The Curry House Catastrophe: A Lesson in Humility and Haggis

The Curry House Catastrophe: A Lesson in Humility and Haggis

It was a Tuesday night, typically quiet at The Highland Haggis, our little restaurant and bar in Edinburgh. I was behind the bar, polishing glasses, when I spotted Hamish, our head chef, pacing like a man possessed. He was on the phone, muttering about "delivery cock-ups" and "missing stuff." Never a good sign. Tuesdays are restocking days, and a late delivery meant chaos.

Hamish is a legend, mind you. He's been with us from the start, seen us through thick and thin – the Edinburgh Fringe madness, that biblical storm in '21, even the time a stag tried to deep-fry a Mars Bar. Usually, he's cool as a cucumber. So, seeing him stressed meant serious trouble.

We had a big private booking for the following Saturday: a celebration for a group of Indian doctors in town for a conference. They wanted the full Scottish works: haggis, neeps and tatties, whisky tasting, the whole shebang. Hamish had painstakingly planned a special menu, sourcing the best ingredients. Except, those ingredients were now who-knows-where between Inverness and Edinburgh. Brilliant.

Across the road, The Spice Merchant, a popular Indian restaurant, was buzzing. Their neon sign winked cheerfully. I'd always seen them as our main rivals, but we kept to ourselves. We did Scottish, they did Indian, live and let live, right?

Until Saturday.

What Actually Happened

Saturday rolled around, and The Highland Haggis was transformed. Tartan tablecloths, soft bagpipe music, the air thick with the smell of simmering haggis. Hamish had somehow, against all odds, pulled it off. The delivery arrived late Friday, and he'd been working non-stop since. A hero.

The Indian doctors arrived, a lively bunch, keen to soak up some Scottish culture. We kicked off with a whisky tasting, a selection of single malts from different regions. They were enthusiastic, firing off questions about the history and how each whisky was made.

Then came the haggis. Hamish presented it with a flourish, reciting Burns' "Address to a Haggis" like a seasoned actor. The guests applauded, cameras flashed, and everyone tucked in.

Then, silence.

Not a nice, appreciative silence. This was a silence full of confused looks and furrowed brows. One of the doctors, a distinguished-looking chap with a kind smile, hesitantly put up his hand.

"Excuse me," he said politely, "but… is this how it's supposed to taste?"

Hamish, bless him, went bright red. "How… how do you mean, sir?"

"Well," the doctor went on, "it's… quite strong. Very… gamey. And the spices… they're not very familiar."

Another guest chimed in, "Yes, it's… different from what we expected."

Panic shot through me. We’d used the best ingredients. Hamish’s haggis was famous! What was going on?

Turns out, we'd made a huge mistake. We’d assumed that because they were Indian, they'd be used to strong spices and intense flavours. We'd cranked up the seasoning, chucking in extra black pepper, cayenne pepper, even a touch of chilli powder, thinking we were doing them a favour.

We were wrong. So wrong.

They were expecting traditional Scottish haggis, not some curry-infused monstrosity. They were polite, of course, but the disappointment was obvious. The atmosphere in the room deflated like a punctured bagpipe.

I saw Hamish, looking utterly ashamed, retreat to the kitchen. Fiona, our ever-optimistic waitress, who could charm the birds from the trees, tried to lighten the mood, cracking jokes about the haggis being "a bit of a wild beast" and offering extra whisky. But the damage was done.

The rest of the night was a blur of apologies, hastily prepared veggie options (thankfully, we always have some on hand), and heavily discounted bills. As the last of the guests left, I collapsed onto a bar stool, feeling totally defeated.

Then, I looked across the road. The Spice Merchant was still open, lights blazing, laughter spilling out. And I saw something that made my stomach drop.

One of the doctors from our party was walking into The Spice Merchant.

The Bit Nobody Talks About

The next day, I did something I'd never done before. I walked into The Spice Merchant.

The owner, Raj, a friendly bloke with a warm smile, greeted me warmly. "Ah, the Haggis Man! What can I do for you?"

