Unreasonable Hospitality

Unreasonable Hospitality Plot Summary

Introduction

The restaurant was buzzing with energy as I watched the servers move gracefully between tables, delivering plates with precision and warmth. A couple celebrating their anniversary was seated near the window, and I noticed how the staff had created several magical moments throughout their evening – from the personalized menu to the surprise champagne toast. What struck me most wasn't the technical excellence of the service, but rather the genuine delight on the servers' faces as they orchestrated these moments. They weren't just doing their jobs; they were finding profound joy in making others happy. This experience captures the essence of what true hospitality means in our modern world. We live in an era where technical excellence is expected, but human connection is increasingly rare and precious. The most successful businesses today understand that service is merely the technical delivery of a product or experience, while hospitality is the art of making people feel seen, valued, and cared for. This distinction isn't just important for restaurants – it's vital for any organization that interacts with people. Throughout these pages, we'll explore how unreasonable generosity and intentional hospitality can transform ordinary transactions into extraordinary experiences, building loyalty that no marketing budget could ever buy, while simultaneously creating more meaningful and fulfilling work environments.

Chapter 1: The Fine Line Between Service and Hospitality

When I was younger, one of my favorite interview questions to ask potential team members was: "What's the difference between service and hospitality?" The best answer I ever received came from a woman who didn't get the job. She simply said, "Service is black and white; hospitality is color." That distinction has guided my thinking ever since. "Black and white" means competently executing the technical aspects of your job. "Color" means making people feel wonderful about the job you're doing for them. Getting the right plate to the right person at the right table is service. Genuinely engaging with that person, creating an authentic connection – that's hospitality. During my years at Eleven Madison Park, we spent countless hours perfecting both aspects. We got on the World's 50 Best Restaurants list by pursuing technical excellence, attending to every detail and getting as close to perfection as possible. But we ultimately reached number one by embracing what I came to call "Unreasonable Hospitality" – offering experiences so bespoke, so over-the-top generous that they defied conventional business logic. The industry professionals around us would often respond to our ideas by saying, "You're not being realistic," or "You're being unreasonable." That word – "unreasonable" – was meant to shut us down. Instead, it became our rallying cry. Because no one who ever changed the game did so by being reasonable. Serena Williams. Walt Disney. Steve Jobs. Look across any discipline, in any arena – the people who transform industries do so by seeing possibilities others can't imagine. While chefs at fine dining establishments had long been celebrated for being unreasonable about food, we were determined to be equally unreasonable about hospitality. And what I discovered is that this approach isn't just for restaurants – it can transform any business in our service economy, which now accounts for more than three-quarters of America's GDP. Whether you're in retail, healthcare, finance, or technology, being intentionally generous in how you make people feel creates a competitive advantage no algorithm can replicate. In a world increasingly dominated by digital experiences, the human touch becomes not just nice to have, but essential for meaningful differentiation.

Chapter 2: Turning Moments into Memories: The Art of the Legend

One afternoon, I was clearing appetizer plates from a table of European tourists headed straight to the airport after their meal. As I worked, I overheard them discussing their culinary adventures in New York: "We've been everywhere! Daniel, Per Se, Momofuku, now Eleven Madison Park. The only thing we didn't eat was a street hot dog." An idea struck me immediately. I rushed out to buy a hot dog from the Sabrett's cart on our corner, then asked our chef to plate it. He looked at me like I'd lost my mind – serving a street hot dog at a four-star restaurant? But I insisted, and he eventually relented, cutting it into four perfect pieces with artistic swooshes of mustard, ketchup, and perfect quenelles of sauerkraut and relish. When I returned to the table, I admitted I'd been eavesdropping: "We're thrilled you chose us for your last meal in New York, but we didn't want you to go home with any culinary regrets." Their reaction was beyond anything I could have imagined. Each person later told me it was the highlight not just of their meal, but of their entire trip to New York. They'd be telling that story for the rest of their lives. This moment became the foundation for what we called "Legends" – personalized, often spontaneous gestures that gave our guests not just a meal, but a story they would tell forever. When a couple who'd gotten married at our restaurant returned for their anniversary, we set up a table in the private dining room where their ceremony had been held, surrounded by flowers and candles. As they finished dessert, we dimmed the lights and played their wedding song. One regular with a popular Instagram account dedicated to bacon received custom bacon granola instead of our standard offering. We eventually hired a full team of "Dreamweavers" whose sole responsibility was turning these individualized gestures into reality. They transformed our reservationist's office into a workshop equipped with art supplies, leather-working tools, and sewing machines. The team made teddy bears out of kitchen towels for guests who'd forgotten to buy their children a souvenir, created beach scenes complete with sand and kiddie pools for guests whose tropical vacations had been canceled, and crafted countless other magical moments. What made these gestures so powerful wasn't their extravagance – many cost little or nothing – but their pricelessness. They couldn't be purchased; they could only be experienced. In an age where people increasingly value experiences over possessions, the Legends gave our guests memories they could relive through storytelling, cementing their emotional connection to our restaurant in a way no amount of technical perfection ever could.

