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IEventually it was going to happen. After years of free food, fawning checkpoints and fluorescent ring lights, restaurant Finally beginning to destroy the monster they helped create. like frankenstein, hospitality built it influential person The economy from scratch – feeding it, nurturing it, enjoying its subsequent fame – retreated only when it became too powerful to control.
The tipping point came last week Borough Marketwhen a Eat The vlogger was thrown out mid-review. In a video that has since been widely shared, Gerry Del Guercio, one half of the duo Bite Twice, is seen filming himself and his friend eating apples and cinnamon sticks when a security guard asks them to stop recording. Del Guercio looks bewildered. “Are we being kicked out of Borough Market?” he asks incredulously during a squabble.
The clip, filmed earlier this year on a smartphone rather than professional equipment, shows no ring lights, microphones or freebies – just two mates who have paid for their meal casually chatting about it on camera. It has reignited debate over whether influencers have finally overstayed their welcome at London’s most famous food market – or whether the market itself is moving forward.
According to Borough Market, there are no restrictions on filming, just rules, which were quietly put in place last year. Anyone who wants to shoot content for commercial purposes — that is, anything beyond casual selfies or home videos — must now apply for permission in advance and bring approval letters. Filming is prohibited on weekends, which are the market’s busiest times, and it is within the power of security to stop anyone without approval.
With more than 20 million visitors per year – about 55,000 daily – it’s easy to understand the logic. tripods, gimbals and crowds of gawkers don’t mix well with hot oil and narrow aisles. Still, for many online, the footage sparked consternation. Doesn’t this mean public market? Doesn’t burro mean sharing food?
Traders, according to follow-up reporting evening standardAre divided. “Many people come here just to buy goods from the market,” said one. “If there are people who are actually coming here to buy produce, contribute and interact with merchants, that’s great.” Some see influencers as a necessary evil: helpful for publicity, disincentives in practice. Others declined to comment, reportedly out of fear of retribution.
Borough Market is not the first to retreat. Notoriously, Dorian’s in Notting Hill has refused to host influencers altogether, part of a growing movement among restaurant owners who are tired of unsolicited DMs demanding food “in exchange for exposure”. Similar stories have emerged from New York and Paris, where bistros have banned filming altogether after diners complained about the glare of ring lights and table-side monologues. The mood has changed. At one time, appearing on TikTok was a ticket to virality. Now this is likely to invite ridicule, or an awkward conversation with the maitre d’.
There is a rich irony here. The restaurant world didn’t just tolerate influencers; It made them. It was chefs and PRs who invited content creators into their kitchens, designed “Instagrammable” dishes and built entire interiors around the perfect photo angle. They traded mystique for visibility, traded the quiet sanctity of the dining room for the dopamine hit of a viral post. Now, having cultivated an ecosystem that rewards aesthetics over atmosphere, many are surprised that fauna has replaced them.
At its core, the Borough Market phenomenon raises a complex question: who owns the food? Once you pay for your meal, isn’t it yours to take pictures, film and comment on it? Restaurants and markets occupy a strange middle ground between private property and public forum. They depend on being observed – that’s the point – but they don’t necessarily have to be recorded. The problem is that in the age of smartphones, those things can no longer be separated.
And where do you draw the line? If you take a short clip of a cheesemonger cutting a slice of Comté, are you now an influencer? We are all content creators now, whether we admit it or not. Instagram It’s turned everyone into a critic, even if it’s just to post the caption “Best pasta ever.”
Part of the backlash stems from a sense that influencers are being punished for doing what professional critics have done for decades. When Marina O’Loughlin posts a photo of her lunch, it’s journalism. When a 23-year-old does this with a smartphone, it’s clearly a nuisance. Yet these are the same people who have democratized food criticism – once the preserve of an elite with expense accounts. Now it’s for everyone, from students eating supermarket food to creatives reviewing fine dining in tracksuits. You may roll your eyes at the display, but it’s hard to deny the ripple effect.
Some influencers attract audiences in the millions. One of the UK’s most popular food accounts, Eating with Todd, has 2.1 million followers on Instagram and another million followers on TikTok. In other words, a single man with a smartphone is now equivalent to the total audience of the entire British traditional print media – and restaurants are still pretending that’s not important.
A glowing review from an influencer can change a restaurant’s fortunes overnight; A sharp person may do the opposite. It’s not much different from the power wielded by broadsheet critics, except that their readers are younger, hungrier, and arguably more engaged. Additionally, TikTok creators are not curated by editors. They are chaotic, subjective and messy – which is what also makes them more human.
Yet, the explosion of sponsored content, freebies, and unannounced partnerships has blurred the line between recommendation and advertising. There’s a legitimate question of trust: can you really give an impartial review of something if you didn’t pay for it? In traditional journalism, critics dine anonymously and the publication pays the bill to avoid that bias. Many creators don’t have that luxury – or they choose to ignore it. Then there is the question of etiquette. Employees are asked to “hold plates” for inconveniently long slo-mo shots, or entire tables are rearranged to fit a tripod. Other diners get caught up in the glare and wonder when their lunch became a background scene.
Obviously, restaurants want to regain some control. But if we start limiting who can say what about food, we risk taking back time when only a handful of gatekeepers decided what tasted good.
Borough Market’s situation is particularly ironic given its own history. Founded in 1851, it was a utilitarian trading term long before the word “material” existed. But its renaissance – queues for raclette, rainbow-coloured displays of fruit and veg, artisan cheeses and £9 bites – has been boosted by social media. The same aesthetic that makes it so photogenic is what draws influencers there in the first place. Without Instagram, would tourists still flock to Bread Ahead to buy donuts or truffle pasta under the railway arches? Possibly. But perhaps not in such numbers.
To be fair, the market’s policy is not harsh. It’s not banning cameras outright, just imposing some structure. You can still film – you just have to ask first. This makes sense for security and crowd management, but what is unclear is how permission is granted. Although boroughs may not need PR right now, small businesses certainly do. For them, a viral TikTok could mean survival.
The truth is that hospitality and social media have now become symbiotic. The line between customer and content creator has blurred beyond repair. What is needed is not a ban, but a code of conduct – mutual respect between those cooking the food and those filming it. The next phase of food culture will depend on that balance. Restaurants can’t stop growing out of the digital age any more than influencers can stop eating out. Perhaps the answer lies somewhere in the middle: film responsibly, eat respectfully, give credit to the people behind the counter.
If food is for everyone, then surely everyone should be allowed to eat – and have their say.