The Business Model of Kindness

The only thing that’s ever made restaurants work — and the bit we keep overcomplicating.

The best things I’ve ever been served in a restaurant weren't on a plate. They weren't paired with wine, flamed at the table, or fussed over in development sessions with a clipboard-wielding manager hovering nearby. They were smaller than that. Quieter. Moments of kindness so perfectly placed, so utterly human, they stayed with me long after the food faded.

Just last week at Maison François, my friends and I found ourselves stuck in that familiar indecisive loop about drinks. Our waiter sensed the hesitation, leaned in, and quietly suggested: "How about a round of champagne, with our warmest regards?" Moments later, glasses appeared—sparkling, effortless hospitality that turned out to be exactly what we wanted.

That’s the bit we forget in this industry. We drown in concepts, obsess over margins, lose sleep over lighting temperatures and glassware. We spend months reinventing the wheel—the branding, the font, the playlist—trying to engineer magic. But the restaurants that actually work? The ones people return to, talk about, feel stitched into? They run on one simple, unfashionable thing: kindness.

It took me years to see that clearly. Like most of us, I came into this world thinking it’s all about the product. The food. The wine list. The clever design details people Instagram. But the longer you stick around, the clearer it gets: restaurants are people businesses. What we’re really selling is how we make people feel.

The industry loves to overcomplicate this. We chase awards, PR buzz, ‘unique selling points’. Social media fuels the arms race—if your plates aren’t lighting up the algorithm, are you even relevant? But strip away the noise and hospitality’s heartbeat is dead simple: do people feel welcome? Do they feel seen? Do they feel good here?

That’s the business model of kindness. And it runs three ways.

Kindness to Our Staff

Kindness isn’t softness—it’s structure. It’s creating the conditions where people can do their best work. A restaurant lives or dies on its team. If they feel respected, safe, and able to be themselves, they’ll bring that energy to the floor. They’ll care in ways you can’t script. They’ll deliver service that feels genuine, not robotic. And they’ll stay—because kindness builds loyalty faster than any perks scheme ever will.

Danny Meyer puts it succinctly in Setting the Table: "Hospitality exists when you believe the other person is on your side." You can’t fake that. But you can build it—through daily, deliberate acts of care.

Kindness to Our Suppliers

We’re all in the same boat—trying to survive a brutal, high-pressure industry where margins are thin and tempers fray. Suppliers aren’t just logistics. They’re people with lives beyond deliveries—families, mortgages, stresses just like ours. Treat them like disposable middlemen and they’ll treat you the same. But show empathy—settle an invoice early when rent’s due, understand their pressures, have their back when things go sideways—and suddenly you’ve got a real partnership. In a crunch, they’ll prioritise you, too.

Kindness to Our Guests

This is where people trip up. Hospitality’s not transactional—or at least, it shouldn’t be. The idea that someone spending £500 deserves red-carpet treatment while the person nursing a coffee gets side-eyed? Bollocks. Real hospitality is democratic.

Whether someone’s splashing out on a tasting menu or scraping together a few quid for a quick coffee, they deserve the same warmth. The same sense they’re welcome. You can feel it though, can’t you? Sitting in some places as a guest, the air shifts depending on how much you’re spending. It’s subtle—the energy changes, the attention shifts—a quiet, tiered level of service that creeps in. The table with the expensive wine gets doted on, the solo coffee drinker gets forgotten. That’s not hospitality. That’s snobbery with a service charge.

The truth? Your £5 guest might be your £500 guest next time. But more than that, they’re both human beings. We’re not here to means-test kindness.

It’s something Jeremy King made central to his philosophy. Reflecting on his restaurants' inclusive spirit, he said: "You give people the opportunity to spend money, but you don't make it mandatory."

One of my favourite Jeremy King stories comes from Zédel’s early days. Management were fuming because a woman had come in, ordered only tap water and a bowl of soup—£2.25 at the time—and happily polished off two bread baskets before paying up and leaving. They wanted to "do something about it."

But King saw it differently. "It’s brilliant," he told them. "The fact that she feels she can come in here and do that—that’s wonderful."

It evens out, he reminded them. One table has soup and bread, another pops champagne. The moment you try to control what people spend, you diminish the whole atmosphere. Or as King often puts it: "The moment we look at people through the door as income, we’re finished. But if you look at them as an opportunity to give them a good time, the money follows."

Our priority is simple: get guests to come back one more time. And we do that—every time—by trying to curate an exceptional experience for everyone who walks through the door. Every visit matters. Every plate matters. Messed up a dish? It’s on the house. Accidentally made an extra plate? Give it to a table to try. Those little moments? That’s what brings people back.

Will Guidara calls this "Unreasonable Hospitality"—the belief that going above and beyond isn’t optional, it’s the whole point. You can’t always afford extravagance, but you can always afford kindness.

The Cynic’s View

I hear the pushback: kindness doesn’t pay the bills. Margins are tight. Some customers don’t deserve it—they’re rude, entitled, exhausting. But here’s the thing: kindness is commercial. It’s the foundation of everything that makes this industry sustainable.

Teams stay longer when they’re treated well. Suppliers show up for you when you’re fair. Guests come back—and tell their mates—because they felt good in your space. You can’t plaster that on a menu. But it’s the difference between a place that survives and one that thrives.

Why It Matters Now

The world’s harder than ever—cost of living crisis, burnout, a constant undercurrent of tension everywhere you go. A restaurant can’t fix all that. But it can be a pocket of relief. A little sanctuary where, for an hour or two, people feel seen, cared for, welcome.

That’s the job. That’s always been the job.

Kindness isn’t a USP. It’s the only thing that’s ever made restaurants work.