Dining Out in the Cotswolds: Who’s Actually Paying?

There is a peculiar delicacy has been doing the rounds for a few years now. No, not braised pig cheek or wild garlic. Not even those all-too-familiar scotch eggs that seem to be made from equal parts sausage meat and marketing budget.

No, the real growth industry in our part of the world is the free meal.

And not the old-fashioned sort of free meal either like the occasional pint slipped your way because the landlord likes your face, or a pudding appearing with a wink at the end of a meal because you’ve laughed at one of their bad jokes earlier. This is something far more modern, far more sanitised, and far more tragic.

This is the era of the Hospitality Handout, delivered not to the starving, but to the aspiring.

To the content creator.

To the influencer.

You’d think seeing hospitality on its knees would prompt a fairly obvious reaction: book a table, go for lunch, pay the bill. Instead, it seems to have triggered something rather different, an instinct to see it as an easy target, a chance to grab a freebie, or worse still, get paid for the privilege of eating someone else’s food and calling it “content”.

And before anyone starts sharpening their steak knives, let me be clear: I’m absolutely not against marketing (I work in it!). I’m obviously not against social media (The Cotswolds Gentleman has been pretty much built on it). And I’m not even against people taking photos of their food (I do this sometimes and still suffer that feeling of embarrassment each time and feel it should come with a small fine).

What I am slightly against is the sheer, jaw-dropping volume of people in the Cotswolds who seem to be eating out as a part-time job.

Not as critics. Not as journalists. Not even as particularly interesting human beings.

Just eating. For free.

You may have seen them, migrating between Burford, Stow, Broadway and Cirencester like a herd of particularly well-dressed wildebeest in search of their natural prey: a pub that has opened, or one very close to closing. Some are wrapped in a neutral-coloured coat and Hunter wellies. Others go in their normal clothes, almost undetected until they are seen leaning over the table photographing a pork belly from seventeen different angles while it quietly dies.

And then later that day comes the Instagram post.

“Hidden gem.”

“Obsessed.”

“Such a vibe.”

“You NEED to try this.”

“Honestly unreal.”

And the most common lie ever told in the Cotswolds: “We just stumbled across this place.”

And then, the most fascinating part: the engagement.

Within seconds, the comments roll in from other influencers who have apparently been waiting, poised over their phones like air traffic control for mediocrity, or more likely summoned on a WhatsApp group.

“OMG this looks amazing!”
“Need to visit!”
“Adding to my list!”

All from people who will, inevitably, be sitting in exactly the same restaurant the following week doing exactly the same thing with exactly the same dishes in wide-eyed astonishment, as though they’ve just discovered fire while using the hashtags #invite or #ad.

Now, I understand transparency and the rules. But if you look at someone’s Instagram and every single post has #invite or #ad attached to it, that should be deeply embarrassing. At that point you’re not a food or hospitality lover, you’re essentially a freelance seagull.

And the awkward part? I honestly don’t know who's to blame.

Let’s start with the easiest target: the influencer.

There is something uniquely shameless about messaging a small independent business, already fighting soaring energy bills, staff shortages, VAT, and the general British public’s determination to stay at home, and saying, “We’d love to come in and experience your menu. Happy to collaborate!”

Collaborate. As though eating a £33 ribeye is a joint venture.

And it’s never the ones with genuine influence, is it? The ones who can actually fill tables don’t need to ask. They just go, quietly, like normal people, pay like normal people, and then mention it, if it’s good, in weekend newspaper. They don’t arrive with the air of someone about to do the restaurant a favour by ordering the scallops.

A friend who manages a local restaurant’s social media recently forwarded me a message from someone with 400 Instagram followers asking if they offer invites to “smaller creators”. A true and rather telling example. At that level, it’s less about being a “creator” in any meaningful sense and more about someone with a phone, a platform, and a slightly inflated idea of what their reach represents.

But then again, are the restaurants to blame?

Because they are doing it. They are actively feeding these people. Handing out food and drink like they’ve mistaken Instagram for the Red Cross.

