Sometimes I don’t know what to write. Or to be more transparent, I know exactly what I want to convey but I feel ashamed and worried, so I put it off. Usually, these newsletters are released at the start of every month – a self-imposed deadline that I place importance on, which realistically makes no difference to you, the loyal reader. But I feel an obligatory sense of duty to provide.
It is now November 12th. I’ve missed my own deadline by a big stretch. The reason? My anxiety has been through the roof. I’ve attempted to try and get by day by day, and have put off all creative endeavours whilst focusing on the matter at hand: The survival of Mangal II.
Dalston is dead tonight. I write this at my restaurant. It is Thursday. 7pm. We have 4 covers booked in for tonight – again, a Thursday. A night of the week where typically we’d be packed across the board, usually reaching 60-75 customers. Tonight, with the aid of walk-ins, that number may be around 20, or just under. That, in numerical terms, is what statisticians refer to as “shit”. Tomorrow and Saturday look far healthier, but when you’re a business like mine, every shift counts. There’s very little grace period for a bad evening, let alone a poor-performing week.
I try everything. I try it all. We now open Tuesdays. We do sandwiches every Thursday and Friday lunch. Chefs spread their work week across 5 days rather than 4 intense double-shift days, still working the same hours. I haven’t raised our prices in 3 years, whilst dropping the expensive wines from my menu and reducing the fee for cocktails to be a tenner. I took a significant salary cut. I work more days every week despite being a co-parent, relying on my mum to help with childcare for the extra evenings I go to work to do a shift, to avoid paying for more part-time staff to come in.
In the end, it doesn’t seem to affect much.
And still, the food is great. The staff are lovely. The feedback and reviews are brilliant. But it’s never enough. The tightrope between survival and failure is thinning like it’s on Ozempic, whilst the gusts of VAT and soaring food costs and National Minimum Wage winds keep trying to knock small businesses down. Andy Burnham flirted with a hospitality VAT reduction before being sworn in as Prime Minister. When the Budget was released, did he adhere to that? Did he fuck. We’re the highest tax payers in our industry across all of Europe. And have a culinary scene that is the envy of every European city with a broad range of world-class cuisines and exemplary standards. But it’s almost as if the government (and previous governments) completely take this for granted. Well, great job, you political nerds in Westminster who never worked a single shift at a restaurant, café, pub, in their lives – you’re killing the industry and businesses like mine. But yes, keep those arms spending up every year, cut welfare, and don’t ever tax your real bosses (global corporations, oligarchs, the super-rich) sufficiently. Great priorities, Britain.
So, what to do? Well, by now I feel like I’ve exhausted all options. I will never crowdfund out of sheer principle, nor will I go to a loser influencer to drive up my business. So, I ask you the reader, to help me. I struggle to ask for help generally, as a person, but here I am, tail between my legs, hoping there is enough collective goodwill to aid a 32-year-old independently run family business.
What you can do:
1. Buy our gift cards (through our website). This means you buy yourself, or a loved one, a meal here. You’re essentially pre-paying for a service you or the recipient will receive. No one loses, all is fair, and you get something in return (essentially, you get the exact thing you’re paying for), whilst giving a restaurant some financial breathing space.
2. Eat here. Especially weeknights. This is an obvious one but we’re influxed with weekend bookings and not-so-much in the weeknights. Maybe, if you and your guest/s have it in you, you could switch up your social/dinner plans and have it on a Thursday, say, instead of a Friday. Weeknights mean a steadier pace, slightly more attentive-service, and more room for conversation. Less table turning and a fuller experience.
3. Tell your friends. Many of you wonderful readers are not locally based but have a network in North & East London. Big us up. Send them this newsletter. Be our champions.
4. Private hire us. We are in the heart of Dalston. We can cover 55 guests in one go. We serve fantastic food and have a tonne of experience with large bookings. If you have a corporate job and have a function to book, consider us rather than turning to your usual Soho/Shoreditch haunts. Our neighbourhood is filled with the best bars for after-dinner fun. We have good transport links for guests to reach here and return home safely.
5. Let us cater your event. We have provided feasts for scores of weddings, countless birthday parties, and even gigs for high profile musicians backstage. Whatever the function, we’ve done it before and we will happily do it again. We offer big kebab and meze offerings for such occasions, as that is communally the best thing for large parties to devour.
Two days ago, my son (11), said to me in the car: “Baba remember, if you ever feel weak, one pube can close down a whole restaurant”.
I’m sure he heard this on YouTube, or the playground, or during Minecraft chat. But it hit me because lately I have felt weak and helpless. I laughed, naturally, but it also made me reflect how precarious everything feels lately. How sometimes it weighs on me that I feel like I’m one pube away from disaster.
In the end, I guess all this makes me kind of sad. I’ve never had to grovel and have never had to ask for favours. Yet here I am, cornered and sick to death of pretending everything is alright. Fundamentally, I don’t have faith in governments, but I believe in people. I believe in the collective. I believe in the community and the good faith of others.
You don’t owe me a thing. I get it. And essentially, I mean, I know I’m not the only owner of a business in hospitality who is in this situation. In fact, most are. I have a platform (of sorts), and whilst I am by no means an ambassador, or spokesperson for this industry, I do have a voice. I’m sure many readers of this on the same boat will echo my sentiments. And those who do not have the luxury of owning a business in a trendy corner of London – I’m certain you have your own struggles to battle during a cost-of-living crisis. These issues are symbiotically interwoven with a general decline of the economy. I know.
But if you don’t ask, you don’t get. As difficult as it is for me, as I feel a tightness in my throat, and my pride takes a bruising, I am here, asking. It’s all I have left.