Chapter 3: Excellence vs. Connection: Balancing the Equation

In the early days at Eleven Madison Park, our pursuit of excellence created a serious problem that nearly undermined everything we were trying to achieve. We had become so focused on technical perfection that we'd lost sight of what truly matters in dining – human connection. One night, my chef-partner Daniel and I had dinner at our own restaurant, as we did seasonally to experience the menu as guests. We were having a meaningful conversation when I realized something troubling: we were being constantly interrupted. For each course, our table was reset with fresh silverware, new wine glasses were placed, food was served and explained, wine was poured, plates were cleared, and the table was crumbed. That's six interactions per course – which meant over our fifteen-course menu, we were being interrupted ninety times, not including introductions or check-ins. Ninety interruptions! And this from a restaurant whose stated goal was to create an environment where people could connect over a table, where service and food were meant to be ingredients in the recipe of human connection. That's when it hit me: in our zealous pursuit of excellence, we'd actually created an experience that worked against our most fundamental purpose. This revelation led us to make radical changes. We cut our menu from fifteen courses to seven, each one truly memorable. We didn't reduce our staff – instead, we doubled down on our Dreamweavers team, going from two to four. And most importantly, we returned to our core belief that diners should have agency. We eliminated written menus entirely, replacing them with conversations about what guests wanted to eat. This balance between excellence and connection became our North Star. We distilled our mission statement to a simple phrase posted above our time clock: "To be the most delicious and gracious restaurant in the world." Every decision we made was filtered through those twin criteria – delicious and gracious. The hospitality industry often treats excellence and warmth as opposing forces – you can have technical perfection or genuine connection, but not both. We rejected that false choice. Yes, these concepts exist in tension with each other, but the management guru Roger Martin calls this "integrative thinking" – the ability to hold two conflicting ideas simultaneously and create something new. Southwest Airlines embraces this approach by pursuing the seemingly contradictory goals of being the lowest-cost airline while achieving the highest customer and employee satisfaction. This tension between excellence and hospitality forced us to innovate. By embracing both values simultaneously, we created something that hadn't existed before: a restaurant that was both technically flawless and genuinely warm. This approach didn't just win us awards – it transformed how our guests felt when they dined with us, and how our team felt coming to work each day.

