He lives around the corner. Like most neighbours, he let us know this the first time he came for dinner, followed by the barely perceptible leaning back that is unique to neighbours in neighbourhoods everywhere, when a new restaurant opens up. They look up at us with eyes narrowed every so slightly, as if to say: “Okay, here I am, and there you are. You’re new, and this is my neighbourhood. Show me what you’re made of”.

It’s not meant in an unfriendly way, and this neighbourhood (and its inhabitants) are really quite laid-back beneath the mistrusting exterior. By the end of the meal we usually have convinced them enough that they visibly relax, drop their shoulders a little, and tuck into their meal. Some even wave at us when they run into us on the street.

I ask the neighbour and his guest if they want something to drink. White wine, a bottle. “Would you like something specifically Turkish, maybe something else?” There is trust, he’s happy to let me decide. I point out a few options on the menu. “This is the one you had last time”, I say, “a great all-rounder and I think it works well with today’s menu too. Or we could go with this one, a little more aromatic”. I pick options that hover around the same amount he spent on a bottle last time he was here. Solid value-for-money territory. He’s here for a good time, not to impress his guest with expensive wines.

“Then we’ll have the same as last time”, he says.

I come back with the bottle, and I start to pour a sip of wine into their glasses for them to try. His guest turns to me and says, “You’ve made him emotional”. I look at him. I see the big grin, and yes, maybe a hint of something sparkling in the far corner of his eyes. “I haven’t even poured your wine yet!” I say to him. “I know”, he says, “but you remembered the wine I had last time”.

He looks almost surprised at himself, at the fact that this struck a chord.

I am not surprised.

Remembering the wine he had last time means I remember him. And remembering him means he feels seen.

And yes, feeling seen sometimes feels emotional.

This is restaurant magic.

If you prefer to let the magic be simply magical, then stop reading now.

Because like so many other things that seem slightly magical while dining out (shiny plates, the perfectly timed arrival of the next dish, a playlist that has you thinking back fondly to your younger days), this particular restaurant magic is underpinned by restaurant hard work.

I remembered which wine he drank last time because I wrote it down.

That is because if you come and eat in my restaurant, I am going to make a note on your guest profile in our reservations system the next day, or the day after.

I will write down which wine you had, and whether or not you like the natural stuff. Whether you’re a big eater. If we were a little slow on service that day. How you found out about us. Which street you live on (if you told us, which you will have done if you are, in fact, a Neighbour). If you’re hard of hearing, or arrived with your misbehaving dog in tow. And in one particular case, I wrote down that you brought your own gluten-free bread and snuck it out of your bag under your chair onto your plate during the meal when you thought we weren’t looking (my note: make sure to point out gluten-free options next time).

The 30-second note-taking for each of our thirty to thirty-five guests every evening means that if you ever decide to come back, I’ve already got an idea of who you are before you walk through the door.

This daily restaurant task allows me to let you feel the thing which we all crave, as a restaurant guest, and a restaurant owner, as human beings in general: I make you feel seen.

Because the underlying truth of a restaurant, and the reason we keep going back to our favourite places again and again, is simple: feeling seen is more important than feeling served.

It’s unlikely you’ll shed a tear over the many other little things we do to make your dinner with us run smoothly. I’ve never seen someone get emotional when I replace their sauced-up plate, or over a particularly fine fold in our expertly laundered napkins.

But be open to the fact that maybe one day you will feel struck, or sense something wet in the corner of your eye, and you might need to take an extra big breath before your next bite. When you feel remembered, or seen, or acknowledged for a moment or two, it’s that little bit of magic.

It might even mean you’ll give me a little wave when we pass each other on the street next time.

It’ll be enough to make me well up.

I was too busy running it to write about it.

And running a restaurant: well, if you haven’t attempted it before, I would definitely recommend it — if only for the sheer amount of bone-aching life lessons you will learn.

These are largely practical lessons.

Like, for example: ordering plates and cutlery are best not left to the last minute, because it turns out those are quite essential to the actual eating experience. And: your gut feeling when it comes to hiring someone to renovate your place is literally everything. And: you should leave unclogging restaurant toilets to the professionals.

