The Night the Haggis Almost Killed Me (And Other Lessons in Hospitality)
It was a Friday night in late January, Burns Night, and the pub was rammed. Not just busy, but vibrating with the happy noise of boozed-up Scots and curious tourists, all gagging for a taste of a traditional Burns Supper. We knew it would be a big one; we'd even drafted in extra staff. But knowing and experiencing are two different things, aren't they?
I was stuck behind the bar, pulling pints of Tennent's faster than I thought possible, when I spotted Chef Hamish, his face the colour of uncooked pastry, bursting out of the kitchen. He waved me over like a drowning man.
"We're oot," he croaked, barely audible. "Oot of haggis."
Now, running out of haggis on Burns Night is like running out of beer at Oktoberfest. It's sacrilege. A potential riot. And Hamish, a proud Scot with a temper hotter than a pizza oven, was losing it.
To make matters worse, Hamish was a proper traditionalist. His haggis recipe was his grandma's, passed down through generations. He insisted on getting the best ingredients from a local butcher, sticking to proper techniques. No compromises, no shortcuts, no fancy "modern takes." Which, on a night like this, was a proper pain in the sporran.
Then there was Rosie. Rosie, our bouncy, optimistic waitress, was navigating the packed tables, delivering plates with a smile that could melt glaciers. Even when some bloke sloshed a pint down her back, she just laughed, grabbed a towel, and carried on. Rosie had this knack for calming things down, an amazing ability to make people feel good. She was the WD-40 that kept our sometimes-creaky pub running.
What Actually Happened
The haggis situation went south fast. Customers started moaning. Tables were getting restless. Hamish was threatening to quit, muttering about "dishonouring his ancestors." I knew I had to do something, quick.
My first thought was to panic. To yell at Hamish. Blame the supplier. Hide in the cellar and hope it would all go away. But that wouldn't fix anything. So, I took a deep breath and tried to think straight.
I grabbed Rosie. "Rosie," I said, "we need a miracle. Can you work your magic?"
Rosie, bless her, didn't even blink. "Leave it to me," she winked.
And she did. She charmed her way around the dining room, explaining to each table that there had been a "wee problem" with the haggis. She apologised like her life depended on it, offered free drinks, and somehow convinced most of them that the delay was actually a good thing, giving them more time to enjoy the atmosphere and each other's company. Unbelievable.
Meanwhile, I legged it to the nearest supermarket. A desperate move, I know, but I was out of options. I grabbed every single haggis they had – a dodgy selection of supermarket own-brand stuff that would probably make Hamish spin in his grave.
Back at the pub, I found Hamish still raging in the kitchen. I presented my supermarket haul.
"Hamish," I said, trying to stay calm, "I know this isn't great. But we need to get something on the tables. Can you… can you work with this?"
He looked at the haggis, then at me, his eyes like slits. For a second, I thought he was going to explode. But then, something changed. He sighed, a long, tired sigh that seemed to let all the anger out.
"Alright," he said eventually. "Alright. But I'm not putting my name on it."
Then he set about transforming the supermarket haggis into something vaguely resembling his grandma's recipe. He threw in extra spices, a glug of whisky, and a whole heap of love. It wasn't perfect, but it was edible. And, more importantly, it was haggis.
Rosie, meanwhile, kept working her magic, smoothing things over and making sure everyone had a good time. By the end of the night, most customers were none the wiser. They'd had a Burns Supper, albeit one with a slightly different flavour. And we'd survived. Just.
The Bit Nobody Talks About
The bit nobody mentions is the emotional cost of all this. The constant pressure to keep everyone happy – the customers, the staff, the suppliers, the owners. The feeling that you're always seconds away from a total collapse. The guilt you feel when you have to sell out, like serving supermarket haggis on Burns Night.
And the feeling of being totally alone, even when you're surrounded by people. Because at the end of the day, it's all on you. You're the one who has to make the tough calls, the one who has to deal with the fallout.
After the Great Haggis Fiasco of 2024, I spent ages questioning myself. Had I done the right thing? Should I have been better prepared? Should I have refused to serve anything but Hamish's haggis, even if it meant upsetting people?
The truth is, I don't know. There's no easy answer. Hospitality is a messy, unpredictable game. You're always juggling, trying to balance tradition with what's possible, quality with price.
And sometimes, you have to give in. Sometimes, you have to ditch your principles to survive. It feels rubbish, but it's part of the job. The trick, I think, is to learn from your mistakes, try to do better next time, and never forget what matters: making sure your customers have a good time and your staff feel supported.
What I'd Do Differently Now
Looking back, I'd do things differently.
First, I'd keep a closer eye on stock. We underestimated how much haggis we'd need, simple as that. A quick check earlier would have flagged the problem and given us time to sort it. And this goes for everything. Have systems to track your stock, guess demand, and stop you from running out of key things. A simple spreadsheet, using your EPOS properly, or even just walking around and counting. Just know what you have and what you need.
Second, I'd have a backup plan. We relied too much on Hamish's haggis. We should have had a list of other suppliers, or even a simpler recipe we could have used if needed. This is true for everything, from ingredients to staff. Always have a plan B. What if your head chef is sick on a Saturday night? What if the beer doesn't arrive? Think it through and have a plan.
Third, I'd have talked to Hamish better. I should have realised how passionate he was and involved him in fixing the problem. Instead of just dumping the supermarket haggis on him, I should have explained, listened to his worries, and worked with him to find a solution we could both accept. It's essential. Your team needs to feel valued. They need to know their opinions count. Involve them in decisions, ask for their feedback, and create a culture of open conversation.
Finally, I'd have been kinder to myself. I beat myself up for weeks after the haggis thing, replaying it all and wondering what I could have done better. But I did my best in a tough spot. And that's all you can do. Hospitality is hard. Don't be afraid to ask for help, lean on your colleagues, and take time for yourself. You can't pour from an empty cup, as they say.
For Your Venue
The Great Haggis Crisis taught me something valuable: it's not just about the food or the drink. It's about the people. It's about making customers happy and supporting your staff. And it's about being ready for anything.
So, what can you learn from this and use in your own pub?
Start by looking at your own systems. Are you tracking your stock? Do you have backup plans? Are you talking to your team?
Then, focus on building strong relationships. Get to know your staff, understand what they're good at, and create a culture of trust. And don't forget your customers. Listen to them, deal with their problems, and make them feel valued.
Finally, remember to be kind to yourself. Hospitality is a marathon, not a sprint. There will be good days and bad days. Wins and losses. Learn from your mistakes, celebrate your wins, and never give up. And maybe, just maybe, don't run out of haggis on Burns Night. booteek helps restaurant AND bar owners build stronger teams. Start at booteek.ai