This Might Kill You (But Sure, Don’t Tell Us)

Inside the weird, risky, and occasionally glorious world of restaurant allergies.

Allergies in restaurants come out of nowhere. One minute everything’s flowing, the next you’re triaging a potential medical emergency in between plating mains and resetting tables. Here’s what it’s like on our side of the dance.

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The Shellfish Incident

The terrace was ticking along like a metronome — clinks of glass, napkins fluttering in the breeze, that soft background lull of people having a nice time. One of the servers was clearing a table when I clocked a small moment. Barely anything. A look passed between guest and staff. A single plate, still full, making its way back to the kitchen. Salmon fillet, untouched.

We do this dance all the time. You spot a full plate and immediately your brain starts spiralling: Was the fish overcooked? Did we miss the mark? Did they just not like it? So we asked, as we always do, if everything was okay.

“Oh yes,” she said, with a smile. “It was lovely. But I have a shellfish allergy.”

Time slowed.

The dish — the one she had just knowingly ordered, had plated in front of her, had sent back untouched — was salmon with white cabbage, crayfish, and crème fraîche.

I felt my soul exit my body. We’d asked, when seating the table, if there were any dietary requirements. A routine check, drilled into muscle memory. She’d said no.

So, trying to stay calm — but probably wearing that brittle service-smile that only appears when your night just took a sharp left turn — we said, “Oh, we asked about allergies when you sat down, and you said you didn’t have any.”

And she replied, clear as a bell:

“I have a shellfish allergy, but I don’t like to tell people. Then I get fewer choices on the menu. I don’t want the kitchen to take any ingredients off the dish I order.”

CHRIST ALMIGHTY.

Madam.

We only remove the ingredients that might kill you.

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The Spectrum of Allergy Behaviour

Allergies are the one area of service that flirt, daily, with genuine danger. It’s not like undercooking a steak or sending out a cold plate — it’s anaphylaxis. EpiPens. Ambulances. And yet the way people talk about their allergies is often… well, completely fucking bananas.

There are the severe cases, of course — the nut allergy where cross-contamination isn’t a preference thing, it’s a death thing. And those guests are, nine times out of ten, the calmest and most professional about it. They get it. They’ve had to get it. They're the ones who ask questions, read menus in advance, often apologise for the fuss even though they absolutely shouldn't have to.

Then there's the other end of the spectrum. The grey area. The twilight zone of “intolerances” and “sensitivities” and people who suddenly develop dietary conditions that dissolve mysteriously when it’s time for dessert.

You know the ones.

“I’m gluten-free,” she says, waving off the bread like it's toxic waste. Twenty minutes later? Tiramisu. Not gluten-free tiramisu. Regular, ladyfingers-soaked-in-booze tiramisu. You look at her. She looks back. Shrugs. “It’s fine if it’s sweet.”

Then there’s the whole breed of diners who self-diagnose like it’s an Olympic sport.

“I’m allergic to onions.”

You sure?

“Well, they make me bloat.”

Okay, so not an allergy then.

“I mean, it’s a mild allergy.”

Right. So that’s just eating, then?

It’s hard. It’s not that we don’t believe people — we do, or at least, we try. But you’re constantly navigating this messy little battlefield of self-perception, shame, and control. Allergies have become a kind of social performance. Something to declare, or hide, depending on how people want to be seen.

But my favourite, without a doubt, are the lactose intolerants.

The hardiest, most steadfast soldiers in the army of dietary friction. These are the people who know exactly who they are, know what the consequences are, and do it anyway.

You fancy cheese tonight?

“Fuck it. I’ll take a lactase.”

No hesitation. No drama. No pity. Just a glass of red and a glint in the eye that says what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Then they proceed to absolutely ruin themselves with a triple cream Brie, a pot of ricotta, a panna cotta for pudding, and possibly a cappuccino to really seal the deal. It’s glorious. No notes.

They understand what dining is about. They understand pleasure — even if it comes at a cost. I've watched someone stare down a wheel of washed-rind cheese with the solemn resolve of a soldier heading into battle. They know the stakes. They still say yes.

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Behind the Scenes — What It Takes to Cook Allergy-Free

And here’s the kicker: we ask. We do ask.

The booking system? It prompts you to list dietary requirements. It’s not a trap. It’s not there to shame you. It’s there so we don’t accidentally serve you something that makes your throat close up while we’re plating 15 covers at once.