And, yes, of course I understand why. Hospitality is on its last legs. It’s battered. It’s exhausted. Many places are running on fumes and goodwill. And if someone turns up offering “exposure” in exchange for a free meal, it probably feels like a bit of a lifeline, an easy way of making people aware that you exist, and a bit of a bargain.

Except it often isn’t.

Because what exactly are you buying? A photograph of your roast beef, with a caption reading “best roast ever”, which they also wrote last Sunday about a different pub just down the road.

And then there’s PR.

Ah, PR. Once the noble art of getting your client into The Times, The Telegraph, Condé Nast Traveller, or at the very least a glossy magazine that appear in doctor waiting rooms and people pretend to read. Now, increasingly, it involves sending messages like:

“Hi lovely! Would you like to come in for a complimentary dinner and share your experience?”

I know, as I receive them!

This is not public relations.

If your PR company’s greatest achievement is inviting Instagrammers for free meals, save yourself several thousand pounds a month and do it yourself if you truly believe this form of marketing works for you. At least if you’re going to give away your food, you can do it without a monthly retainer.

One of my personal rules on The Cotswolds Gentleman has always been simple: I don’t take free meals. Not because I’m holier-than-thou or morally superior, but because the hospitality industry is made up of real people trying to survive real pressures, and it doesn’t need yet another person treating their livelihood as a content opportunity.

Paying for your meal is respect. It also means you can be honest. Because once you’ve eaten for free, you’re no longer reviewing anything, you’re thanking. And a thank you, however enthusiastic, is not an honest opinion.

On the incredibly rare occasion a restaurant won’t take “no, I’m definitely paying” for an answer (this has happened twice as they were trying to thank me for something), I’ll settle it by leaving a tip for the staff that more than covers the cost of my meal. If someone insists on giving something away, it should go to the people doing the hard work, not to me.

Here’s the part that nobody seems talks about.

Because while restaurants or PR companies may believe giving away food brings in customers, it might actually be doing the opposite. I know it does for me. Because when I see a restaurant constantly giving away free meals to people with tiny followings and even tinier influence, I don’t feel inspired to book a table.

Sadly, for many, repeated gifting to low-reach accounts can start to create the impression that the value of the product is being diluted by how it’s being positioned and distributed. 

And then, quietly, without drama, I simply don’t go. Not out of spite, not because I hate influencers (The Cotswolds Gentleman falls into that bracket sometimes) and not because I’m jealous. I assumed it was just me being slightly judgemental until I asked my Instagram following a month or so ago. I was genuinely shocked by how many people shared the same view and had stopped going to particular pubs and restaurants because of this. It was more widespread than I expected.

The sad thing is, the Cotswolds has some genuinely brilliant places. Proper pubs, incredible restaurants, brilliant chefs who care, menus with thought behind them, landlords who are grafting away seven days a week just to keep the lights on. They deserve to be busy because they're good and deserve to be celebrated properly. They just need customers. Real ones. Paying ones. Returning ones.

Of course, I appreciate the world of marketing is changing. Businesses have to try things. If you’re in hospitality right now, you’ll do whatever you can to fill tables, and social media can absolutely work when it’s done properly, especially when it reaches real people in the local area who might actually come in and spend money.

But too often what’s happening is a kind of circular economy where restaurants feed influencers, influencers post for influencers, influencers comment for influencers, and the only people being influenced are other influencers looking for their next free meal.

Hospitality is being squeezed dry. And it’s not just influencers, either. There are local publications too, promising hospitality the world and delivering very little in the way of actual customers, yet charging a small fortune for the pleasure. It’s the same racket in a smarter jacket but offers the same promises: Plenty of “exposure”, minimal footfall, and an invoice that suggests they’ve just landed you a double-page spread in The Guardian.

And so I’ll end with this. Please stop taking from hospitality, no matter how much you convince yourself you’re “helping”. The industry doesn’t need more people eating for free in exchange for a few tagged photos and some performative enthusiasm. Over 3,000 venues went bust in 2025 alone, and the more we normalise this culture of taking, the worse it will get.

​If you genuinely love pubs and restaurants, do the most radical thing imaginable in 2026: book a table, pay the bill, tip the staff, and go back.

Which, call me a dinosaur, is still the best PR there is.