Opportunity Cost

It’s late. The truck is cooling down. The cambros are stacked. You’re tired in a way sleep won’t fix. And somewhere between the last wipe-down and the drive home, you realize the job just wasn't worth it.

Not because the food was bad.
Not because the client was cruel.

But because the day was gone—and the number didn’t match what it cost you to give it up.

That’s opportunity cost, even if you’ve never called it that.

You can only be in one place at a time. One street corner. One banquet hall. One dining room. When you say yes, every other possibility disappears. Quietly. Without argument. Without a paper trail.

They don’t haunt you with what might have been. They just vanish.

Early on, you say yes to everything. You have to. You take the small gigs, the awkward timelines, the budgets that feel like favors. You tell yourself it’s building something. And sometimes, it is.

But there comes a point—if you’re lucky enough to survive long enough—when yes starts costing more than it pays.

A lunch service that ties up your truck when you could’ve parked somewhere better. A private dinner that eats an entire weekend night for a number that barely justifies the prep. A “simple” catering job that quietly consumes three days of your life.

The problem isn’t the work.
The problem is what the work prevents.

You don’t see the better gig that never calls because you’re already booked. You don’t meet the client who would’ve paid more, respected the process, and come back again. You just feel booked solid and strangely broke.

That’s how this business wears you down—not with failure, but with small, reasonable decisions that add up to exhaustion.

Minimums exist to stop that slide.

They’re not about ego. They’re not about being precious. They’re about acknowledging reality: your time is finite, and some hours are more valuable than others.

A slow Tuesday afternoon doesn’t cost you much. A Saturday night costs you everything. Lunch is not dinner. A drop-off is not a full-service event. A food truck parked for four hours is not the same as a truck stuck in traffic and setup for six.

The work might look similar to the client. The cost is wildly different to you.

Minimums put a price on that difference.

They force a job to earn the right to occupy your calendar. They make the unspoken trade visible. If this booking takes the day, the night, the weekend—then it has to pay like it does.

Without minimums, you make decisions on vibes. With them, you make decisions on truth.

Here’s the quiet benefit no one talks about: minimums improve the work.

The clients who meet them tend to know what they want. They make decisions. They respect boundaries. They don’t nickel-and-dime because they already understand the value of what they’re asking for.

The ones who don’t? They were never your future. They were friction.

Minimums don’t shrink opportunity. They concentrate it. They clear the calendar of distractions so the right work has room to appear.

This is the moment when a business stops chasing and starts choosing.

You still work hard. You still prep too much and sleep too little. But the math begins to line up with the effort. The days feel heavy but justified. You stop wondering where the time went.

You didn’t lose opportunity.
You protected it.

You accepted the oldest truth in hospitality: presence is the product. And once it’s given away, it can’t be sold again.

You can only be in one place at a time.
Minimums are how you make sure it’s the right one.

Are you weighing your options, demanding minimums and valuing your time properly? If you aren't, we can help!

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