I took a deep breath. "Raj, I need your help. I messed up badly last night. I had a private booking for a group of Indian doctors, and I completely misunderstood what they wanted. I… I added too much spice to the haggis, thinking they’d like it. They didn't. One of them even came here afterwards."

Raj listened patiently, nodding. When I'd finished, he sighed. "Ah, cultural misunderstandings. They can be tricky, eh? You see, many Indians, especially those from certain regions, aren't used to very spicy food. They prefer subtle flavours, balanced spices. It's a common mistake to think all Indian food is fiery hot."

Then he told me something that really struck home. He’d had a similar experience when he first opened The Spice Merchant. He’d assumed that all Scots loved a fiery vindaloo. He’d learned the hard way that many preferred milder, creamier curries.

"It's about understanding your audience," Raj said. "Not making assumptions based on stereotypes. It's about asking questions, listening to what they want, and changing your menu if needed."

He then confessed that he'd seen the doctor come in. He'd overheard him explaining what happened at our place. Raj, knowing how embarrassed I must be, hadn't said anything until I brought it up myself. A true gent.

The uncomfortable truth is that in the hospitality industry, we’re often so focused on being perfect, on getting the best ingredients, on creating the right atmosphere, that we forget the most important thing: understanding our customers. We get caught up in our own world and fail to see things from their point of view. And sometimes, that means swallowing our pride and admitting we were wrong.

The bit nobody talks about is the shame and embarrassment that comes with screwing up big time. It’s the fear of being judged, the worry about your reputation, the awful feeling that you’ve let your team down. It’s easier to pretend it didn’t happen, to sweep it under the rug. But that’s the worst thing you can do.

What I'd Do Differently Now

Walking back to The Highland Haggis, I realised I had a lot to sort out. It wasn't just about apologising to the doctors (which I did, profusely, the next day). It was about changing how we did things.

First, I sat down with Hamish and Fiona. I told them what Raj had said. Hamish, a bit defensive at first, eventually got it. Fiona, always the diplomat, suggested we create a "Scottish Experience Questionnaire" for future private bookings. It would ask about dietary needs, spice preferences, and anything else they wanted.

We also decided to offer a "mild" haggis, with less black pepper and no chilli. We’d still have the traditional version, of course, but we’d give people a choice.

The biggest change, though, was our attitude. We made a real effort to be more curious, more inquisitive, more understanding. We started asking customers about their past experiences with Scottish food, their favourite flavours, how much spice they liked. We listened carefully and changed what we did based on what they said.

For example, we had a group of American tourists who were unsure about trying haggis. Instead of forcing it on them, we offered them a small sample first. They loved it! They ended up ordering a full portion each.

I also started visiting other restaurants in Edinburgh, not just to "spy" on the competition, but to learn from them. I tried different foods, watched how they served people, and paid attention to how they talked to customers.

The main thing I learned? Don't assume anything. Ask questions. Listen. Change things if you need to. And don't be afraid to admit when you're wrong. Being humble is a superpower in the hospitality world.

It’s not about making our food boring, or losing our identity. It’s about understanding that taste is different for everyone, and that different cultures have different expectations. It’s about creating a welcoming place where everyone feels comfortable and respected.

For Your Venue

So, what can you, fellow restaurant and bar owners, learn from my haggis disaster?

• Don't assume anything about your customers. Especially when it comes to their background and what they can or can't eat. Have a way of finding out what they need and expect. A simple form, a quick chat with your staff, can make a big difference.
• Let your staff speak up. Fiona's quick thinking and positive attitude stopped things from being even worse. Encourage your team to be proactive when customers have problems and to find solutions. A happy team is a team that can adapt.
• Learn from your mistakes. Don't beat yourself up, but don't ignore them either. Think about what went wrong, find out why, and make changes to stop it from happening again.
• Be willing to learn from your competitors. Raj taught me a valuable lesson about being humble and understanding different cultures. Don't see them as enemies, see them as people you can learn from.

Remember, in the restaurant and bar world, we're all in this together. Let's learn from each other, support each other, and create an industry that is welcoming, understanding, and serves great food for everyone. After all, a rising tide lifts all boats. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to order a curry – mild, please.