give you back in return. That will only disappoint the higher expectations that you have of me. That will only disappoint the even higher expectations I have of myself.
I can't allow that.
I'm Hospitality and I'm better than that.
