Three types of restaurant owners

The Restaurant is Your Lifestyle, "Restaurateur" is Your Diagnosis: Three Faces of the Owner and the Price of Involvement

The restaurant business is, without a doubt, a highly prestigious type of economic activity in the modern world. This is not just a way to earn money—it is a stage on which the drama of human ambitions, creative pursuits, and commercial calculation unfolds. In recent decades, we have witnessed a unique phenomenon: the restaurant craft has become an object of desire for representatives of the most diverse professions. Famous actors, directors, producers, musicians, artists, architects, writers, and TV presenters—they all seem to have been "infected" by the idea of opening their own establishment. News feeds are full of headlines about yet another "non-core investor" deciding to try their hand in the field of hospitality. But what lies behind this mass fascination? And most importantly—which of these newly minted restaurateurs will stay in the profession, and who will disappear as quickly as they appeared?

In the professional environment, there is an ironic but very accurate observation: the restaurant business is "ruled" by glamour. And in this joke, there is a huge grain of truth, reflecting the deep motivation of many beginners. Some come to the industry, having already succeeded in other spheres, and see in the restaurant an opportunity for creative self-realization, a kind of "test of the pen." Others view public catering as a way to diversify their investment portfolios, as a new, potentially profitable territory for capital investment. Both, of course, have internal motivation, but it is oriented towards completely different things: either towards the process (the pleasure of ownership and creativity) or towards the result (specific financial indicators). However, there is also a third category, which will be the main focus of the discussion.

Three Faces of the Restaurateur: Who's Who in the World of HoReCa

The authors offer a clear classification, dividing all who come into the restaurant business into three groups, depending on their internal motivation. This is not just an academic exercise—it is a practical tool for self-determination and understanding risks.

The first category is "dilettantes," striving for creative self-realization, or the "captivated."

This category enters the restaurant business, one might say, by chance. Most often, these are representatives of creative professions or people with a humanitarian mindset. It is this part of the restaurant community that is driven by that very notorious "glamour"—the desire to touch a beautiful life, to create their own place of power, where they can gather friends, throw parties, and enjoy the atmosphere they have created with their own hands. The problem is that "dilettantes," as a rule, deeply underestimate the complexity and, more importantly, the routine nature of restaurant operational management. They are willing to invest money and emotions in developing the concept, interior design, and menu creation, but they very quickly lose interest and enthusiasm when faced with the daily, sometimes exhausting problems of logistics, personnel management, quality control, and financial discipline. The statistics here are relentless and cruel: very often, "dilettantes" suffer complete fiasco within six months to a year after starting their restaurant career, leaving behind a beautiful but, alas, financially unviable idea and a pile of debts.

The second category of restaurateurs is "professional strategically non-core investors."

These are people who have come into the hospitality industry from other, often very distant from public catering, types of business. For them, a restaurant is, first and foremost, an object for investment, a new sphere for applying capital and already developed management skills, but in a different plane. Their approach to business is extremely rational and pragmatic. They do not chase after "glamour" and do not try to satisfy their creative ambitions at the expense of the restaurant. Their goal is to find an opportunity to create a profitable, sustainable, and, importantly, scalable business. As a rule, such investors are perfectly aware of the limits of their competence in a new field and do not try to manage the establishment themselves. Instead, they attract a professional team of expert consultants and hired managers, delegating operational management to them.

The non-core investor is interested in the main indicator of the new business's success—the financial result, i.e., operating profit. It is this category of investors that most often invests in creating fast-food chains, corporate or social catering enterprises, as well as well-calculated, democratic restaurant concepts, where what matters is not so much uniqueness as reproducibility and efficiency. And, quite tellingly, quite often this type of investor turns out to be very successful in the restaurant business. Their sober calculation, ability to separate emotions from numbers, and skill in delegating authority bear fruit where "dilettantes," relying only on inspiration, suffer a crushing defeat.

The third category of restaurateurs is the "pros."

These are those for whom the restaurant business is not a random choice and not a way to diversify assets. This is their destiny, their calling, their life. Most of them came from the very heart of the industry, from its "depths": they started their journey as waiters, bartenders, cooks, or trade workers. They know the "kitchen" (in every sense of the word) from the inside, have been through all the circles of operational hell, through endless shifts, conflicts with guests, problems with suppliers, and have brought from there invaluable, hard-won experience. It is about this category of restaurateurs that the discussion will continue, because it is they, in the deep conviction of the authors, who are capable of turning a business into something much more than just a source of income.

