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Things happened fast. One day, I was in a bar, talking with co-workers, performing our daily service post-mortem the next, everything was closed. Boards over windows. Doors locked. Empty streets. Traffic lights blinking for no one. Just like that, life changed. The industry changed.
None of us wanted to believe that restaurants and bars would or could shut down and yet, by the end of March, 2020 that’s exactly what happened. For the first time many were seeing what us in the industry already knew — just how deep the roots of the hospitality business reach.
In the weeks leading up to the shutdown, my coworkers and I were occupied by the standard pressures of life and work — bills, rent, prep, orders, developing specials, finding reliable cooks, training new hires, and running a smooth service — more than we were of catching a virus — a virus, we believed, perhaps out of forced ignorance, was “just a flu.”
Fear and uncertainty are staples of the hospitality industry. Daily, we ask ourselves and each other: Will it be busy today? What about tomorrow? Will it stay busy and for how long? Have we prepped enough? Have we ordered enough? Will people be giving and courteous or demanding and difficult? Owners constantly worry about filling seats, paying staff and keeping the lights on. Chefs worry about menus, quality, consistency, orders, staff, general acceptance and praise. Cooks worry about prep, timing and getting through a shift without fucking up. Servers and bartenders stress about tips, getting tables and having enough shifts to pay the bills. The lack of insurance, of savings, of reliable income hang in the back of everyone’s mind.
For the most part, our industry thrives on that uncertainty. When the industry shut down, however, our worst fears were exposed and with the loss of our purpose and work, any means we had of combating them were gone.
For a short period of time, we lived as if we were still in a kitchen or behind a bar. We knew things were bad and about to get worse — we’re not an optimistic bunch, service industry folks. Somewhere around the four-week mark, as we settled into our new lives, we relaxed. For the first time we had space, we had time, and we had money. We read, biked, watched movies, became obsessive bakers, cooked for ourselves and we reconsidered what we never had time to consider before.
The relentless pace of work, errands, and family never allowed enough space for reflection while nightly service drinks and bar visits kept us numb. The grind never gave us an opportunity to think about what we were doing, why we were doing it, or if we wanted to do it at all.
The failures of the industry were suddenly more apparent. With unemployment benefits, workers were making more than they ever had before. There was no more reliance on unpredictable tips or the kindness of strangers. We got a taste of flat, dependable income. It’s not that we don’t want to return to work because we’re making more staying at home. No, we don’t want to return to working two jobs, six or seven days a week, and barely scrape by.
That’s not the only reason. We’re the ones taking the brunt of the risk, servers, bartenders, hosts, and dishwashers especially. We’re exposed daily in multiple ways. We bus germ-ridden plates, glasses, utensils, and clean up trash. We stand close to customers. We touch credit cards. We often pull down our masks to taste, to drink, to eat family meal. We expose ourselves, our coworkers, and customers. There’s no distancing in kitchens or bars.
Whether you’re scared of COVID-19 or not, getting sick isn’t even the worst consequence. Most employees in our industry are uninsured and living paycheck to paycheck. Taking two unpaid weeks off of work is just not feasible. Worse would be going to the hospital. For an uninsured industry worker, those bills would be like signing yourself into indentured servitude. We’re forced to work through the flu, bronchitis, strep throat, and many other easily transmittable illnesses because there’s no other option. Now with the danger of COVID-19 industry workers get shafted again. Without the ability to have paid sick leave, they’ll be caught in a tough spot going forward. They can’t work sick and can’t afford to stay at home.
Having spent time reflecting on this and other antiquated failings of the business we love so much, some have decided they won’t be returning to the service industry at all. Others will transition out as they return to school or change careers. After this crisis has calmed, the service industry workforce might not look any different, but if what I’m hearing from people close to me is any indication, it might be facing a major overhaul.
The hospitality industry is battling a health crisis and an economic crisis and owners are sandwiched in the middle. They have to wager the needs of their businesses with the safety of their employees and customers while constantly and speedily overhauling their operations.