In the early days, when I’d tell curious guests that we’d been open for 6 months already, they’d smile and nod and then ask me the inevitable question: “Well … how has it been?” as they looked at me, doe-eyed and taking an innocent little sip from their Turkish white wine.

The Dramatic Pause [ … ] in the middle of that sentence is essential. What they are really asking — and what you’re probably wondering too — is: any regrets?

If you could do it all over again, would you? And if you did it all over again, what would you do differently? What life lessons have you learned, in that one year, seven months, give or take a few days?

I never had an answer, and they have stopped asking now. One and half years of being open is like seven years in restaurant life: you’re supposedly a wise old pooch now, and part of the hospitality furniture of the city.

Which is a shame, because it is only now I’ve really started learning the biggest, bone-crunchingly juiciest life lesson of them all:

“Do too much”.

A curious lesson to learn, especially in an age where we should probably collectively all do a little less: work a little less, stress a little less, plan a little less, fight a little less.

But as a human, I live in constant fear of overstretching myself. Of taking on too much. Of trying something new and failing. I have lost countless hours of sleep over this. It is the invisible weight that pulls me down. It is the sneaky little voice in the back of my head, telling me it will in fact not be okay, if I do this new or extra thing.

(And no, this isn’t something new, and yes, I’m working on it thank you very much)

But sometimes when I’m feeling a little brave and a little daring, I’ll do the things I thought were too much.

I’ll put those slightly out-there wine descriptions on the menu (“If Stevie Nicks was a wine” —yes, but really, try it and you’ll see what I mean). And: I’ll take on one extra booking even when we are at capacity, because he forgot their anniversary and really was quite desperate to make it up to his other half. And: I’ll propose a harebrained new menu idea for that week in October when we’re a chef down and need to make it work somehow.

And also: I’ll write these notes on owning a restaurant even if it’s the thing I’ve been putting off for one year and seven months, give or take a few days, by telling myself it’ll be the extra thing that will push me over an imagined edge.

I will do too much.

And I have learned, deeply and thoroughly and in my very bones: it’ll be okay, one way or another.

And sometimes, it will be utterly, brilliantly beautiful.

I’ll create a wine list far surpassing my own fear-filled expectations. I’ll have a new regular guest who adores us for saving his relationship. The new menu is such a success we make it a special, half-yearly recurring thing.

And on a Monday morning in July, I’ll untangle myself from my duvet, make myself a tea, sit down and write a few notes, and I’ll press send.

I tell you this partly because I want your sympathy. I’ll have you know the bruise on my elbow went from purplish-blue to greenish to an odd neon yellow by the end of the week. Two more colours and my elbow would’ve completed the pride flag all on its own.

The other reason I’m telling you is because after causing me to crash off my bike the kid on the squat little fatbike did not stop. 

Call me old school, but I still live under the presumption that someone stops after causing an accident. I thought it was part of the social contract we all signed up for by being born a human (rather, than say, a swan, who are notorious assholes and would never stop if they caused you to crash off your bike).

You cause an accident, you stop.

Perhaps this is why I like restaurant work so much. The social contract is still largely intact here. You sign up to it when you reserve your spot or when you walk into the door.

I promise to feed you and get you something nice to drink, and you promise to engage with me and say please at least once and put down your phone when ordering.

I promise not to sit at your table when taking an order (anyone who has had a waiter sit down with you to take an order knows what a transgression that is) and if I can tell it’s a first date and it’s going well, I’ll make sure to stay out of the way.

You promise you’ll say thank you when you pay, as will I.

I promise to acknowledge you when you’re leaving - a wave, a silently mouthed ‘goodbye’ or a nice little nod will do (as one hospitality friend said once said, not acknowledging a guest when they leave the building after having spent their hard-earned cash with you is a ‘sackable offence’ and I think I agree with her).

I cried a little when I fell off my bike, which had nothing to do with my rainbow bruise and more to do with the fact the kid didn’t stop to check on my ego and I as we lay splayed on the asphalt.

I biked to work and served a table and when I took payment I asked how their night had been. ‘You know’, they said, ‘we had a really nice time. We really needed this. Thank you’.

I made sure to give them an extra big happy wave from across the dining room as they walked out the door, despite the protests from my elbow.

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