Chapter 4: Building a Culture That Makes It Nice

When we named our company "Make It Nice," we weren't just creating a catchy slogan – we were codifying a philosophy that would guide every decision. The phrase came from my partner Daniel's early days when his English was less refined. It had become shorthand within our restaurant for "pay a little extra attention to this" – whether "this" was a table, a dish, or a side-work project. Building this culture began with how we hired. Rather than seeking experienced fine dining servers, we looked for people who were naturally hospitable – the kind who run after strangers to return dropped scarves or welcome new neighbors with homemade cookies. We could teach the technical skills, but genuine care for others is harder to instill. Everyone we hired started as a kitchen server, running food from the kitchen to the dining room, regardless of their previous experience. This approach helped with the weeding process; if someone balked at starting at entry level, they probably weren't a good fit. More importantly, it gave them time to absorb our culture before becoming the point person with guests. To truly embed our values, we created ownership programs that gave team members responsibility for aspects of the restaurant that interested them. When I noticed Jim Betz, a coffee enthusiast on our staff, I put him in charge of our coffee program. Kirk Kelewae, passionate about beer, took over our beer program. Leo Robitschek, who worked at EMP while attending medical school, developed our cocktail program. These ownership programs transformed how everyone approached their work. Jim immediately switched our supplier to one of the best roasters and began making coffee tableside using both Chemex pour-over and vacuum-pot siphon systems. Kirk hunted down rare and obscure beers, developed relationships with brewers, and eventually collaborated with Brooklyn Brewery to age beer in whiskey barrels. Leo created one of the most celebrated cocktail programs in the country. The staff's enthusiasm was contagious. Kirk would chase colleagues down hallways: "You've got to taste this gruit!" (A medieval-style beer brewed with bitter botanicals instead of hops.) Jim's tableside coffee service turned an afterthought into an educational, theatrical experience that delighted guests. And Leo transformed from our most vocal critic into our greatest ambassador. The ownership programs created a win-win-win: team members were more engaged, guests received world-class experiences, and our wine director could focus exclusively on wine instead of trying to master every beverage category. Most importantly, it demonstrated our trust in the team. When we mentored someone into full ownership, they worked harder because they felt genuine pride in what they were building. This culture of ownership extended to our pre-meal meetings, where we encouraged team members to present on topics they were passionate about. One server researched the history of Madison Square Park, another delved into menu design evolution at the New York Public Library's archives. We even had staff lead Saturday pre-meal meetings, giving everyone a chance to step into leadership roles and practice public speaking – skills that made them more confident and effective with guests. The result was a restaurant where everyone felt they belonged and could contribute meaningfully. Instead of trying to control everything, we had created an environment where creativity flourished and people were constantly challenging each other to be better.

Chapter 5: The Rule of 95/5: Strategic Extravagance

When I worked at the Museum of Modern Art's cafés, I became utterly obsessed with creating the perfect gelato cart for the Sculpture Garden. Since the cart would share space with works by Picasso, Matisse, and Henry Moore, everything about it needed to be perfect – especially the gelato itself, which I sourced from Jon Snyder's il laboratorio del gelato, known for small-batch, chef-quality products. Jon was as much a perfectionist as I was. In our planning, he discovered tiny blue paddle-shaped spoons from Italy that were exquisitely designed but preposterously expensive. I knew we had to have them – the Sculpture Garden deserved nothing less. When my boss saw those spoons, she narrowed her eyes and asked what they cost. After I told her, she said ominously, "We'll talk about this later." A month later, we reviewed the cart's first profit and loss statement, and she never mentioned the spoons again. Why? Because I'd managed 95 percent of the budget aggressively, leveraging MoMA's brand to get excellent gelato at a steep discount and the beautiful cart for free. I'd earned the right to splurge on those spoons – the one small detail I believed would transform the experience. This became what I call the Rule of 95/5: Manage 95 percent of your business down to the penny; spend the last 5 percent "foolishly." It sounds irresponsible, but it's actually smart business. That last 5 percent has an outsize impact on the guest experience, creating memorable moments that generate word-of-mouth marketing no advertising budget could match. At Eleven Madison Park, we applied this rule to everything. For wine pairings, we asked our sommeliers to select slightly less expensive (but still excellent) wines for most courses, allowing us to splurge on one special, rare glass at the end – perhaps a Grand Cru Burgundy that guests would never expect in a standard pairing. For staffing, we managed overtime carefully throughout the year so we could occasionally close for team-building retreats or throw legendary staff parties. During the 2008 financial crisis, this rule became even more important. While we cut costs everywhere – from the paper towels we used to clean plates (cut in half) to the chef's paper toques (replaced with washable cotton skullcaps) – we continued to invest in experiences that would delight our guests and keep the team engaged. When business slowed, we created a twenty-nine-dollar two-course lunch that introduced a whole new demographic to our restaurant. We introduced a dessert cart that increased dessert sales by 300 percent. And even as we were pinching pennies, we threw an over-the-top Kentucky Derby party complete with horse-shaped topiaries, mint juleps in pewter cups, and a live bluegrass band. The Rule of 95/5 extends beyond restaurants to any business. A car dealership that manages its inventory and staffing costs meticulously might spend that final 5 percent on a year of Triple A for the teenager getting their first car, or a surfboard for the empty-nester buying a van to pursue their newfound passion. A real estate agent might prepare a detailed guidebook of neighborhood gems for newcomers, or hire an artist to create a watercolor of a client's new home. What makes this rule so powerful is the asymmetrical return on that 5 percent investment. Guests don't remember the 95 percent you managed efficiently – they remember the 5 percent you spent unreasonably. That strategic extravagance is what transforms an ordinary experience into an extraordinary one, creating not just satisfied customers but passionate advocates for your business.

