Crowdfunding a pizza restaurant

It’s surefire grist for reality TV. Could we crowd-fund a person into a pizza business?

What do you need in your life? Are you convinced there are more people like you? Do you and your likeminded locals constitute a market? And would you pay in advance to help make it happen?

Since subscribing to a newsletter called Gizmag, which is full of fascinating ideas/gadgets/devices that need financial help, I’ve become rather interested in the concept of crowd-funding. To the extent that I’m waiting for my new phone cover with inbuilt battery charger to arrive any minute, a seemingly marvellous product – prima facie – at an early-adopter’s bargain price. (It can’t be any worse than the one I bought in Thailand a few months ago. How do you say “you get what you pay for” in Thai?)

That’s how it works. The earlier you commit, the better the price. It’s mutual back-scratching between entrepreneurs and consumers with faith. And it’s kind of addictive.

I used to buy things that would arrive with unseemly haste from the other side of the world: shoes; laces; speakers. Hair product (true). Now I skim every day for things that don’t even exist yet, but just might if enough of us take that leap. Today’s serious consideration? An electric skateboard for bush trails, helmet strongly advised.

So let’s extend the idea to a service/experience as opposed to a tangible product. The kind of social experiment that is surefire grist for reality television. Could we crowd-fund a person into a pizza business?

Here’s my thinking. I live in a smallish town close to a capital city, with a daytripping/weekending population spike every mini-break. We have lots of food, drink and coffee – the place is awash with the stuff – but what we don’t have is what we really need. Real pizza. Made by a real pizzaiolo in a real wood oven that he – they’re always “he” – really knows how to drive.

So I’m thinking… What if I could find 100 people to put up 1000 bucks each, the equivalent more or less of an $80 meal out once a month for a year. Two pizze and a bottle of wine, a balanced diet in anyone’s language.

Then I go to this little place I know in another state where there is a guy. He works for the boss,

an employee, an Italian, who just happens to drive a wood oven

like Sebastian Vettel a Ferrari. Works flour, yeast and water like Michelangelo with plaster. Makes wonderful Neapolitan pizza. The kind of pizza I dream about on a cold winter’s night when I can’t be bothered cooking. But can’t get. And can’t make at home, no matter how hard I try.

So I say to this chap, here’s the deal: grab your paddle, we’re going to help you into your own place. Interstate. In a small town, but one that really needs a great pizzeria, and the bonus is I reckon it has the potential to make a lot of money downstream. Happy locals during the week and a queue of Audi-driving, ugg boot-wearing, puffer-vested mini-breakers every weekend.

He takes the 100 grand, tips in some cash of his own, moves, buys what he needs, opens Il Regalo (The Gift) and lives happily ever after. And his benefactors probably use up all their credit in the first two months cause they’re drunk with joy and shouting all their mates, because they can. I am only half-joking.