The Abjuration of Fine Dining

An art form slash religion in need of examination

As society rightfully bares its teeth at institutions of luxury and excess, it has been difficult to assess how to feel about my past in fine dining. I sacrificed ten years of my life to the most intense version of our craft and there are plenty of lingering wounds. But as I’ve left that world behind me, calling it a sacrifice was maybe a bit unfair. There was also so much about it that I loved. I’m not enthused about calling it a religion, but it isn’t far off the mark. Waking up every day convinced of a higher purpose and unimpeachable raison d’etre was comforting, though my feet ached and dark rings permanently encircled my eyes.

In light of how we now see privilege and compassion in the workplace, with the added context of a world thrown deeper and deeper into wealth disparity, my love of the dare-I-say art form treads into morally murky territory. The abjuration of fine dining is upon us. It is now the culturally accepted opinion that food should be delicious but affordable, and that the fuss of edible flowers and servers in designer suits should be things of the past.

Part of me thinks that yes, it’s just food. There’s no need to take this all so seriously. We’re talking calories, to be reductive (dons his most cynical hat). And yet food is one of the most elemental of human experiences. The rare universal thing that transcends our self-wrought fences. Is it worthy of higher consideration because it is at the essence of being who we are and how we got here? Or is it decidedly unimportant in the face of so many other pressing crises?

As can be said with nearly anything; it’s complicated.

Let us begin with our great modern prophet.

Entire industries and cults of personality have risen from the fire lit by Anthony Bourdain. I was one of many fanatics caught in the surge. He painted a picture of a world that had a thumping heartbeat of passion in every decision. He peeled back the curtain on what he claimed was the world’s last meritocracy. There were no politics, no colors, no flags, “you can either cook an omelet or you can’t”.

Young men are always vulnerable to indoctrination but especially those like myself; the rudderless and the fatherless. We crave structure. In a modern world where longing questions encroach upon you on the daily, it is a great deal of solace to be handed a purpose. Keep your head down, work your ass off, find glory on the other side.

It was high octane romanticism.

Culinary schools exploded. Enrollment was fevered, thousands signed up to find their Great War in a kitchen and had a set of knives thrust into their hands.

And then merely fifteen years later, it all popped. Culinary campuses may as well be haunted, the industry doesn’t know what it is after it has lost its mythos and its heroes have been revealed to be painfully human. Just as with everything else, the subject has become intensely divisive.

Our prophet is no more, he tragically lost his battle to inner demons. He spoke to the darkness within all those who live to cook and we loved him for it. But now I can’t help but feel a worrying gnaw and a profound, empty “why?”.

Despite countless hours deliberating on why the hell I participated in this madness we call luxury, I am still unsure as to whether I have a good answer. What kept me going all those years?

Maybe it was the attention to detail. I loved that there was purpose in every action. A shallot is to be sliced translucently thin so it gives up its aroma in a quickly simmered sauce. A reduction of port wine gives a jus a lustrous shine and a faint foundational sweetness. Pennycress leaves need to be sorted through for little bug bites and they are to be arranged in asymmetrical, seemingly random yet entirely intentional patterns.

Or perhaps it was the maddening pace. I loved how time distorted in the dinner rush. I spent a childhood sitting in a back-breaking chair to correct posture for playing the cello. I wilted in classrooms and I fidgeted endlessly as a deskbound employee. I felt immediately at home in the adrenaline-riddled chaos of a hot line.

The pursuit of perfection drew me in as well. It certainly lacks nuance but the chase for an objective superlative simplifies things. The top of the mountain is up. But the confusion therein with fine dining is that there is no true summit. We constantly ask ourselves how we can do better. What makes the best roast chicken? Is it this bird with these genetics, this percentage of salt and fat, roasted in this sort of oven at this amount of degrees for this amount of time. Or is it the decidedly dry and pallid dinosaur your mother plopped on the table every Sunday afternoon? A good chef always asks what they can do better.

I undoubtedly loved the camaraderie. Some of my happiest days have been in a sterile room, vibrating with bomb defusal intensity, surrounded by dedicated acolytes that all had the character arc of a circus runaway. It gave me the feeling that I belonged somewhere unique. That I had found my tribe.

And of course there was the want for worth. That chefs could attain celebrity, and all the cheap and shallow validation that came with it, was undeniably seductive.

So in deliberating all this a pattern began to emerge. While tallying up the score I found a not-so-inspiring answer. The hypervigilant anxiety in considering the minutia of one’s actions, the chase for emotional highs both natural and synthetic? Sounds a lot like a trauma response and living with it as an adult. The desperate need for belonging and guidance? Sounds a lot like a childhood riddled with neglect.

Was that all it was then? A job so consuming I didn’t need to think all that hard about where I’d been and where I was going? A daily manufactured crisis to respond to because that is what felt normal? A desperate need for belonging and validation?

And the additionally cruel layer being that even in the horrific aspects of fine dining; the brutality, the exhaustion, the utter lack of compassion — there was familiarity. Men in white coats demanding you be perfect and moving the goalposts every day. That felt recognizable. That feeling of nobody loves you unless you’re perfect was practically a warm bath.

Therapy’s a bitch sometimes.

Whatever tragedies I uncover in the journey, however, I know the passion was real. There was a hell of a lot of baggage to sort through but the train was moving for a reason. I love(d) it.

But is it important? Does it matter? Does it matter if it’s important, is it enough to just be enjoyable? Is there room for everything and all of it?

I suppose that is the intersection we’ve been staring at.

I would argue that the reason there is so much delicious and somewhat affordable food out there is because there was a generation of romantics. In any number of these artistic industries, the most extreme tier of the art form informs the rest. Gastronomy, fashion, architecture, art, music. It’s the only trickle-down theory that actually works and it percolates through your daily life whether you’re cognizant of it or not. Miranda Priestly and the scathing speech about “stuff” comes to mind. Heirloom tomatoes, Wagyu beef, kimchi, bronze-cast dried pasta on your grocery store shelves — all these little things you cultivate culture on but allow yourself to be removed from the insanity of are thanks to a small faction of the mentally unbalanced.

And it is also undoubtedly true that this elitist mindset comes with huge taxes on human compassion and utter disregard of privilege. There’s a reason these workplaces tend to be horrific and full of people who had every advantage. That system propagates itself for centuries and then many have the audacity to turn around say that it just takes hard work and gumption. These systems keep throwing humans at the problem and then congratulate themselves for creating great works.

But I must acknowledge there is some nobility in what we do. We help people anchor their most cherished memories and important moments. Despite all the self-importance, we are dealing in creating happiness at the end of the day.

So all these polysyllabic words and all this douchey vocabulary to come to the same conclusion. It’s complicated. There is the good and the bad. And I suppose it averages out over time, the zeitgeist is out of our control. Perhaps it is enough to just enjoy it and create happiness for some. And in the headache of trying to deliberate what is right and what is wrong, perhaps it would serve everyone better if we learned to hold both truths in our hands.

As for myself, I miss it. It brought out the best version of myself and perhaps I can do better on how to treat those around me. And perhaps I get a chance to prove once more that I have something interesting to say. Instead of all this self torment, I should just allow myself the appreciation of my craft at face value.

I like it and I’m good enough at it to make a living doing it. In light of a world on fire, perhaps that is enough.

“I am large. I contain multitudes.”

-E-