4 1GT Thursday August 6 2020 | the times

the table

L

ocanda Locatelli is

a one-star restaurant

round the back of

Selfridges on Oxford

Street. It’s not

silly-billy Michelin

expensive; neither

is it cheap. I’ve gone

not often, but at regular points

in my life since not long after it

opened in 2002. It’s a “fancy joint”,

but it’s also Italian — there’s warm

service, hearty food and good

humour there. Yes, I’ve sat at

tables near Lucian Freud, the

Duchess of Cornwall and

Gwyneth Paltrow. Over the

years my memory of the time

I reverentially whispered to

my mother that Madonna

was at the table and she hooted

loudly back, “It’s of no interest

to me,” has changed from

embarrassment to a laughing

respect for my ma. Arab princes,

British royalty, pop aristocracy, me...

the staff treat everyone the same.

Mostly, Locatelli’s is where I go

to celebrate landmarks and cement

new relationships. Yet it’s also a tonic

in a dreary month of work and rain.

Good dogs are allowed there. I’ve

been welcomed alone with bad hair

in my dog-walking clothes and with

two leggy lurchers. It’s an intense

pleasure to eat there solo with my

boys curled up beside me and a plate

of chestnut tagliatelle with wild

mushrooms and a glass (or two)

of friuli to go with it.

Locatelli’s has figured so large in

my life that I wrote a fictional event

into my memoir, Lost Dog, to honour

it. When my book made The Sunday

Times bestseller list, no guessing

where we went. On our arrival the

maître d’, Roberto, opened his arms

and beamed at me. “Signora Spicer,

’ow wonderful to see you.”

Today, in August 2020, the hugs

have gone, but Locatelli’s and the

welcome are still there. There’s an

edge to the smiles, though. These are

bad times for restaurants, very bad

times indeed. I have a mournful sense

that the adult life that I have lived in

restaurants is over.

Even those with Michelin stars,

devoted regulars and internationally

known celebrity chefs such as Giorgio

Locatelli, are struggling. Despite more

tables outside and reduced staff, he’s

feeling the pressure of functioning in

our new pandemic world.

Giorgio’s wife, Plaxy, says they can’t

afford the receptionists that used to

take your coat and bags any more.

“It’s a struggle,” she says, “We aren’t

breaking even most nights and then

you get the ‘no-shows’. What kind of

person doesn’t even cancel a booking

now? Honestly, I don’t know how

much longer we can hang on in there.”

Gosh, this is sad. If wonderful

Locatelli’s is struggling, this is bad.

Restaurants have been the settings

for so much of my life: the good bits,

the bad bits, the break-ups, the make-

ups, and, most often, the jolly bits.

September heralds the end of Rishi

Sunak’s lease forfeiture moratorium,

which stopped landlords repossessing

premises for understandable non-

payment of rent during lockdown.

As the rent debt mounts up, the

customers are distanced, tourists stay

away, and office workers stay at home

in the suburbs, nothing short of more

fruit from Sunak’s magic money tree

is going to stop the pandemic from

being “catastrophic for hospitality.

It will lead to closure of more than

50 per cent of pubs, clubs, bars and

restaurants and the loss of two million

jobs,” says Jonathan Downey, the

founder of the industry campaigning

group Hospitality Union.

“In America predictions are even

worse. One survey [by Yelp] predicted

threw a charity bash half a mile down

the hill from his Dock Kitchen so we

could all come together to raise

money for the victims.

I went with my neighbours, one who

had been pulled from his home in the

tower; the others, together with their

ten-year-old daughter had seen awful

things. We enjoyed a brief respite at

what was for them an unbearable time.

That’s the thing about restaurants:

the good ones with hospitality and not

just food at their heart are important

parts of our communities, places

where we gather and meet people,

where we regroup, laugh, get cared

for like the children we will never be

again, where we are fed and forget

being fed up.

For the most part these little places

are independent and owner-operated.

That’s how Parle started out. “It’s

notoriously difficult to make profits

from one or two restaurants, and it’ll

be the characterful indies that will

close; these are often lifestyle projects,

driven by passion, not vast profit.

“It’s restaurants like these that

are the reason the food culture

changed so quickly in this country

from pretty dire to the best in the

world. The banks won’t give any

business loans unless they have

three years of operating profit or

personal guarantees.”

Parle employs 180 people now, and

while he has closed Sardine, he has

not yet let anyone go, which he is

proud of. “The stress of this time is

impossible to describe, so physically

intense that one day I was standing on

that 85 per cent of restaurants

will go. Restaurants have

transformed the UK’s global

reputation; once a laughing

stock, now we’re known

as a nation that loves and

understands food and wine.

Even some of our chains are

fantastic. Look at Wagamama

and Wahaca — healthy,

sustainable, delicious. It’s going

to have a massive impact on

our communities.”

With the £10 voucher scheme

profiting fast-food joints and

chains, the future does look

bleak for the restaurants. Some

of these won’t be much missed.

Frankie & Benny’s, Zizzi and

Byron were dreary banker-

owned corporate chains that

served more or less average

food on moribund high streets.

I’m not the only restaurant fan

who has whispered cautiously

that, just maybe there were too many

restaurants pre-lockdown. Some

operated on such teensy margins that

they could barely be called businesses

at all. That’s the thing about small

independent restaurants: they are all

too often passion projects. Yet some

of these losses are desperately sad.

The welcoming and cosy Sardine

on the edges of the City got its name

because it was so tiny; my beloved

local, Six Portland Road, could have

taken the same name. Also gone. Both

were success stories, much loved, well

reviewed, homes from home.

I took everyone to Six Portland.

I signed book deals there, argued

with my boyfriend, drank great wine

with my dad; it was the last place my

boyfriend ate with his father before he

died. It makes us both so happy that

the Old Man, as he was known,

frequently mentioned what a bloody

good lunch it was. Typing those words

has made me cry.

The point is, some of the casualties

were not failing organisations and had

no “underlying health conditions’’ as

you might say of a Covid patient. This

brutal cull is a tragedy for hospitality.

Sardine’s owner is, was, Stevie Parle,

a restaurateur I’ve grown to know by

frequenting his fantastic, welcoming,

simple and stylish mid-price dining

rooms. Days after the horror our

neighbourhood suffered and witnessed

after the Grenfell Tower fire, Parle

Main: Kate Spicer

at Locanda Locatelli.

Above: Giorgio

Locatelli

We had

gone from

rosbif joke

to one of

the best

places in

the world

to eat out

The best moments of

my life happened in

restaurants — how

many will survive?

Lockdown hasn’t killed off her favourite haunts, but it will take more than

Rishi Sunak’s voucher scheme for them to thrive again, says Kate Spicer

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