Unreasonable Hospitality: Why It Matters More Than Ever (And What Europe Should Learn)

There’s a certain kind of book that masquerades as a memoir but is, in fact, a manifesto. Will Guidara’s Unreasonable Hospitality is one of those books. On its surface, it’s about restaurants—about Guidara’s tenure at Eleven Madison Park, about turning a fine-dining establishment into the best restaurant in the world. But like all good business books pretending not to be, it’s really about something far more fundamental: how to create transformative experiences in a world saturated with transactions.

Guidara’s premise is disarmingly simple: it’s not enough to serve excellent food. Or run a smooth event. Or have a product that technically works. You must make people feel like they matter. And not in a generalised, HR-department-values-statement kind of way—but in a way that’s specific, unscalable, and emotionally resonant.

At Eleven Madison Park, this manifested in what can only be described as absurd acts of care. A family from Barcelona mentioned that their son missed his favourite hot dog back home. The staff sourced the exact brand, reheated it to local perfection, and served it to him mid-meal. A guest mentioned their love for New York-style street pretzels. The team recreated the experience inside the restaurant, complete with cart and mustard squeeze bottles.

This is not “customer service.” It’s theatre with soul.

And here’s where it gets clever—because the book isn’t just a series of warm anecdotes and management philosophy. It’s a business strategy. A movement, even. Guidara has since parlayed this into consulting, content, culture-building. What he’s done is identify a universal truth—that people are desperate for connection and personalisation—and turn it into a replicable operating system.

You could call it manipulative. But you’d be missing the point. Unreasonable hospitality is a deliberate counterattack against mediocrity.

In an era where algorithms recommend your lunch and chatbots handle your queries, the mere act of human effort has become exceptional. Guidara simply pushes this to its logical extreme. And if you think this only applies to restaurants, you haven’t run an event.

Because the truth is: most events are transactional. Conferences, pitch days, even board meetings. A schedule. A speaker lineup. A sad sandwich.

When I started building Capital for Cures, I knew I didn’t want to just run another industry gathering. I wanted to create something people would remember—not because the slide decks were polished, but because the experience made them feel seen.

So yes, I stole from Guidara. Shamelessly. I put thought into the small things: welcome notes, hand-selected venues, real food (not foil trays), music that didn’t sound like a corporate jingle. I asked people what they needed—and then, when I could, I delivered. A spontaneous introduction. A quiet corner for a tense negotiation. A seat at the table no one else offered.

It’s not scalable. It’s not “lean.” But it’s what people remember. And that’s the whole point.

Now, let’s talk Europe.

This kind of thinking is still painfully rare here. We’ve got centuries of hospitality tradition, but in business? We still think professionalism means being cold, neutral, and interchangeable. Events are efficient. Dinners are formal. Emails are curt. It’s no wonder so many European founders and innovators flock to the U.S. for funding and community—over there, someone will at least pretend to be excited about your idea.

Unreasonable hospitality offers a better model. Not American fake-nice, but actual intentionality. Care. Delight. What if every pitch meeting felt like someone wanted you to succeed? What if every conference was curated for magic, not mediocrity?

The irony, of course, is that this approach isn’t expensive. It’s effortful. It requires listening, imagination, and some logistical gymnastics. But the ROI is enormous. People come back. They refer others. They associate your name with something that made them feel like more than a LinkedIn connection.

For me, Capital for Cures isn’t about throwing nice parties. It’s about changing the way healthcare capital connects with ideas. And that begins not with better diligence rooms or polished logos, but with unreasonable hospitality.

If we want to build ecosystems that support real innovation—across biotech, healthcare, or anything else—we need more than funding. We need belonging. We need people to walk into a room and feel: this was made for me.

Guidara figured that out with foie gras and white tablecloths. The rest of us can do it with name tags, coffee, and genuine attention.

So yes, read the book. Steal the ideas. Put pretzels on a platter if that’s what it takes. But above all, remember: when you make people feel welcome, they show up differently. And in the long run, that’s what changes everything.