The offer strategist works your menu against the street's live prices — what to feature, bundle, or counter. Every draft waits for your approval; nothing ships alone.
A competitor launches a lunch set; by morning your counter is drafted, priced from the street, ready to approve.
Tue–Thu lunch bundles built from what your street actually charges — not a guess, not a template.
What to post, who to win back, what to feature — written, scheduled, waiting for your yes.
Instagram and Facebook posts drafted to match how you talk — with the photo and the hashtags attached.
When the race weekend fills the street, the plan is ready: post schedule, two offers, a staffing note.
Every offer, caption and reply is a draft until you approve it. The agents never publish alone.
The strategist works your menu against live street prices. You get a move, not a report.
Your dishes, and what the venues you watch charge for the same thing. An offer that ignores the road is a guess with a discount attached.
The dishes your menu says get opened often are the ones worth featuring. The ones seen and skipped are the ones a bundle can rescue.
Their three-course lunch set appears; by morning yours is drafted and priced, with the reasoning attached so you can disagree with it.
A holiday, a festival, the race that fills the street. What to offer, what to post and when — lined up before the week starts, not on the Thursday.
The offer arrives as a finished post — caption, image, hashtags — not as a suggestion you still have to turn into something.
Every offer is a draft until you say yes. Ignore one and nothing happens; the next night's read simply takes account of it.
Tuesday is quiet, so you take twenty per cent off and put it on Instagram. A few more tables come. The till is lighter. You decide promotions do not work for a place like yours — and you are right about what happened, and wrong about why. What you ran was a discount, and a discount takes the same money off everybody, including the people already walking through the door.
Twenty per cent off the whole menu, all night. The forty covers you already had get it too, and they were coming anyway. You have not bought a single new table — you have sold the same night for less.
A fifth of every bill, including the full ones.
Almost nobody. The room had already decided.
Better, because the damage has an edge on it and you can see where it stops. But it is still money off a plate you were already selling, to a guest who would have paid for it.
The margin on the dish that needed help least.
A few. Mostly people who already liked that dish.
A glass with the set. A dessert on two mains. A coffee after lunch. The guest gets more rather than paying less, and you give up the cost of one small thing instead of a share of the whole bill.
One small item, given rather than sold.
The table choosing between you and next door.
Two courses at a single number, built out of one plate that sells and one that sits. The guest orders something they would not have ordered. Your menu is not marked down anywhere — you chose what goes in the set.
Nothing off your printed prices.
The undecided table, and the dish nobody was opening.
The same set, but Tuesday to Thursday only, and only until three. An offer that exists when the room is empty and disappears when it is full is the one kind that cannot quietly eat your Saturday.
Nothing at all on the nights that were already busy.
People who could come any night and had no reason to pick one.
None of that is software. It is the difference between two words, and any operator who has run a promotion has felt it in the till. What software can do is the part underneath — because the three rungs that actually move somebody all need numbers nobody keeps: what the same plate costs across the road, what the place four hundred metres away is running this week, and which of your own dishes guests keep seeing and never opening.
Two courses at one price is a good offer or a bad one depending on four numbers, and not one of them is in your head. They are on the menu across the road, on the price card somebody posted last night, on your own menu, and on the calendar. Here is where each comes from, and how often it is read again.
Their menu, read dish by dish, and from the second read on, what each price has done since. Not a street average: every price carries the name of the place charging it, and a glass is only ever measured against a glass. A number you would take to a pricing decision has to be one you can stand behind in front of the person who charges it.
The deal on their price card, read off the picture they posted — the promo price, and the crossed-out one beside it where they printed one. A promotion can appear on a Tuesday and be gone by Friday, which is why this is the one thing read daily. And a discount is only ever called a discount when they showed the old number themselves.
Your own menu counts what it is showing. A dish seen a hundred and forty-one times and opened three is not a dish people dislike — nobody has tasted it. It is a dish people are not opening, and that is exactly the plate a set can carry into an order.
