Looking after The Sussex Restaurant
In the mid-seventies, as the children grew older, I developed an interest in taking them to different restaurants. This was partly for my benefit, as I still had a strong inclination to hospitality. In the earlier days, as I believe I've mentioned in a previous chapter, we used to host full-on afternoon teas for family and friends. Taking the children to restaurants was, in part, a way for me to stay connected to the industry and keep up with trends. However, at that time, New Zealand had a limited selection of places to enjoy a good meal out.
That said, a few restaurants were starting to change the scene. One such place was a restaurant called Scoffers Inn, owned and operated by an English couple, Cliff and Zoe, who had fantastic ideas about how to run a restaurant with great menus and elegant décor. This was their second restaurant—the first, Nosh Inn, had equally creative charm, even in its name.
After visiting Scoffers Inn several times, we became friendly with Cliff and Zoe. It was during one of these visits that they mentioned they were planning to sell the restaurant for personal reasons. Despite owning Magner Knitwear and having five children to care for, I seriously considered purchasing the restaurant. However, in their wisdom, they decided not to sell it to me. That's the kind of thoughtful people they were—they cared about my family and recognized the challenges we would face if we took on such a demanding business.
Later, in the early eighties, while we were still operating Magner Knitwear, we reconnected with Cliff and Zoe after they opened another beautifully designed restaurant called The Sussex. Eventually, we agreed to run The Sussex on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays for three months while they went overseas—a truly wonderful experience. Sheila took charge of making the desserts under Zoe's guidance, Julia and Phillip helped in the kitchen, and I managed the front of the house.
Running The Sussex was unlike anything we'd done before. We worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, while other close friends of Cliff and Zoe covered the remaining evenings. We'd arrive through the kitchen entrance around 4:30 or 5:00 PM to prepare for service, and the atmosphere was always electric with anticipation.
About four weeks into our stint, something memorable happened. We came through the kitchen door on a Friday afternoon, greeting the chef and kitchen staff as usual, all of us probably looking a bit too cheerful for our own good. The young chef looked up from his work, slammed his tea towel down on the bench, and shouted at us: "I am just about fed up with you guys coming into my kitchen with all those smiling faces all the time!"
We froze. Then slowly, carefully, we walked past him toward the dining room, unsure what we'd done wrong.
That's when he and all the staff broke out laughing. He'd been setting us up the whole time. It became a running joke after that—apparently, our enthusiasm was both infectious and slightly ridiculous.
The same chef had a wicked sense of humour when it came to difficult customers. One night, we had a table of eight, and among them was one particularly demanding and unpleasant woman. Nothing seemed good enough for her. She ordered a chicken dish, and I went back to the kitchen to warn the chef about her attitude, asking him to make sure it was perfect, wanting to make sure everything went smoothly for that table.
What the young chef did next was absolutely hilarious. Not far away was a Kentucky Fried Chicken store. He'd sent one of his staff to get a KFC box, placed it on a plate, and covered it with a cloche.
You can imagine the uproar when this customer lifted the cover. Her companions immediately broke out in laughter—they all knew exactly what she'd been like. To her credit, she saw the funny side of it. The chef brought out her real meal moments later, and the tension at the table evaporated. It was a masterclass in handling difficult customers with humour rather than confrontation.
Those three months taught us a great deal about running a restaurant at a professional level, and we loved every minute of it.
That said, a few restaurants were starting to change the scene. One such place was a restaurant called Scoffers Inn, owned and operated by an English couple, Cliff and Zoe, who had fantastic ideas about how to run a restaurant with great menus and elegant décor. This was their second restaurant—the first, Nosh Inn, had equally creative charm, even in its name.
After visiting Scoffers Inn several times, we became friendly with Cliff and Zoe. It was during one of these visits that they mentioned they were planning to sell the restaurant for personal reasons. Despite owning Magner Knitwear and having five children to care for, I seriously considered purchasing the restaurant. However, in their wisdom, they decided not to sell it to me. That's the kind of thoughtful people they were—they cared about my family and recognized the challenges we would face if we took on such a demanding business.
Later, in the early eighties, while we were still operating Magner Knitwear, we reconnected with Cliff and Zoe after they opened another beautifully designed restaurant called The Sussex. Eventually, we agreed to run The Sussex on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays for three months while they went overseas—a truly wonderful experience. Sheila took charge of making the desserts under Zoe's guidance, Julia and Phillip helped in the kitchen, and I managed the front of the house.
Running The Sussex was unlike anything we'd done before. We worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights, while other close friends of Cliff and Zoe covered the remaining evenings. We'd arrive through the kitchen entrance around 4:30 or 5:00 PM to prepare for service, and the atmosphere was always electric with anticipation.
About four weeks into our stint, something memorable happened. We came through the kitchen door on a Friday afternoon, greeting the chef and kitchen staff as usual, all of us probably looking a bit too cheerful for our own good. The young chef looked up from his work, slammed his tea towel down on the bench, and shouted at us: "I am just about fed up with you guys coming into my kitchen with all those smiling faces all the time!"
We froze. Then slowly, carefully, we walked past him toward the dining room, unsure what we'd done wrong.
That's when he and all the staff broke out laughing. He'd been setting us up the whole time. It became a running joke after that—apparently, our enthusiasm was both infectious and slightly ridiculous.
The same chef had a wicked sense of humour when it came to difficult customers. One night, we had a table of eight, and among them was one particularly demanding and unpleasant woman. Nothing seemed good enough for her. She ordered a chicken dish, and I went back to the kitchen to warn the chef about her attitude, asking him to make sure it was perfect, wanting to make sure everything went smoothly for that table.
What the young chef did next was absolutely hilarious. Not far away was a Kentucky Fried Chicken store. He'd sent one of his staff to get a KFC box, placed it on a plate, and covered it with a cloche.
You can imagine the uproar when this customer lifted the cover. Her companions immediately broke out in laughter—they all knew exactly what she'd been like. To her credit, she saw the funny side of it. The chef brought out her real meal moments later, and the tension at the table evaporated. It was a masterclass in handling difficult customers with humour rather than confrontation.
Those three months taught us a great deal about running a restaurant at a professional level, and we loved every minute of it.