Chapter 6: Listening Your Way to Leadership

When I arrived at Eleven Madison Park as the new general manager, the restaurant was in turmoil. Two factions had developed among the staff: the old guard who had been there for years, proud of the bustling brasserie they'd created, and the fine-dining squad who had arrived with our new chef, Daniel Humm. Each group resented the other, and morale was suffering. My natural instinct was to come in with guns blazing, making immediate changes and delivering a rousing speech about our ambitious vision. Instead, I did something more powerful: I listened. For weeks, I sat down individually with every single member of the team to hear their perspective. These conversations revealed valuable information about the restaurant and showed the staff I cared about what they thought. I learned that many of the old guard felt disrespected, while the fine-dining crew was frustrated by resistance to change. Both sides had valid points, but no one was communicating effectively. My dad, who had led a platoon in Vietnam, once told me about a soldier nicknamed Kentucky. He was lazy, uncoordinated, and not particularly bright – but he had an uncanny sense of direction from growing up in the deep woods. My dad moved Kentucky from the middle of the pack to the point position, where his unique skill transformed him from a liability into one of the platoon's strongest assets. I thought about this story often as I met with the team. Eliazar Cervantes was struggling as a food runner because he wasn't particularly interested in learning about the ingredients. After spending time with him, I discovered he was incredibly organized and a natural leader. Instead of reprimanding or firing him, I moved him to the expeditor position in the kitchen – the person who coordinates timing between the kitchen and dining room, ensuring every dish gets to the right table at the right moment. Watching Eliazar in this role was like seeing someone play chess in three dimensions. He could track thirty different tables simultaneously, keeping perfect timing for each one. He became an essential part of our success, shining in a role that leveraged his natural talents. Another challenge was the tension between excellence and hospitality. A server once corrected a guest who complained his steak wasn't cooked medium-rare as ordered: "Actually, sir, that is medium-rare, but if you'd prefer it medium, I'd be happy to take it back to the kitchen." While technically correct according to culinary standards, this response made the guest feel wrong and embarrassed. This led to one of our most important mantras: "Their perception is our reality." It doesn't matter if the steak is technically medium-rare; if the guest perceives it as undercooked, the only acceptable response is, "Let me fix it." True hospitality means going further and noting in our reservation system that this guest "orders steak medium-rare but prefers it cooked medium" to prevent the situation from recurring. I also implemented daily thirty-minute pre-meal meetings with the entire staff. These gatherings became the lever that transformed our culture, helping a collection of individuals become a team. We used this time not just to review menu items and wine pairings but to inspire and uplift, to celebrate wins, and to communicate our values. The most powerful leadership lesson from this period was simple: listening creates trust, and trust creates change. By taking the time to truly hear each person's perspective before trying to implement my vision, I gained their confidence and created an environment where they felt valued. When I finally delivered my speech about becoming "the four-star restaurant for the next generation," the team was ready to come along for the journey.

