The rest of this site argues that a busy restaurant can still lose money in four specific places. This page is the machinery underneath that argument: what you set up, what happens on a Friday night without anybody doing anything, and how a delivery on Monday ends up changing a price on your menu.
Staged, not switched on all at once
Most venues start with the menu and the codes, because that pays for itself before anything else is configured. The parts that take real work are marked as such below — we would rather you knew now than found out in week two.
Menu on, codes on the tables
Upload a PDF, a photo or a URL and the menu is read into dishes, prices and categories for you to correct. Print the codes, and guests can order.
The diary and the kitchen
Declare your sittings and how many covers each takes, put the booking link on your site, and open the kitchen screen on whatever tablet is already in the pass.
Suppliers and the shelf
Add your suppliers and their catalogues, then map dishes to ingredients. This is the slow one — a full menu is days, not minutes — but it is what makes food costs real rather than remembered.
Replacing your till
Your EPOS stays where it is. AtTable is the guest-facing layer, the kitchen screen, the diary, the shelf and the numbers on top of them.
Who touches what, and when
The question behind “how does it work” is usually “who has to learn it?”. So this is a service in order, with the surface each moment lands on — and most of them are a phone the guest already owns.
You check tonight against the shelf. Ninety-six booked, stock for sixty on the beef.
Two portions short becomes a line on tomorrow’s order, not a surprise at 20:00.
The pass screen comes on. Stations filtered, nothing to log into.
Table seven scans the code. The menu opens with their nut filter already on.
A third visit, recognised by device. No account, no name.
They order and pay. Sea bass, sourdough, two glasses.
Ticket to the kitchen, stock off the shelf, and the food cost of that plate — at once.
The ticket lands. Bumped item by item as it goes out.
A walk-in wants the risotto. It is eighty-sixed on the menu already, so nobody promises it.
Availability came off the ingredients, not off a whiteboard.
Table nine opens the risotto, reads it, and orders the chicken instead.
Opened, dwelled, walked away. The line your till will never have.
They split the bill four ways, tip, and leave without waving at anyone.
Service closes. Covers, takings, tips by person, and what was left on the table.
Ready before you have finished cashing up.
Four of those nine moments happened without anyone on your team touching anything — on a phone the guest already owned, or on nothing at all.
The van, the prices, the order
Service empties the shelf as it sells. A delivery fills it, and the price on that delivery note — not the one on the order — is what your dishes are costed at from then on. There is no cost field anyone has to remember to update.
By Friday, the covers already in the diary are added to what your usual week needs, and the shopping list is grouped by supplier on the weekday you order from each one.
The van arrives
Chelmsford Meat Co · 6 lines
You sign for what came
10 kg accepted · 2 kg refused
The charged price is recorded
Ribeye £8.40/kg · was £7.10
Every dish using it re-costs
11 dishes · no field to update
Ribeye & chips
On the menu at £12.00
£0.32 a plate. You sell 14 a night, so it is £4.48 a night you were not pricing for — against a costing nobody had to remember to update.
One dish, one week
A guest opens the Truffle Risotto, reads it for forty seconds, and orders chicken.
Nothing is asked of them and nothing interrupts them. The open, the dwell and the walk-away are recorded.
“156 opened it this month, 12 ordered it. They are stopping at £24.”
A figure, a plain-English read, and what the evidence suggests is causing it — not a chart to interpret.
The fix is already drafted: £21 for two weeks, and a description that leads with the truffle.
Half your guests see the new version, half see the old one. You approve it or you ignore it.
Opens that became orders go from 7.7% to 19%, measured against the guests who saw the old version.
So the number is the change, not the weather. The version that won is the one that stays.
+£486in orders that did not exist a fortnight ago
The same shape runs through the other three: a table that would have gone empty, an ingredient that quietly got dearer, an invoice that did not match the van. Each one hands the next its numbers.
Covers you already know about
96 booked · SunWhat those covers actually bought
312 covers · £18,410The food that left the shelf to make it
Ribeye −14 kgWhat replacing it really cost
£8.40/kg · was £7.10Re-price it, re-plate it, or leave it
GP 73.9% → 71.3%The decision goes back to the top — a price on the menu, a dish moved up the page, a different quantity on Friday's order — and the next Sunday is measured against the one before it.
Five surfaces, one set of data
The menu, the order, the bill and the review. No app, no account, nothing to install — and nothing for you to hand out or support.
Tonight’s tables, the diary, taking an order for someone who would rather not use their phone, and splitting a bill.
Tickets by station, bumped item by item, over a live connection. It installs as an app and holds its own login, so nobody signs in mid-service.
Revenue, what almost sold, the shelf, the rota and the supplier trail — the only surface that needs a proper screen, and the only one you look at outside service.
They accept, amend or price an order without an account, and say what actually went on the van. They never see your stock or your reorder levels.
Worth knowing before, not after
None of this is hardware you have to buy from us. The one that catches people out is the last kind: the numbers are only as good as what the kitchen tells them.
Open your assistant with a summary of AtTable already asked for. The answer is the model's, not ours — it may be out of date or wrong.