A Letter from Ducasse

On the power of small gestures, ridiculous generosity, and the anniversary dinner that ruined all others

Back in 2019, I was working for a well-known coffee roaster. I was technically part of the London team, but the company was based in Cornwall, so I’d schlepped down to HQ for one of our monthly meetings. I was heading back to London early, chasing a few promising leads, when a simple email pinged into the team inbox:

“Alain Ducasse will be visiting one of our coffee shops tomorrow. Is anyone able to host him?”

If that name doesn’t mean much to you, let’s fix that. Alain Ducasse isn’t just a chef — he’s a culinary universe unto himself. One of the most decorated chefs in the world, with restaurants that collect Michelin stars like Panini stickers. He’s served food in space, redefined fine dining in France, Monaco, Japan and London, and probably knows more about legumes than I know about anything.

So yes — I jumped at the opportunity.

The next day, in walked Monsieur Ducasse and his PA. We sat down, shared a coffee, and swapped stories. He spoke to me entirely in French, which his PA translated, despite him clearly understanding my English. Odd, but charming. When you’ve got more Michelin stars than some countries, you can speak in whatever language you bloody well like.

I showed him around, introduced him to a few colleagues. He was warm, curious, and quietly commanding. Then off he went.

A few days later, a letter arrived at the office. From Ducasse himself. A simple thank you for my hospitality — and I mean proper, thoughtful handwriting. It felt like getting a letter from the Queen. If the Queen ran a global restaurant empire and made an exquisite rum baba.

In a quick email exchange with his PA, I mentioned — slightly sheepishly — that I was hoping to book his restaurant at The Dorchester for our first wedding anniversary. My wife and I had been saving for six months. We wanted a proper blowout — something unforgettable to mark a year of marriage, a lot of growing up, and a shared love of ridiculous food. She kindly offered to make the reservation on our behalf.

When the day arrived, we walked into The Dorchester feeling entirely out of place. We were 25, and looked it. Before I even opened my mouth, the host smiled: “Mr O’Regan, welcome.”

We were shown to our table. “Would you like some champagne to start?” they asked.

Fuck me, I thought. This is going to bankrupt me.
“That sounds great, thank you,” I said, smiling like a man who’d just committed to a second mortgage.

The meal was everything we hoped for — precise, decadent, and yet somehow not at all stiff. Just before dessert, as I sipped an espresso, a waiter breezed past and whispered, “best part of the meal.” Was it banter, or did he know I worked in coffee? Either way, I grinned.

And then — a surprise course. The Rum Baba. Ducasse’s signature dish, not on the menu. A little wink from the kitchen. I thought that was the cherry on top.

Then I asked for the bill.

The Maitre’D appeared instead. “Monsieur Ducasse has taken care of the bill for you, sir.”

I went beetroot. “What? No. Are you sure? I’m happy to pay. Are you sure?”

He just smiled. “It’s Monsieur Ducasse’s pleasure.”

As we prepared to leave, still reeling, we were walked to the door. Along the way, we passed each member of the team who’d served us, standing in a quiet line. One handed me a small bag. Inside — dated menus from the evening, and handmade chocolates from Ducasse’s Parisian chocolatiers. As if the evening wasn’t already seared into our memory.

As we stepped out into the London night, my wife whispered, “I feel like a celebrity.”

I replied, “I think we just had a night even celebrities don’t get.”

I also remarked — foolishly, but accurately — that we’d probably peaked on anniversaries. Which felt especially true the following year when we celebrated with takeaway pizza during lockdown.

Back then, I was still early in my hospitality journey. I hadn’t yet tasted what the highest form of it could look like — not just elegance and precision, but grace. Quiet, effortless generosity. That night gave me a benchmark.

We don’t have Michelin accolades at our restaurants. But that level of care, of anticipation, of making people feel seen and special? That’s scalable. I can’t afford to fly in chocolates from Paris, but we do hand-roll truffles for every guest at the end of their meal. That’s our version. Our gesture.

Because true hospitality isn’t about opulence. It’s about memory. And kindness. And leaving someone just a little bit changed by the way you made them feel.

What about you?
Have you ever had a moment of hospitality — as a guest or host — that completely floored you? I’d love to hear it. Drop it in the comments.