And still, they appear. Surprise allergies. Sudden intolerances. Culinary plot twists that would give Hitchcock a nosebleed.

Now — sometimes it’s fine. A quiet Tuesday night, six tables in the room, someone lets us know they can’t have nuts? No problem. We note it, we adapt, we move. That’s what we’re here for.

But a heaving Saturday night, all hands on deck, orders flying in, and you’ve just revealed you’re allergic to nightshades and alliums and are a vegan?

I’ll be honest — if I were cursed with allergies like that, my ethics around eating animal products would most certainly go out the window.

Let’s break that down. These two families of ingredients — nightshades and alliums — are the backbone of modern cooking. They’re in sauces, dressings, stocks, bases. Avoiding them on short notice is like trying to do ballet in a broom cupboard.

Common nightshades:
– Tomatoes
– Peppers (including chillies)
– Aubergine
– Potatoes
– Paprika
– Goji berries

Common alliums:
– Onion
– Garlic
– Leek
– Shallot
– Spring onion
– Chive

A delicious box of murderous nightshades.

In other words: almost everything that tastes good.

And what happens next isn’t some minor tweak. We’re not just picking out the peanuts like it’s a student flatshare pad Thai. No — we stop. We clean. We clear the decks and create what we call an allergy-free zone. New boards. New pans. Fresh spoons. Gloves on. Service slows to a crawl, because someone has just dropped a landmine in the middle of a sprint.

We’re not complaining about doing it — we will do it. Because we’ve trained for this. Not just the cooking, but the discipline it takes to switch gears under pressure and keep someone safe while the kitchen is moving at full tilt.. Every time. Because that’s the job, and because someone’s health matters more than speed. But just understand what it means when you spring it on us late.

It doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes things harder for everyone involved. Harder for the kitchen trying to keep a dozen plates moving. Harder for your server who now has to triple-check every dish. Harder for the guests waiting a little longer for their main course because your table turned into a biohazard.

And again — we’ll always accommodate, if we physically can. But there’s a world of difference between giving us notice and giving us palpitations.

Allergies aren’t just part of modern dining. They’re part of modern life. But they’re not mystical. They’re not shameful. And they’re not optional. If you’ve got one, own it. Tell us. Let us protect you properly.

Because if you quietly ignore the crayfish in your dish, and tell us afterwards?

That’s not bravery. That’s just rolling the dice and hoping your dinner doesn’t end with an ambulance.

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The Cheese Tasting Debacle

And then there are the truly bewildering moments. The ones that make you question everything you know about human behaviour. Like the time we hosted a private event — a lovely do, smartly dressed guests, plenty of wine, good energy in the room. They’d booked out the space for a cheese tasting followed by a four-course dinner at BANK.

So far, so civilised.

And then, just before dessert — literally minutes before the sweets were due to hit the table — one of the guests pulled aside a member of the team and, in hushed tones, informed us that they were lactose intolerant.

I mean… mate.

Lactose intolerant. After three full courses. After snacks, starters, mains, and sides. After a cheese tasting.

Not a sniff of that when the booking was made. No mention during the first three courses. Not even a suspicious sideways glance at the cheddar. Just quiet, dairy-laden commitment until right before pudding, at which point, apparently, it became urgent.

We had to smile and nod, obviously. The show must go on. But internally? Screaming. Full-body cartoon scream.

That’s the thing. We’re not the enemy. We’re your collaborators. Your co-conspirators in having a great night. Let us in on what you need, and we’ll make the experience better — safer, smoother, and probably tastier, too.. We’re not out to trick you with a splash of milk or hide butter in your veg. But we do need the truth. Preferably before you’ve rinsed a board of Comté and half a litre of crème fraîche.

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The Final Word

Food is a dance between risk and reward. But when allergies enter the mix, it becomes something else entirely — more like playing chess in a thunderstorm. You’re trying to stay three moves ahead, but there’s static in the air and everything’s balancing on the edge of control. One missed detail, one moment of miscommunication, and suddenly it’s not just dinner — it’s danger. For the people making it, the line between discomfort and full-blown crisis isn’t abstract. It’s something we live with every single service.

So help us help you. And if you’re going to eat cheese knowing full well what it’ll do to you?

Respect. I’ll have what you’re having.