Before You Inherit the Family Restaurant, Ask This One Brutal Question

Before You Inherit the Family Restaurant, Ask This

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You’re 26, the keys are basically being slid across the counter, and the unspoken message is heavy: this place is the family. Meanwhile your dad is pulling 6am-to-10pm days like he’s in a one-man triathlon, and you’re staring at a kitchen that’s always short-staffed, always one sick day away from chaos.

That tension—duty versus desire—doesn’t get solved by “working harder.” It gets solved by getting honest about what you’re actually inheriting.

The first brutal question: is this a business… or a sacrifice?

On paper, “net €100k a year” sounds solid. In real life, it might be smoke and mirrors created by one person donating their life to keep the doors open.

A common take in situations like this: the true profit of a family restaurant is what’s left after you pay market rates for all the work being done. So try this thought experiment:

• What would it cost to hire a real general manager to run the floor and operations?
• What would it cost to hire someone to do ordering, stock control, scheduling, payroll?
• What would it cost to cover the extra floor shifts your dad currently absorbs?

If that replacement cost is higher than €100k, then the restaurant isn’t “netting” €100k. It’s being propped up by unpaid labor. In other words: your dad doesn’t own a business—he owns a punishing job with sentimental value.

Same with the discounted staff housing. Renting a house at €50/week might be kind, but it’s also real income your family is choosing not to collect. That may be a smart staffing perk, or it may be another hidden subsidy. Either way, it belongs in the math.

What to ask your father (and what to ask yourself)

Keep it practical. You’re not interrogating him—you’re trying to see reality clearly.

• “If you stepped away for 30 days, what breaks first?” (Operations reveal themselves fast.)
• “Show me the last 3 years: revenue, wages, food costs, utilities, repairs, taxes.”
• “What’s the plan for staffing so the owner isn’t doing 3–4 roles?”
• “If I take over, what decisions are mine—fully?” (This is huge.)
• “What does retirement actually look like for you?” Not vaguely—hours, involvement, expectations.

Then the personal side:

• Do you want a life where weekends, holidays, and spontaneity are basically negotiable?
• Are you excited by fixing systems—hiring, training, marketing—or do you feel dread?
• If this wasn’t your family’s place, would you apply for this job?

“Should I go work elsewhere first?” Maybe—just not for the reason you think

Some people swear by the “go learn at a bigger, well-run operation” route. It can be eye-opening: you see how staffing models work, what good inventory control looks like, how a real floor manager runs service, how marketing actually drives covers. And it can give you confidence to say, “We’re changing this,” with specifics—not vibes.

But others argue you don’t need to disappear for years to learn. You already know your place’s pain points. What you might need more than another line-cook job is outside perspective: a mentor, an experienced operator, or even hiring a proper general manager so the business isn’t balanced on one person’s spine.

You have more than two options (inherit it or abandon it)

This is where people get stuck. They think saying “no” means betrayal. It doesn’t. “No” can be a complete sentence—and sometimes it’s the healthiest one.

But you can also negotiate a third path:

• Run it as an employee for a real salary, with defined hours and authority.
• Take it over only with ownership control, so you’re not doing the work while someone else collects the upside.
• Modernize for 12–24 months (marketing plan, staffing plan, systems), then reassess and potentially sell.

And yes—your graphic design dream matters. Even if that industry feels shaky, your skills (branding, content, promotions) are also exactly what this restaurant is missing. You don’t have to pick one identity forever. You do have to pick a life you can live with.

The real takeaway: don’t inherit a routine. Inherit a plan—or don’t inherit it at all.