Deli dreams: lovely food in a cold climate

Ah. So no partner, then. Could I possibly manage on my own? All that stress, all that worry, all that sheer hard work? Not to mention the crucial ideas and perspective that another person could bring ... and, of course, money. The shop would need a considerable investment: there was no central heating. There would need to be fridges, coffee-makers, meat-slicers, chiller cabinets and a lot of expensive food.

Then there was the issue of having my little oasis patronised by people I wouldn’t like. It could be a nightmare: trapped behind a counter, having to make chit-chat with a succession of bores, snobs, louts and loafers with hygiene issues. Speaking of which, what about all that scrubbing, sweeping, polishing and washing up?

Perhaps most intimidating of all, the landlords wanted the initial lease agreement to last a minimum of three years. I’d had an airy-fairy notion of trying it for a year, then walking away if it didn’t work out. But this was clearly not the right scenario for a dilettante such as me. It needed full commitment from someone with big cojones.

Adam’s withering assessment of my proposal had a cruel logic. Indeed, the Federation of Small Businesses predicts that one small business in 56 will fail this year — 36,000 in total. And it reckons that the figure could be as high as 39,000 in 2010.

Although, with a heavy heart, I called the estate agent to withdraw my offer, my dream has not died entirely — because when I investigated further, I found that food industry observers remain bullish about the prospects for gambling gourmets.

Bob Farrand is chairman of the Guild of Fine Food, a trade association with 1,300 members. Expectations at the beginning of the year were that membership would fall as businesses were liquidated, but Farrand has seen no appreciable change.

“The vast majority of deli and farm shop owners who I’ve been asking, ‘How’s it going?’ have been saying, ‘Not as bad as we thought it was going to be’,” he says.

“The past ten or 12 years has seen a massive shift in food awareness. Since the last recession we’ve had BSE, foot-and-mouth, a succession of food scares from things such as E. coli. So people are much more savvy now about where their food comes from. We have moved forward with our food culture. Maybe people have cut back on holidays, maybe not moved home, maybe not redecorated the sitting room, but they have continued to buy a similar quality of food as they did before the recession. Deli owners are not making a fortune but, then, they are not in it to make money. It’s an aspirational, lifestyle choice.”

Jenny Linford is the author of Food Lovers’ London and an authority on the capital’s small food retailers. “These are tough times and small independent shops are, as ever, struggling,” she says. “But a lot are surviving. They are offering delicious food and a bespoke, personal experience that you can’t get in the supermarkets.”

So far, so cautiously optimistic. But what is the experience of those on the foodie front line? I spoke to three deli owners across the country — two of whom did not have a catering background — to discover their experiences of starting up their businesses, and to find out what impact the economic downturn has had on their fortunes.

Antonia Beamish, 41 (pictured), and Casey McGlue, 43, run Beamish & McGlue, 461 Norwood Road, South London; 020-8761 8099; beamishandmcglue.com

When we opened four years ago, we called ourselves a “delicious food shop”. Our concept was to make good food available to everyone and keep prices as low as possible. We had just moved to the area, we’d just had a baby, and it was a food desert here. Casey was looking for something new.

The week before we opened it was really scary — we had ordered thousands and thousands of pounds’ worth of food. We had been getting it ready for a couple of months and people had been asking when it was going to open ... then there was a long queue of people waiting to get in, all day long. It just wouldn’t stop and at the end we had nothing left in the shop. It was brilliant. A real baptism of fire.

Since then we have been on a steep learning curve. The most important lesson has been location, location, location. Never were truer words spoken: we are at the wrong end of the high street.

One reason we opened was that we were fed up with paying too much at Somerfield, which was the only food shop around. Then, last year, Tesco opened. This year Sainsbury’s opened. And they are all up there together. Lambeth council made it easy to park up there, while down here it has got rid of all the free parking.

It’s not the supermarkets that have dented our trade but the parking. It was quite busy on this part of the high street when we opened; now you can almost see the tumbleweed blowing.

Usually I’m here four days a week and Casey does five, but I do all the ordering and accounting. That’s another area where I’m learning — I’m not an accountant and maybe I should pay someone to do that for me. We had to do a food hygiene course with an exam at the end of it — that was scary. And I’ve learnt how to make croissants, how to marinate olives ... A surprisingly difficult thing has been mastering the art of stacking shelves and dressing windows.

We have had disagreements — over Sunday opening, for instance — but it’s great to have someone to share your frustrations with. Without Casey, I’d wind myself in circles with the stress of it.

We noticed the recession affecting us last summer. I took my eye off the ball because I was focusing on the baby, and finally realised: “Hang on — we owe double what we normally owe.” We spent six months trying to get it back to normal by cutting corners and paying ourselves nothing. Then we were robbed.

