I would like that to be the case – everyone would like that to be the case! – but that is not the current world. Paying more would hurt less if the dining experience was uniformly stellar. “When I go out to eat, and I see the bill, it’s not a shock to me, but it’s something I have to process,” she says. “That’s the price we have to charge, because that’s how much stuff costs now,” Cohen says, and even knowing that as well as anyone, she understands: it’s a lot. Recently, the New York Times broke down the increase in costs for a restaurant in North Carolina, and their reasons: Canola oil, up 159% (the war in Ukraine) a new hot water heater, up 25% (the cost of stainless steel).
While Cohen’s staff are dealing with the return of demanding diners, Cohen, as an owner, is feeling the impact of inflation first-hand across the board: ingredients are more expensive, labor is more expensive, equipment is more expensive, and as a result, dinner out is more expensive.Ĭohen reports that while once she charged “maybe $36” for the half-duck, the current price is $42. “Customers went from being pains in the asses to being like, ‘We love you guys! You’re essential workers!’” laughs Cohen. There was a giddy magic in the first days of reopening, when diners were tipping wildly, and the people venturing out were just elated to be back. They missed restaurants so much they made restaurants for chipmunks. All at once, everyone seemed to understand the precarity of the industry, but also the transcendence of it: people love restaurants. Suddenly, everybody was talking about the service industry, about the undocumented workers who make up as much as 40% of the city’s kitchens. In 2020, when the world shut down, restaurants became a beacon and a cause.
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