As the industry transitioned to takeout and delivery, some restaurants were lucky enough that their food, style and space translated seamlessly. Other restaurants, new and old, regardless of success or experience, locked their doors with only a slim chance of reopening. Many, many more, however — my current restaurant included — had to completely re-engineer their business.
They created new to-go appropriate menus, developed online ordering and payment systems, and partnered with delivery services, among a myriad of new struggles. Some, like Eleven Madison Park, utilized their recourses and talent for charity, while others, like Austin’s Ramen Tatsu-ya’s infiltration of grocery stores, developed new avenues for their brand. As the world begins to open, they’re morphing once more, changing their dine-in experience and in some instances redesigning their dining rooms.
The hospitality landscape is eroding and the possibility of any support withers on the vine. Reopening is no longer a question, it’s a necessity. Opening in this climate and under social and governmental restrictions is way more complex than just spreading out some tables and asking people to wear masks.
Forcing an establishment to change fundamental parts of what they do and how they do them is no simple demand. You’re asking them to spend money they might not have; asking them to mutate the food and identity that has, to this point, been successful; asking them to jeopardize everything that made them them. You’re forcing them to change while shouldering all of the risk and expense.
As if business wasn’t slow enough right now, reopening means owners need to dig themselves deeper into a financial hole. Redesigning a dining room involves installing barriers, expanding or building a patio to make up for lost seating or, in some instances, full on construction. Dining rooms need to be pared down. Expensive to-go’s need to be purchased (the cost of which most restaurants have not included in their prices). Masks have to be provided. Sanitizing stations have to be present and prominent. Cleaning supplies are not cheap, gloves and masks especially. Sales are down but labor is the same. Limited seating means fewer customers, longer waits. No more waiting areas or drinks at the bar means customers walk. Fewer customers means fewer tips, less hours.
This is a finicky business, even in good times. Margins are thin. One busy month, one busy season can mean the difference between survival and closure. A steady stream of customers, even a trickle, is necessary to keep the wheel spinning. Nowadays, that’s not all that matters. Owners, chefs and servers don’t just contend with their own fears and stress, now they have to navigate customers’ political beliefs, opinions and social media vitriol. It’s a tightrope of possible missteps, bad reviews, and backlash that can destroy small businesses. The opportunities to harm your business for even the smallest infraction are numerous. The room for error even thinner.
All of this likely means the businesses with the deepest pockets, the largest support network, and the most space will be the ones who make it out alive. There’s no safety net or support for independent restaurants. If owners fail, then workers go down with them. You might not give a shit. Maybe you think any business that goes under deserves to — survival of the fittest and all that. For an oversaturated market, on the surface it might not be such a bad thing — restaurants may no longer struggle to find staff and the competition won’t be so tough. What’s really at stake here isn’t just independent restaurants and the people who work in them — as if that wasn’t enough — it’s the very fabric of our neighborhoods.
Fine dining will continue to cater to its specific audience. Food trucks with their low overhead and flexibility will do fine. It’s the casual, affordable places and those with a history that are in danger. We’ll see a ton of restaurants and bars struggle. We’ll see many places change concepts, maybe multiple times. In the immediate future, we’ll see places we love slowly wither and die. Many places will change hands. Many will be further casualties of gentrification and the cancer of condominiums. Others will go to those who can afford them — corporations and hospitality giants — who sustain their business not on heart and creativity but on bland, uninteresting cuisine meant to please the masses. What’s lost here isn’t just space. It’s culture, diversity, creativity, ingenuity, passion and in the case of landmark restaurants it’s our history.
Over the next year or so, the hospitality industry at large and many of its conventions are liable to disappear or transform drastically.
As much as I’d like to say this is the time to make big changes to the way the industry works, part of me feels this ship is going to sink if we’re arguing about pay, the workplace culture, and power structure when we should be helping each other and trying to stay afloat. But, I don’t know. I’m just a grill cook. What I do know is that if this time and experience have shown me anything, it’s that we can’t as workers and diners just return to normal.
Contributor : Zakk Pollard