Chapter 7: The Power of Intentional Welcome

The moment you walk into most restaurants, you approach a maître d' standing behind a podium, bathed in the glow of an iPad screen. You give your name, they check their system, and then they direct a host to take you to "table 23." Everything about this interaction feels transactional – the screen, the fact that you're being transported around like cargo, the table number. I saw an opportunity to transform this first impression. What if, instead of approaching a podium, guests were greeted by name as soon as they walked through the door? We completely reimagined our welcome process, starting with the elimination of the visible podium. Before each service, our maître d's would Google the names on the reservation list, creating a cheat sheet with photos. If your photo had ever been put on the internet, we would find it. When you arrived, instead of having to approach someone looking at a screen, you'd be welcomed by name: "Good evening, Ms. Sun – welcome to Eleven Madison Park." The logistics were complex: we hid the podium around the corner, where an "anchor" staff member communicated with the maître d' using sign language to indicate whether a table was ready. Most importantly, the person greeting you was the same person who had confirmed your reservation by phone two days earlier, allowing them to say, "Ms. Sun, my name is Justin; we spoke on the phone the other day. We're so excited to have you with us tonight." We applied this same philosophy to the end of the meal, creating a ticketless coat check system. When a host noticed a table paying their check, they'd send someone to transfer that party's coats from the main coat room to a smaller "on-deck" coat room by the door. By the time guests reached the exit, we'd be waiting with their coats – no ticket required. These changes weren't just about impressing guests; they were about removing anything that felt transactional from the experience. We wanted our restaurant to feel like a home where you were genuinely welcomed, not a business where you were processed. We extended this thinking to our menu format. Instead of traditional detailed descriptions, we listed only the principal ingredient for each dish – beef, duck, lobster, or cauliflower. This approach gave guests control over what they ordered while preserving the element of surprise in how it was prepared. More importantly, it necessitated conversation between guests and servers, turning ordering into a dialogue instead of a transaction. The New York Times aptly described this approach: "Rather than seducing you with luscious descriptions, it's a reason – or provocation – to talk to your server about what you feel like eating." We took this even further by asking guests not just about allergies but about ingredients they disliked or simply weren't in the mood for that evening. These seemingly small changes had profound effects. Guests arrived feeling recognized rather than anonymous. They engaged more deeply with our team. And they left with stories about the magical moments they'd experienced – from the surprise of being greeted by name to the delight of having their coats appear without a ticket. The most valuable lesson from our welcome transformation was this: first impressions matter immensely, but they don't have to follow conventional patterns. By reimagining the standard restaurant welcome through the lens of hospitality rather than efficiency, we created an opening moment that set the tone for everything that followed – a moment that said, "You are seen, you are valued, and you belong here."

Summary

Throughout this exploration of unreasonable hospitality, we've witnessed how transformative it can be when businesses decide to be generous beyond what seems reasonable or practical. The heart of this approach isn't about lavish spending or grand gestures, but rather about the intention behind every interaction – choosing to see each moment as an opportunity to make someone feel valued. Whether it's greeting guests by name as they walk through the door, tailoring experiences to their unique preferences, or creating magical moments they'll talk about for years, the thread that connects these practices is simple: a genuine desire to give more than expected. The most profound insight from these stories is that hospitality isn't just about making others feel good – it's a selfish pleasure. When we create moments of delight for others, we experience that joy ourselves. This is why building a culture of unreasonable generosity benefits everyone involved – the recipients, certainly, but also those giving the experience and the organization as a whole. In a world increasingly dominated by digital interactions and transactional relationships, businesses that prioritize human connection create not just loyal customers but passionate advocates. So whether you're running a restaurant, a retail store, a hospital, or a software company, consider what might happen if you approached hospitality with the same dedication and creativity you bring to your core product. The results might be transformative in ways you never imagined.

About Author

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Will Guidara

Will Guidara is a graduate of the School of Hotel Administration at Cornell University. He began his dining room training at Spago Beverly Hills and attended culinary school in the North of Spain. Prior to joining Eleven Madison Park, he served as the director of operations of the restaurants at The Museum of Modern Art. He became general manager of Eleven Madison Park in 2006.

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