Illustration by Ryan Rich via Getty Images
In early July, Ellyn Hopper of Fat Rabbit bakery published a post on Instagram that many of us have become accustomed to seeing from independent food and beverage businesses: an honest plea. It read, “If your feed is anything like mine, this is not the first time you’re seeing a small business in the hospitality industry post something like this in recent weeks. But now it’s our turn to say it. We need ya.”
The post, which generated thousands of likes and hundreds of comments, described the industry climate as “brutal” — a feeling resoundingly echoed by others. This isn’t isolated; hospitality and the restaurant world have fundamentally changed, facing a perfect storm of challenges.
The establishments where diners eat and drink have increasingly been reduced to 30-second reels with jump cuts of dramatically lit plates set to a catchy, ubiquitous song; fleeting moments absorbed on an endless scroll. This societal shift has slowly minimized their complexities and fragilities. We’ve turned these spaces into objects of desire, chasing openings, viral dishes, and vibe-y interiors. But the more they become things to collect, the easier it becomes to forget the people behind them.
Habits have also shifted in recent years, with many people choosing to go out less frequently and drink less when they do. Meanwhile, rising costs continue to squeeze independent operators, without always translating into higher menu prices.
Customers have become well-versed at consuming these spots but far less practiced at sustaining them. Our relationship with restaurants, bakeries, bars, cafes and farms should be a two-way street — they promise us hospitality, and in turn, they expect our patronage.
If we want these pillars to remain a part of the community, we have to become active participants. We don’t call our friends only when they’re grieving or when we need something; we text them on a Tuesday just because. The relationships that endure are the ones built on regular moments, not just emergencies or special occasions. True support requires showing up beyond crisis mode.
When my uncle died three years ago, all I could think about was his last dinner invitation, which I didn’t accept. It haunted me, the feeling that I had robbed myself of that time, of a shared smile or laugh across the table. What would we have talked about? I had told myself there’d be next summer, but time is fleeting and nothing about the next day is promised. We often don’t realize the value of people — or places — until they’re gone.
What kind of relationship do you want with the places that nourish us? I want to know the barista’s name at my favorite coffee shop, have a standing order at the corner restaurant down the street and feel a tangible connection in a world that too often tempts us to settle for easy, ephemeral transactions instead of long-term relationships with value.
Most people don’t want to ask for help, and these businesses are no different. “We need ya” shouldn’t be the beginning of us springing into action. Let’s not wait until the eateries we love have to tell us, “We need ya.” Let’s not wait for goodbye.
