Let’s get real for a second. Why would anyone care what a restaurant guy has to say about… well, anything? Here’s the thing: We’re all in the same business now. Doesn’t matter if you’re slinging burgers, writing code, or selling insurance. America—hell, the world—runs on service. Three-quarters of our economy hinges on it. So yeah, you and me? We’re both here to make people feel something. And if you’re not thinking about unreasonable hospitality as your secret weapon, you’re leaving money—and meaning—on the table.
Will Guidara, the guy behind Eleven Madison Park (you know, that place that snagged “World’s Best Restaurant” a few years back), dropped a truth bomb in his book Unreasonable Hospitality. He says service and hospitality aren’t the same. Service is the what—getting the right steak to the right table without dropping it. Hospitality? That’s the vibe. It’s the way your regular at the coffee shop lights up when you remember their “usual” without asking. It’s the difference between a transaction and a memory.
Ever watch The Bear? There’s this scene where Richie, the chaotic cousin we all low-key root for, staggers into a Michelin-starred kitchen. At first, he’s rolling his eyes at the fussy plating and the quiet intensity. But by the end? The dude’s hooked. Not on the fancy food, but on the rush of making someone’s night unforgettable. That’s the switch flipped. Hospitality isn’t about linen napkins or gold-leaf desserts. It’s about giving a damn.
Here’s where “unreasonable” kicks in. Guidara’s not talking about being extra for the sake of it. It’s about matching the obsession you pour into your product with the energy you pour into people. Think about it: The best athletes, artists, entrepreneurs—they’re all unreasonable. They’ll grind past logic to nail that detail everyone else shrugs off. Why should hospitality be any different?
But how do you actually do that? Guidara breaks it down to three things. First, show up. Like, really show up. Not just physically, but mentally. Ditch the half-listening while mentally drafting emails. Be there. Second, don’t take yourself too seriously. Rules matter, but not if they strangle the joy out of the room. Ever seen a waiter sneak a kid extra fries because the mom looked stressed? That’s the stuff. Third—and this is the kicker—treat people like people, not tickets. One-size-fits-all is for cheap sunglasses, not hospitality.
Take Guidara’s Budweiser cart story. Some dad walks into his temple of haute cuisine, and instead of forcing foie gras on him, they roll out a cart stacked with Bud bottles. The guy’s face? Priceless. He didn’t care about the truffle shavings. He cared that someone saw him. Years later, he’s still telling that story. That’s the power of a gesture that’s ridiculous, specific, and deeply human.
If you’re nodding along right now, grab Guidara’s book. Unreasonable Hospitality isn’t just for food nerds. It’s a playbook for anyone who wants to stop competing on price or specs and start winning on connection. Because here’s the cold truth: Someone will always build a better widget. But loyalty? That’s harder to copy. It’s built in the tiny moments where you go off-script to make someone feel like they’re the only person in the room.
This isn’t about grand gestures, though. It’s the barista who notices you’re limping and slides over a stool without asking. The IT guy who fixes your laptop but also cracks a joke about your cat wallpaper. It’s realizing that hospitality isn’t a department—it’s a mindset. You don’t need a fancy title or a big budget. You just need to care enough to look up from the routine and see the human in front of you.
The wild part? This stuff works. Guidara’s restaurant didn’t claw its way to the top by perfecting sous-vide times. They did it by turning every meal into a story guests couldn’t wait to tell. And in a world where everyone’s drowning in ads and algorithms, those stories cut through. They’re the antidote to the transactional sludge we’re all sick of.
So yeah, maybe you’re not running a three-Michelin-star kitchen. But you’re serving someone. And the next time you’re tempted to phone it in, ask yourself: What’s my version of the Budweiser cart? What’s the unreasonable, slightly silly, deeply personal thing that’ll stick in their mind long after the product’s forgotten?
That’s the magic. That’s unreasonable hospitality. And honestly? It’s kind of addictive. Once you start, you’ll wonder how you ever settled for just “good enough.”
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