Public holidays and what is on in your city, ranked by how far the crowd actually spills rather than by how big it is. People cross a whole city to reach an arena and then eat next to the arena. A street market four hundred metres away moves your Saturday; a stadium show nineteen kilometres out moves nobody on your road.
Two courses, $17. Tuesday to Thursday, until three.
Seen and opened are what your own menu counted while guests were reading it. They are looks, not orders — a till knows what sold and a menu never can, and you would rather be told one true thing than two convenient ones. The rest of it points back at a row you can go and open: a price on somebody's menu, a card they posted, a date on the calendar. An offer you cannot argue with is an offer you cannot correct.
One good move on a Tuesday buys you a Tuesday. What changes a quiet month is a week already written on Sunday — each post on its day, in your words, with the picture attached — and not one of them able to go out.
Every other job on your team reads something and files what it found. This one writes posts and spends to do it, so it ships off. Nobody should ever discover that something has been drafting for them.
The automatic week reads only the ideas you said yes to — not the pile it suggested, the ones you approved. Three approved topics is three posts. An empty board is a quiet week that costs nothing, because it stops before it starts thinking.
Writing a caption and buying a photograph are not the same size of decision, so they are not the same switch. Left alone, the automatic week only uses pictures you already own. The other switch has your name and the date on it.
And if it cannot afford the whole week, it writes none of it. Three posts and a silence is worse than a week that plainly did not happen, because nobody was watching to notice the difference.
Everybody can tell. A caption built out of three emoji and the word indulge is recognisably nobody's, and it costs you more than posting nothing would. So the first thing your team does is learn how you already talk — from your own posts, your own reviews and your own menu — and then you go through it and correct it.
✨ Treat yourself this Tuesday! 🍝 Our AMAZING pasta is calling your name — don't miss out!! 🔥
Two courses, $17, Tuesday to Thursday. The sea bass is in it this week — over charcoal, since the weather turned. Until three, and then it goes back on the menu at its own price.
The rest go in the first comment, so the caption stays a caption.
All of it is drafted for you on the first read and every line of it is yours to overwrite. A voice you are not allowed to edit is not your voice, it is a setting — and the venues that get the most out of this are the ones that spent twenty minutes arguing with the first draft.
Four boundaries. Each of them is a mechanism rather than a promise: the kind you could check, rather than the kind you have to take on trust.
The thing that puts posts out reads one list, once a minute: posts you have put on the calendar with a time on them. A draft is not being held back from that list — it is not on it. Approved and dated, it goes out to Instagram, Facebook, Google and LinkedIn, at the minute you picked and not before.
Switch approval on and a post has to be submitted and approved before a date can even be put against it. The calendar refuses, in a sentence that says what to do, rather than quietly letting it through. Useful the moment somebody other than you is drafting.
The strategist who tells you what to feature and what to bundle can read your menu and cannot write to it. Not by policy — she does not hold the tools. Your printed prices are the same in the morning, and a set that runs for three days lives in a post and on a calendar.
It shows you what the post did — who liked it, who commented, who saved it, and how many it reached wherever that number is ours to see. It cannot see your covers or your takings, and it does not guess at them. A post and a till are two different rooms, and anybody drawing a straight line between them is guessing about your money.
What else runs once the week is being written
Every offer above was built out of something you can go and look at: a price on somebody's menu, a card they posted, a dish your own menu counted, a date on the calendar. Nothing here comes from a hunch, and nothing here happens without you. And it stops where you do: the week goes out as posts you approved, and putting the offer on the menu and telling the kitchen stays yours.
What you pay for is how much of the street the strategist can see, and how often.
The strategist, one competitor's prices to work against, and a weekly read. Enough to see the shape of the advice.
Three competitors, so an offer is priced against a band rather than a single rival.
Eight competitors read daily — which is what it takes to counter an offer while it is still running.
Every offer is a draft until you approve it — nothing changes your prices on its own.
No card, no setup call. Start free and the agents pick it up on their next shift.
