Imagine this: My cherished restaurant might shutter its doors for good, all thanks to the rise of Veganuary. As a passionate restaurateur who's poured my heart into this venture, I'm pulling back the curtain on the raw struggles of keeping a small eatery alive in an ever-changing world. Stick around, because the twists and turns of hospitality in 2025 are about to unfold in ways that might surprise you.
Among the slew of fresh daily habits I've picked up since launching the White Hart—a charming pub, eatery, and inn nestled in the picturesque village of Wiveliscombe, West Somerset—one stands out as irresistibly addictive. It's the middle-of-the-night ritual of checking a WhatsApp message from my trusty barman, George the Greek, who shares the night's earnings just as I'm trying to drift off to sleep.
Even after the establishment's doors have locked up tight—and long after I've attempted to unwind in bed—my phone lights up with his update. Invariably, I fumble in the darkness to grab it, often sending a glass of water tumbling in the process.
On this particular occasion, it was New Year's Eve—a night filled with revelry across the globe. We'd kicked off operations at 5pm, and I manned the bar through a whirlwind of activity that only began to slow around 10pm. It appeared many locals opted to ring in the New Year from the comfort of their homes or embraced the lively chaos at The Bear Inn next door, where a band thumped out tunes and drinks flowed freely from plastic cups.
A handful sought refuge from the clamor, opting for a refined glass of white Burgundy, courtesy of Richard Brendon, in our more polished setting. Eventually, the crowd from both spots spilled into the town square, congregating around the festive Christmas tree to toast the midnight bells.
I'd chosen not to fully open our dining area that night, instead reserving tables for those enjoying drinks and offering simple fare like fries and pasties to pair with espresso martinis and similar libations.
We operated with a team of three behind the bar, bolstered by a younger assistant who pitched in from 5 to 8pm. As for our earnings? A respectable £2,256. Not too shabby, I thought upon seeing George's message—it had absolutely justified staying open.
Worn out, I promptly returned to slumber, visions of a bustling bar dancing in my dreams, only to awaken the next day eager to tackle 2026 with the same vigor.
Every single day brings its own set of chores: slicing lemons and limes, loading glasses into the washer, pulling them out to polish and hang, and tossing empty bottles into the recycling. On top of that, restocking the fridge and giving the bar a thorough wipe-down are essential tasks. And that's all before drawing your first pint, whipping up a cocktail, or ringing up the initial customer's order.
Fortunately, there are generous patrons who treat you to a drink alongside their own purchase. But then there are the exasperating ones. 'You haven't planned this properly,' grumbled one on New Year's Eve, gesturing at our single ale offering—though, in reality, we'd deliberately streamlined to just one ale because we'd planned meticulously.
In the early days of January, my mind keeps circling back to that £2,256 figure. It sounds decent, but in the harsh daylight, it's actually modest—a number that screams mere survival rather than a resounding victory.
Deduct the expenses—salaries, supplies, and utility bills—and there's precious little remaining. Factor in the persistent drip from the roof leak near the main staircase, which our landlord swore was resolved before we inked the lease but has now become my headache, and it swiftly devours what scant profits we eked out that evening. And let's not forget, I'm not even compensating myself for my time tending the bar.
Our fledgling business already owes me a debt, having covered initial setup costs, legal fees, surveyor charges, and a hefty £4,163 stamp duty bill—a payment that feels like money down the drain.
As someone who's critiqued eateries for 25 years and now wears the dual hat of restaurant critic turned owner, nothing sobers the spirit quite like grappling with that dreaded term: 'overheads.' The sky-high expenses of maintaining an establishment are a constant threat to burn you out, much like a chef forgetting to adjust the heat on a sizzling pan.
We independent proprietors all juggle beneath these overheads, piecing together the intricate puzzle of the hospitality industry. Meanwhile, the current Labour administration keeps sending seismic shocks through rising taxes—national insurance hikes, upward minimum wage adjustments, and climbing business rates—that make true profitability feel perpetually elusive, like a mirage in the desert.
Then, as January sets in, fresh anxieties emerge. While Monday, January 5, shows promise with solid reservations, bookings plummet dramatically for the rest of the week.
I'm striving not to internalize it as a personal slight. I recognize it's a broader national trend—folks naturally dial back after the holiday frenzy. But then enter the formidable duo of Dry January and Veganuary, acting as harbingers of doom for our sector.
But here's where it gets controversial... If you're experimenting with the trend of veganism over the coming weeks, bear in mind that the hospitality industry's challenge isn't rooted in ethics but in economics. Beyond the extra effort required for a chef to craft a distinct menu free from meat, dairy, or honey, there's a limit to what you can charge for something like a humble turnip. Customers bristle at the price of a 'cauliflower steak,' yet it demands more labor to transform that vegetable into a dish fit for the spotlight—perhaps even justifying a higher cost than a traditional beef steak due to the added preparation.
Similarly, preparing a lime and soda takes as much time as mixing a gin and tonic, but the non-alcoholic option doesn't contribute much toward covering overheads. That's why I admire the innovators at Guinness for developing a zero-alcohol version that delivers the same dramatic pour and rich taste as the original, while securing a solid profit margin.
By all means, prioritize your health and wellness—abstain from alcohol in January if it serves your body and mind. But to ensure places like the White Hart endure, I implore you: when you visit, please bring along some friends who enjoy hearty meat dishes and a good drink.
Now, let's stir the pot a bit more. Is it fair to expect individuals to tweak their personal health choices—be it veganism or sobriety—to prop up small businesses? Or should eateries adapt more creatively to these trends, perhaps by offering affordable, appealing plant-based options without sacrificing margins? What do you think—do lifestyle movements like Veganuary have a duty to consider their economic ripple effects? Share your thoughts, agreements, or disagreements in the comments below; I'd love to hear your perspective on this balancing act between personal freedom and community support.
