Running a restaurant is no walk in the park, and this January might just break me. Let me explain. Since opening the White Hart, a charming pub, restaurant, and hotel in the heart of Wiveliscombe, West Somerset, I’ve developed a peculiar habit: waking up in the middle of the night to check WhatsApp messages from George, my barman, detailing the evening’s earnings. It’s a ritual I can’t resist, even if it means knocking over a glass of water in the dark.
Take New Year’s Eve, for instance. We opened at 5 PM, and the bar was buzzing until around 10 PM. But it seemed most folks opted to celebrate at home or at The Bear Inn across the street, where a live band and plastic cups of drinks set the tone for a rowdier night. A few sought refuge from the chaos at our place, savoring a glass of white Burgundy in proper Richard Brendon glassware. By midnight, the town’s revelers gathered around the Christmas tree in the square to ring in the New Year.
I decided to keep the restaurant closed but set up tables for drinkers, swapping our usual Italian menu for fries and pasties to soak up those espresso martinis. With a team of three at the bar (plus a fourth runner who helped from 5 to 8 PM), we raked in £2,256. Not bad, I thought, as I read George’s message. It was worth the effort.
Exhausted, I drifted back to sleep, dreaming of a bustling bar, only to wake up the next morning ready to do it all over again in 2026. But here’s the reality: every day starts with slicing lemons and limes, washing, polishing, and hanging glasses, dumping empty bottles, restocking the fridge, and wiping down the bar—all before serving the first customer.
And let’s not forget the customers. Some are kind enough to buy you a drink, while others can be downright frustrating. On New Year’s Eve, one customer accused me of not thinking things through because we only had one ale on tap. Little did they know, that was entirely intentional.
As I reflect on that £2,256, it’s not a triumph but a reminder of survival. After deducting wages, supplies, and utility bills, there’s barely anything left. Add to that the leak in the roof—a problem the landlord promised was fixed before we signed the lease—and the profit from New Year’s Eve vanishes faster than a glass of champagne at midnight.
Our business is already in debt to me, thanks to startup costs, solicitor fees, surveyor fees, and a £4,163 stamp duty bill. As a restaurant critic turned restaurateur, I’ve learned that the word ‘overhead’ is more sobering than any bad review. The costs of running a place are relentless, and independent operators like me are constantly juggling to stay afloat.
But here’s where it gets controversial: the Labour Government’s rising taxes—national insurance, minimum wage, business rates—feel like regular earthquakes, making profitability a distant dream. And then January hits, bringing Dry January and Veganuary, two trends that feel like grim reapers at the door of hospitality.
Let’s talk about Veganuary. This is the part most people miss: the issue isn’t about morals; it’s about margins. Preparing a separate vegan menu takes time, and charging a premium for a ‘cauliflower steak’ often sparks outrage. But honestly, it should cost more than a real steak because of the effort involved. The same goes for drinks—a lime and soda takes as long to make as a G&T but doesn’t cover costs. Hats off to brands like Guinness for creating alcohol-free versions that maintain flavor, theater, and margins.
So, if you’re going vegan or dry this January, I respect your choices. But if you want to help small businesses like mine survive, here’s my plea: when you visit the White Hart, bring along some meat-eaters and thirsty friends.
Now, I’m curious: How do you feel about Veganuary and its impact on restaurants? Do you think it’s worth the hassle, or is it just another trend that hurts small businesses? Let’s discuss in the comments—I’d love to hear your thoughts!