Living in the Restaurant: The Price of Involvement and the Absence of Trifles

A famous restaurateur with nearly half a century of experience once said a phrase that has become an axiom for many generations of managers: "If you want your restaurant to be successful, you must live in it or hand the establishment over to reliable professional managers." Behind this simple and even somewhat banal at first glance formulation lies a deep existential meaning, which distinguishes the "pro" from all other categories of owners.

What do the words "to live in a restaurant" actually mean? How can one turn the restaurant business into one's lifestyle, into an integral part of one's daily existence? The answer is both simple and complex. This means that not a single process, not a single detail in your establishment can remain without your continuous, close, and exacting attention. Whether it is the selection of products and evaluation of suppliers, the composition and adjustment of the menu and cost control, staff motivation and compliance with sanitary standards, purchasing and warehouse accounting, advertising and PR campaigns, marketing policy and work with feedback—absolutely everything requires your personal participation or, at the very least, deep understanding and vigilant control.

In the restaurant business, there are no trifles. And this is not just a beautiful metaphor, not a figure of speech, but a harsh reality. The restaurant business, like no other, does not forgive even the most insignificant, at first glance, mistakes. Imagine a hypothetical but very typical situation: a product not ordered in time and not delivered on time, a minor glitch in the automation system, a carelessly drawn up cleaning schedule, a slightly oversalted or undersalted dish, a tired and rude waiter. Each of these "micro-failures" in itself may seem an annoying but forgivable trifle. But in their totality, accumulating day after day, they create that very destructive entropy that imperceptibly but steadily destroys the guest's impression, undermines the reputation, and, ultimately, kills the business.

"To live in a restaurant" means to be aware of absolutely all the nuances and undertones of the business, to keep your finger on the pulse every minute, to control all key and not-so-key processes, to manage them competently and judiciously, constantly asking yourself: "What else can be improved?". A good "pro" restaurateur always knows most of his guests by sight, remembers their names, preferences, habits, special requests. And, in fact, he tacitly fulfills the role of the restaurant's head guest manager, personally communicating with visitors, who over time begin to associate the establishment not with an abstract name, but with the owner's personality. They come not just "to the restaurant," but "to him," "to Fedor," "to Ilya." This is the highest form of loyalty, which cannot be bought with any money or marketing promotions.

Identification as the Highest Form of Motivation

The "I Am the Restaurant" concept, which the authors discuss throughout the book, finds here its fullest, almost physical, tangible embodiment. It is about the complete and unconditional identification of the owner with his business. This is not just a job, not just a source of income—it is an integral part of his personality, his DNA, his way of existing in the world.

What does this mean in practice, in the daily routine? A restaurateur who has reached this level of identification cannot afford to remain an amateur in any aspect of his business. He is simply obliged to understand everything that directly or indirectly relates to his business.

• In products and wines — to communicate on equal terms with his head chef and sommelier, to understand exactly what is being offered to guests, and to be able to assess the quality and pairing.

• In the tools of financial management — to see the real, not embellished by accounting, picture of cash flow, to understand the cost and profit structure, and not rely on abstract and sometimes deceitful reports from managers.

• In technological equipment, dishes, textiles, inventory — to understand the real needs of his team, assess wear and tear, and make informed, economically sound decisions about purchases and upgrades.

Moreover, a "pro" cannot exist in a vacuum, isolated from the outside world. Visiting the establishments of colleagues and direct competitors, participating in industry exhibitions, seminars, and professional conferences—this is not entertainment and not a way to spend time pleasantly. This is a mandatory part of professional hygiene, a way to constantly keep a finger on the pulse of the industry, track new trends, draw inspiration, learn from others' mistakes and successes, and, ultimately, remain competitive. He cannot live without his work, without his establishments, without this continuous pulsation of restaurant life, because they have become an integral part of himself.

Conclusion: A Diagnosis That Becomes a Vocation

Only the presence of such, almost pathological, depth of professional self-identification can serve as that main, internal, inexhaustible motivation that drives a restaurateur towards constant self-development, overcoming crises, and relentless improvement. External stimuli—money, status, public recognition—are certainly important, but they work only up to a certain point, until the first serious problem. But when business becomes your lifestyle, and the word "restaurateur" is not just a line on a resume or a business card, but your genuine, internal "medical diagnosis," a completely different, inaccessible to others, level of involvement and responsibility arises. This is no longer just a job, but a true vocation. And it is precisely such people, in the deep and firm conviction of the authors, who create those great restaurants, those places of power where guests return again and again because they physically feel: here they are not just served, here they truly live.