I’m not sure how many new restaurants, cafés, bars or take-aways open in the city every week, but I’m quite sure of how many shut down. Okay, maybe two of 30 survive. But, nearly all of them go back to being clothes stores, banks or general stores in about 16 months after their launch. Or the spaces just remain vacant, waiting for the next sucker to come and start something new.
But who are these people who start these restaurants? Where do they come from? Where do they go? Here’s my take on how all this happens.
Step 1: If you are a rich man’s kid who does not want to join dad’s multi-crore business of manufacturing bra clips, and if dad is willing to shell out a couple of crores to get you out of his Nalini and Yasmin-styled hair, you are a prime candidate to start a restaurant. All you have to do is look for a smart, well-spoken guy from the catering business who is looking for funding. Damn, you don’t have to look for that guy, that guy is already looking for you.
Step 2: Now that you have found the guy who is actually going to do all the work, both of you can start doing what all restaurant entrepreneurs do—meet up night after night, in different night clubs with loud music, where you introduce your partner over single malts to your social life and attempt to ideate, ruminate, cogitate and masticate about themes, cuisines, décor, and guest lists. Why these meetings cannot happen during working hours, in the day, at an office, and without Ritas, Amritas and Saritas popping in to say hello beats me.
Step 3: Real estate. Now, your pop has only sprung a couple of crores, so as much as you may want to, you can’t really blow it all up on 6,000 square feet, in a posh new glass-and-chrome space in a swanky business district or mall. So, 1,000 square feet with half more for a kitchen is an option. Preferably on a street which already has restaurants and is known for its footfall. So says your partner.
Step 4: Time to find a chef. Preferably someone who has worked at a five-star hotel or on board a cruise ship. Someone who has had enough of cooking 3,000 meals a day or has had a fight with his boss at the five-star hotel. Someone who can impress you with words like sous-vide, amuse bouche, meze and who will never use the word parmigiano without suffixing it with reggiano. This is the man who hopes to host his own TV show one day.
Step 5: Interiors. Edgy. Different. Chic. Cheap. This means your tables, chairs, light fixtures, props and décor are all sourced from the kabadi-wala. Tables are made from discarded hospital beds, chairs from bed pans, lamp shades from stolen plastic traffic cones, and the bill comes in a plastic bathroom mug.
Step 6: Let’s talk about the food. The cuisine. The menu. You start with the dream of what food you would like to share with your patrons. Food is the character, spirit, and quintessence of any restaurant. It is the fundamental, the be-all and end-all. You have now reached that stage where you need to decide the menu. You, the much travelled, know-all, will now start choosing bits and bobs of food experience from all those countries you’ve been to and all those restaurants your competitors have opened up. Your partner will then argue about how nothing new works in India. And your chef will try and do everything that his five-star boss disallowed him from doing. Namely, an adolescent, psychotropic, and self-indulgent approach to the menu.
You and your team will now spawn your own versions of ceviche, tagines, au gratins, ensalada and paellas. All resplendent with herbs and spices Europe or South America has never heard of. Your partner will insist you go a little heavy on “the flavour”, which translates as “please add MSG”. After all, your customers are Indian. You may decide that your restaurant should serve nouvelle contemporary Indian food. So your chef then creates a menu after reading Ferran Adrià’s biography. The key word being de-construction. Your chef will deconstruct everything from a black daal to laal maas and jalebis to gulab jamuns. This deconstruction will finally end in the de-construction of the restaurant.
Step 7: Christening. It’s now time to find a suitable name for your restaurant. If your restaurant is modern European, you may start off by looking for an Italian word nobody understands. For example: Cullacino, Abbioco or Pantofolaio. If it is a modern Indian restaurant, you will probably try and name the establishment after a sound or gesture from a Hindi or Telugu film: Bishoom, Fatafat, Maro-Maro or Lungi-lungi. Of course, there are always names influenced by the “Raj”. The British Raj, not Raj Kapoor. So, you might call your place Bombay Club, The Viceroy, or Lahore House. Finally, make sure the chef does not insist on the restaurant being named after him. Or you may land up with a restaurant called Bistro—by Suresh.
Step 8: Your restaurant is now open and you can now add one more feather to your conversation. “Have you been to my restaurant, the one I own? It’s happening. Please come—it’s on me.” And with this conversation, half your patrons are freebies, and as your popularity in your social circle balances in your favour, the balance sheet of your restaurant tips in the other direction.
Note: This essay is a work of fiction, or as I sometimes say, nearly true.
Kunal Vijayakar is a food writer and television personality.
