What Makes You Want To Eat?
A contrary reaction to the fine dining industry and why we need to deconstruct it.
What makes you want to eat? At the beginning of time, our ancestors might have said survival. A primal hunger. That became necessity; then it was scarcity; next the discovery of pleasure. As technology progressed, so did our obsession with innovation. Chefs weren’t just cooking to be the best in classical French fare; they wanted to beat their competition at being a pioneer of the new wave. Sous vide meat, foams and forceps became the signifiers of fine-dining.
The advent of restaurants removed that original primal hunger and replaced it with a social kind instead. Far removed from a time (or a place) where we hunted and gathered our food, the act of eating became transactional. We pay for groceries; we save up to dine out. And as the fine-dining industry became more prevalent – just as the poverty gap between rich and poor became stark in more economically developed countries – so grew the elitism which decided who could afford to eat at these establishments. And as we’ve seen from history, with elitism comes prejudice (and a distinct lack of joy). Now, the transactional value of restaurant culture is inherent. The chef is revered, but the diner pays; the critic is respected, but the restaurant picks up the tab.
I share a supreme dislike for ‘high-end’, tasting menu-fied restaurants. I truly could think of nothing worse than having to sit through a sixteen course meal created by an egomaniacal (usually white male) chef, who prescribes stories to his food, serves tiny portions of tweezered gastronomy, asks ‘guests’ to pay upwards of £700 and expects them to bow down to his greatness. So the news of Noma shutting down and turning itself into a 3.0 version is completely uninteresting to me. What I am excited by is the discourse it’s yielded. Cue a recent viral piece on The Atlantic that discusses the Copenhagen fine-dining holy grail’s ‘abusive, disingenuous and unethical’ restaurant culture, which has opened up a much needed conversation (albeit a little late).
Of course, as with most problems in the world, we must be held accountable. Rob Anderson writes of Noma’s culture: “Chefs know it but continue to imitate Redzepi. The food media know it but continue to celebrate his kind of food. Wealthy diners know it but continue to book tables en masse—if not at Noma, then at comparable destination restaurants around the world.” It’s us, hi, we’re the problem, it’s us.
We all know the reputation of restaurant kitchens: the high intensity, the obsession with perfection, the hierarchy. And the stories have been unfolding. A recent Eater article exposed the abusive kitchen culture at Dan Barber’s Blue Hill At Stone Barns. What had been an apparent triumph in ‘truly sustainable’ farm to table dining, was actually just another example of a chef playing at god, perpetuating a culture of systemic prejudice, all for the sake of a few Michelin stars and some radishes on plate.
We’re seeing these stories being echoed on television, too. Take Carmy, the main character of The Bear. In flashbacks we see how his treatment at the high end restaurant he’d worked at in New York (believed to be modelled on Eleven Madison Park) traumatised him – echoes of the dehumanising language and the aggression come out, but he’s also a character trying to redeem himself. Attempting to change the narrative. As I’m sure is the case in Noma, this learned behaviour of dehumanising line cooks is all an effort to create uniformity (how boring). Perceived perfection – is that what the price tag is for?
My issue with the world of fine-dining is more than just not enjoying the concept, the food or the experience. It’s the inherent elitism. The patriarchal aggression of chefs. It’s the homogeny and ordered chaos masquerading as individuality and innovation. The expected compliance and the haunting, uniform echoes of ‘yes chef, no chef’. The clinical stripping away of any tenderness that should be present whenever we cook. My friend Ethaney says: “I love you; I want us both to eat well.” This is not the tagline of fine-dining.
About half way through The Menu, last year’s dark comedy following a group of wealthy idiots (look, it’s true) who travel to a remote island for an exclusive dining experience, the defiant Margot says to Chef Slowik: “You’ve taken the joy out of eating. Every dish you’ve served tonight has been some intellectual exercise rather than something you want to sit and enjoy. When I eat your food, it tastes like it was made with no love.” Slowik’s response is agitated. A chink in his armour. “That’s ridiculous,” he says. “We always cook with love, don’t we?” His brigade of chefs robotically shout: “Yes, chef.”
I echo Margot’s sentiments, somewhat immune to the performative nostalgia that’s imprinted onto these tasting menu-style dishes, which often seem storied more in name than in nature. When I eat something, I don’t want the expectations of its creator held over me like some ransom – I want to create my own memory and experience, not be told what to think.
So why do we praise restaurants like Noma? “Whatever, at least we can say we’ve been here,” one of The Menu’s tech bros says when asked if he likes the food. “My dad used to say that you buy the experience.” I might be being contrary (it’s not unlikely), but no matter how delicious a dish is, I don’t think it could be worth the money you’d spend at a place like Noma. Especially considering most of their chefs won’t be getting paid.
This is not a manifesto on how we should be eating more accessible food. Or that restaurants like this shouldn’t exist. I don’t disagree with anyone who enjoys these kinds of fine-dining experiences; I’d simply like to question why they’re considered with such reverence. We don’t need to deconstruct a dish; we need to deconstruct the role of social status, of being digitally observed, of consumerism instead. I won’t stop going to restaurants. I’ll continue to pay disproportionate prices for a plate of pasta. I believe food can be art, but that art doesn’t need to represent wealth or power. Give me 99p burgers. Give me mistakes. Give me something that’s too salty, too spicy, too sour. Give me a plate of food that feels like a human cooked it. Give me something I can replay in my mind over and over again when it is dark and I’m searching for reason to smile. Give me something I can sink my teeth into and share with people I love.
To a place that believes more in stripping something back so far that it barely resembles the memory, the joy or the warmth, and plates it up on cold white porcelain for the sake of innovation, I’d say: “you’ve failed, and you’ve bored me. And the worst part is I’m still fucking hungry.”
Thank you for putting my complicated and conflicted thoughts about fine dining into words. The last line is a perfect and epic mic drop.