The sad decline of BYOB

London’s food scene is a Petri dish of Michelin-starred bistros, gastropubs, and overpriced tourist traps where waiters crouch by the table and call you ‘bud’. The days of staying at home, watching Raffles, and eating tinned fruit with evaporated milk are long gone. London’s new culinary culture is an expensive one. But one institution has remained true throughout this tsunami wave of progress: BYOB restaurants. Or so I thought.

BYOB stands for ‘bring your own bottle’ or, if you’re boorish like me, ‘bring your own booze’. I think the ‘bottle’ gives it an undeserved prestige. The concept of ‘bring your own’ can trace its roots back to America. The first recorded example of BYOB came in the form of a cartoon panel by Frank M. Spangler in Alabama, 1915 – just a few months after state-wide prohibition. By the 1970s, it had become a staple of cheap, boozy British dining.  

But even BYOB restaurants can’t withstand the crushing weight of modernity. Rental prices increase, costs increase, influencers with dead eyes want free meals in exchange for recording themselves vaping outside and coughing, ‘this place is a vibe.’ Chefs are given restaurants because they spent six months mumbling about butter on Instagram. What chance does the humble BYOB establishment have?

Very little, as I’ve discovered. It seems in order to keep up with our increasingly lavish world, BYOB places have had to change their tune. Gone are the days of idly finishing three bottles of wine over a £10 meal. It’s all about flipping tables: getting as many customers in and out as possible. 

I went to one of London’s most respected BYOB places a few weeks ago. The evening got off to a bad start. A bin outside of Whitechapel station brimmed with soiled nappies and, as I tried to skirt the mess, a muscular rat danced across my foot. Opposite the restaurant sat a lonely off-license selling Polish lagers at a reasonable price. My friends and I bought eight cans. We were hoping for a lengthy evening. 

‘I think it’s closed,’ said my friend. The restaurant looked like a repossessed house from the outside. ‘No, it’s not,’ I said, pointing at the flickering television screen through one of the dimly lit windows. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ said my friend, shivering.

Upon entering the establishment, we were greeted by a salad bar in place of a waiter. We stood for some time clutching our lukewarm cans of beer. ‘Do you think anyone is home?’ asked my friend. A strange man appeared – doing his best impersonation of Delbert Grady from The Shining – and showed us to our table. The dining room was at the back and was lit like a sanatorium. The walls were barren, begging to be splattered with blood: all service charge and no play makes Zak a dull boy.

‘Here,’ said the waiter, slamming three menus on our table. ‘The place is basically empty,’ hissed my friend. ‘Why has he sat us by the bathroom?’ A groan came from behind the toilet door. This was followed by a flush and then a rather ill looking man who staggered towards the kitchen. 

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‘Is he the chef?’ ‘Try not to think about it,’ I said. An unseen infant screamed into the void as we ordered. I have never been served so quickly in my life. The food arrived before we could open our first can of beer.  ‘Here,’ the waiter said, throwing the plates on top of each other. My friend was splattered in Jalfrezi sauce.

‘Thank you–’ I started, but the waiter stuck his finger into one of the dishes before I could finish. ‘And here,’ he said, breathing heavily and hand-spooning two hairy lamb chops onto my friend’s plate. When the food had been fondled to his liking, the waiter retreated to the adjacent table, opened a can of Diet Coke, and watched us eat, maintaining eye contact. He came back three times in the next ten minutes to ask if we were finished. In the end, we gave up and told him we’d had enough. There were six cans of beer left untouched when we paid the bill. The meal came to £60, not including the service charge. 

I blame myself for the evening. I’d read a review online that said it was the best BYOB restaurant in London, and like a deranged general I’d marched my friend into perilous lands. There are, of course, some good BYOB places left. But all of the establishments I’ve visited in the last six months have been awful. It’s not their fault. How are they supposed to compete with wine bars selling ‘small plates’ at £18 a pop? It’s not that they don’t want us to finish our drinks, it’s that they can’t afford for us to finish our drinks. They need the next unsuspecting gang of inebriated fools to take your table. 

I’ve always loved BYOB restaurants. There’s something homely about them. But as is the case with cheap pubs, greasy spoons, and affordable living, a good BYOB restaurant is becoming a thing of the past. It’s exciting to see London as a ‘foodie’ capital, but not when it forces local restaurants to cut corners just to keep up. For now, all I can do is be a little more discerning when reading Google Reviews.