When a restaurant receives one or more stars from the Michelin guide (or even just an honorary mention), it is justifiably proud. The restaurant has just earned worldwide recognition from one of the most famous guides for gourmets, giving it the ability to attract a large number of customers from around the world. The status of being listed in the Michelin is not only a sign that the food made in the restaurant is delicious at a world-beating level, but that the uniquely culturally bound service and atmosphere the restaurant provides can be considered universally positive.
Stars in the Michelin guidebook is also a moment of pride for the city that the restaurant is situated in. With more stars, a city can advertise itself as a global foodie destination, with the implicit underlying notion that "my city is better than yours because the people of my city can make better food than yours do." Tokyo, for instance, is tireless is marketing itself as the city with the most Michelin stars in the world, without slightest realization (unintentional or intentional) that the Michelin guide, ultimately, is just one way out of many to evaluate just food.
To put more straightforwardly, the idea that one guidebook (and a quite slim book at that for each of the limited number of cities around the world that it publishes for) can become an ultimate, decisive guide on what is delicious and what is not fundamentally contradicts the reality that what is delicious is subjective, to a culture or an individual within the culture. For instance, one can endlessly analyze the chemical pleasures a combination of tastes triggers in the human mind, but for many, that chemical triggering cannot beat the deliciousness of memories that certain food brings. That is why the decidedly simple "grandma's cooking" can be the most memorable for so many people.
That attempted universalism in the concept of deliciousness that Michelin attempts to create also betrays a certain cultural chauvinism that has become unacceptable for many topics unrelated to food. Michelin, being the publication produced by a French tire company, covertly extol the idea that a globally standard measurement of "good food" can and does exist, based on the criteria determined by a set of well-traveled and cosmopolitan professional critics selected by a French corporate entity. It is the ultimate gesture of the continuance of a subtle French "culinary imperialism."
So, in this day and age, when sensitivity to equality and distinctiveness among different cultures are at an all-time high, how does the French get away with evaluating cuisines around the world and still get worldwide credits for the evaluation? The answer can partly be found when visiting a high-end French restaurant in a foreign country. The Joel Robuchon, a global chain started by the late founder of the same name, has an opulent outpost in the heart of Tokyo's fashionable Ebisu area, located inside its own three-story classical-looking building. The service here provide clues to the continued acceptability of French culinary standards.
What makes Robuchon and other high-end French eateries respected culinary institutions are not so much the taste of the food on offer (because, as mentioned above, what is delicious is fundamentally subjective), but the meticulousness with which food is presented. Enormous go into the plates, tablecloths, and internal settings of the restaurants that exude elegance and sophistication, which are matched the impeccable attires of the servers and their skills in explaining the food and providing timely table service. No matter what one thinks of the food, the experience of dining there itself is a world-class experience.
It is the visual presentation of Robuchon and other restaurants like it that maintain an almost global image of French cuisine as a vanguard in culinary sophistication. Other cuisines seek to earn the approval and respect of the French because they also want to be seen as worthy of high-class clientele and their dining experiences fit for truly special occasions just like it is to go to Robuchon. In the end, then, getting a star in the Michelin is celebrated not simply as global recognition for taste, but a subtle nod that the recipient is now capable of providing a truly worthy culinary experience for the most sophisticated people in the world.
In that way, the Michelin guide reflects all French restaurants like the Robuchon. What is presented are not only "traditionally" French, if such a thing ever existed. Foods are cooked with global ingredients, using methods inspired by those from many parts of the world. Those doing the presentation and evaluating the finished products are also from around the world, with their disparate cultures and culinary affinities. What unites them is a pursuit of visual perfection, a flawless, memorable experience that transcends simply eating good food. It is at the provision of that flawless experience that the French remain the pinnacle, allowing "French culinary imperialism" to be a subject of respect and widespread acceptance, not ridicule and anger.
Stars in the Michelin guidebook is also a moment of pride for the city that the restaurant is situated in. With more stars, a city can advertise itself as a global foodie destination, with the implicit underlying notion that "my city is better than yours because the people of my city can make better food than yours do." Tokyo, for instance, is tireless is marketing itself as the city with the most Michelin stars in the world, without slightest realization (unintentional or intentional) that the Michelin guide, ultimately, is just one way out of many to evaluate just food.
To put more straightforwardly, the idea that one guidebook (and a quite slim book at that for each of the limited number of cities around the world that it publishes for) can become an ultimate, decisive guide on what is delicious and what is not fundamentally contradicts the reality that what is delicious is subjective, to a culture or an individual within the culture. For instance, one can endlessly analyze the chemical pleasures a combination of tastes triggers in the human mind, but for many, that chemical triggering cannot beat the deliciousness of memories that certain food brings. That is why the decidedly simple "grandma's cooking" can be the most memorable for so many people.
That attempted universalism in the concept of deliciousness that Michelin attempts to create also betrays a certain cultural chauvinism that has become unacceptable for many topics unrelated to food. Michelin, being the publication produced by a French tire company, covertly extol the idea that a globally standard measurement of "good food" can and does exist, based on the criteria determined by a set of well-traveled and cosmopolitan professional critics selected by a French corporate entity. It is the ultimate gesture of the continuance of a subtle French "culinary imperialism."
So, in this day and age, when sensitivity to equality and distinctiveness among different cultures are at an all-time high, how does the French get away with evaluating cuisines around the world and still get worldwide credits for the evaluation? The answer can partly be found when visiting a high-end French restaurant in a foreign country. The Joel Robuchon, a global chain started by the late founder of the same name, has an opulent outpost in the heart of Tokyo's fashionable Ebisu area, located inside its own three-story classical-looking building. The service here provide clues to the continued acceptability of French culinary standards.
What makes Robuchon and other high-end French eateries respected culinary institutions are not so much the taste of the food on offer (because, as mentioned above, what is delicious is fundamentally subjective), but the meticulousness with which food is presented. Enormous go into the plates, tablecloths, and internal settings of the restaurants that exude elegance and sophistication, which are matched the impeccable attires of the servers and their skills in explaining the food and providing timely table service. No matter what one thinks of the food, the experience of dining there itself is a world-class experience.
It is the visual presentation of Robuchon and other restaurants like it that maintain an almost global image of French cuisine as a vanguard in culinary sophistication. Other cuisines seek to earn the approval and respect of the French because they also want to be seen as worthy of high-class clientele and their dining experiences fit for truly special occasions just like it is to go to Robuchon. In the end, then, getting a star in the Michelin is celebrated not simply as global recognition for taste, but a subtle nod that the recipient is now capable of providing a truly worthy culinary experience for the most sophisticated people in the world.
In that way, the Michelin guide reflects all French restaurants like the Robuchon. What is presented are not only "traditionally" French, if such a thing ever existed. Foods are cooked with global ingredients, using methods inspired by those from many parts of the world. Those doing the presentation and evaluating the finished products are also from around the world, with their disparate cultures and culinary affinities. What unites them is a pursuit of visual perfection, a flawless, memorable experience that transcends simply eating good food. It is at the provision of that flawless experience that the French remain the pinnacle, allowing "French culinary imperialism" to be a subject of respect and widespread acceptance, not ridicule and anger.
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