There are a lot of overheads — the rent, which went up last year; commercial rates; insurance; staff; water; electricity, which is extortionate; buying and maintaining fridges and other machines; and the food is very expensive. But we are surviving and the shop is paying for itself. We are developing other ideas, such as a website and perhaps a delivery service. And there is so much that I enjoy. We have a loyal customer base and it gives me a lot of pleasure when someone you wouldn’t expect to find in a shop like ours wanders in, buys something, then keeps coming back. I really enjoy tasting new foods and finding out where they come from, and unearthing local suppliers.

We still have a lot to learn and we don’t make a lot of money. But we do eat well.

David Brown, 42, runs David Brown Delicatessen, 28A Harbour Street, Whitstable, Kent; 01227 274507

When I opened my deli, I started off thinking, “Yeah, it’ll be nice to have the radio on, sell a few cheeses and slice a bit of ham . . .” but it doesn’t work like that. It has to evolve. I sell lots of food that I make and if I didn’t the business wouldn’t survive. So it’s important that I can cook.

I worked as a pastry chef at the Hilton in Mayfair, also for Anton Mosimann, and before I opened the deli 12 years ago I’d been cheffing on a yacht for a business tycoon. I was based in Viareggio on the Italian coast, and when I was buying supplies I used to go into these beautiful little shops selling great food, and think “I could run something like this one day”.

Then I came back to Whitstable and this place, which had been a butcher’s shop, had closed down, and I thought, “Ah, this is the opportunity.” Whitstable was different all those years ago, there wasn’t much going on, so it was a bit risky and the early years were tough going.

Then Whitstable was put on the map when the Whitstable Oyster Fishery Company started getting good reviews in the national papers. It was near London, houses were cheap, it’s a beautiful place — now it’s really busy all the time.

It is hard work but it’s a lot easier doing a 14-hour day when it’s for yourself, instead of having a chef screaming his head off at you all the time. I start at 5am and spend three hours in the kitchen before people start to come in — I cook all the croissants here, make all the salads, bake the cakes. Then at the end of the day I’ll be prepping up for the next morning. But it’s good to be able to close up at 6pm or 6.30pm — I used to hate working through the evening in restaurants.

This is a real community shop. Between 7.30 and 8am the builders show up to get their coffee. Then you get the parents meeting up after they have dropped the kids off at school. You get all sorts of people from all over town, and tourists from around Europe. It’s fun.

In the winter months I rely on people in the town. We’ll make soups and stews then. And we have wine tastings — I cook food to go with the wines.

I’ve become quite well known in the town, so if someone is having a party, people will say, “Why don’t you get David to do the food?” So I have a combination of things going on that make the business work.

If anything, over the past year I’ve been much busier. There’s a lot more people about, maybe because they are holidaying in England instead of abroad. Last Christmas was really busy, and I thought, “Ah, January and February could be horrible.” But it was all right. I buy a lot of stuff from Brindisa, and cheeses from Neal’s Yard — prices have gone up because of the euro and the price of fuel, so I’ve had to tweak mine a little but nobody seems too bothered about it.

Would I like to work fewer hours? Well I’d have to stop running the place in that case. It’s me. The shop is me.

Ciara Luscombe, 27, runs Olio & Farina in York with her husband Chris, 28, at 3 Blake Street.

01904 670885; olioefarina.com I used to work in legal publishing — the job was great and I had good friends but I didn’t want to be stuck in an office for years and years and I could easily see that happening. I wanted to break out.

We were looking for an opportunity but didn’t really know where to begin. Then we found Olio & Farina through a franchising website. We met some of its reps at an exhibition in London. We didn’t have an interview as such; we liked them and they liked us.

This was in March last year. We found the shop and they came for about ten days to help us with the layout and give us a crash course in preparing meats and cheeses — how to slice them, how to present the plates. Even making a cappuccino is surprisingly scientific.

It took several months to fit out the shop and sort out planning issues, so we didn’t open until November. In that time, of course, there was lots of bad news filtering through about the economy. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t worried. But we were also getting married, and the plans for the wedding took a lot of time and energy. And we were both fully committed to the shop — we’d made up our minds and if we didn’t do it then, we never would.

There’s almost no good time to open a business; there is always a risk of things going wrong. But at the moment, things are good for us. With the recession, people are more choosy. You almost feel privileged if they choose to buy their lunch at your place. But they are still willing to pay that bit more for quality. All things considered, we’re doing OK.

Chris has continued his job as a solicitor but he helps me out at weekends. Chris’s dad Peter, a retired teacher, also lends a hand. And we have six staff, all of whom have been with us from the beginning. We have all learnt together.

We are open seven days a week, and you do take it home with you. It’s always on your mind. This is not really a job for a worrier. I’m quite a laid-back person. Things change and things happen, and you have to be able to go with it.

Being your own boss is both the best and the worst of it. You can be too hard on yourself but it’s a great feeling to be in charge of your career and destiny. I love meeting people all the time, getting to know my regulars and giving them a nice experience.

I was never shy but I have grown in confidence — having to deal with bankers and builders, celebrities or prominent people in the city who may wander in. You just have to get on with it.