Autonomy Mise En Place

Up until 19 years old, I think I had gone out to eat a total of 15 times. These outings consisted mainly of Applebees, TGI Fridays, and Ruby Tuesday, with the occasional local steakhouse or pub. Eating out was considered a luxury, home cooking was the expectation. I had a home-cooked meal every night, and I am very fortunate to have parents who were willing to cook despite both working full time. I was by no means eating at a James Beard level, but one thing my parents instilled in me at the dinner table was the respect nominees deserve. What you see is what you get. Whether that’d be a dry pork chop or a 12-hour steeped broth, the dish that was placed before me was what I ate. I knew so little about cooking methods and quite honestly didn’t care; my stomach was filled and if it tasted better than usual so be it. Fast forward to later years, I worked multiple jobs throughout college; one of which was at a restaurant, fairly basic shit. My skill set consisted of running food, occasional salad work, and prepping (opening da frozen food). It taught me a lot of real-life functionality that I could list in multitudes but I don’t need some truck hat-wearing mullet Mitch gushing at how I’m just reiterating Kitchen Confidential. 

No longer shackled to the occasional dry pork chop, I sprinted to tables filled with ramps, oysters, gateaux, escargot, lamb neck, and cuttlefish. I needed to try it, it became necessary, drawn to it like a slightly overweight moth to a flame.

After graduating college, I had my fair share of use for my major. I had real money, funds that I couldn’t even dream of having. Funds that evaporated faster than that septum piercing you tuck in your client meeting. I spent the majority of my money eating. Be that comfy cozy places in New Jersey, household names in NYC, or fun little riffs on the classics in Philadelphia. No longer shackled to the occasional dry pork chop, I sprinted to tables filled with ramps, oysters, gateaux, escargot, lamb neck, and cuttlefish. I needed to try it, it became necessary, drawn to it like a slightly overweight moth to a flame. I’d love to write some inspirational Substack story about how my Nonna made me meatballs every Sunday and I stirred the pot while my Pop-Pop slipped me a beer. This is not that.

I was a slightly portly man with extra cash and a lust for what the “scene” had. I realized that throughout this time I was the minority in exploring the food landscape. I thought when going to these restaurants I’d be in an environment with like-minded individuals — the pioneers of consumption, the palettes of tomorrow. Yet all I noticed was a bunch of cowards. People sneering at the thought of an omakase and opting for a Volcano roll, getting the house salad at a gleaming New American joint, asking for forks at a traditional dim sum place, or, God forbid, getting a Wagyu steak well done. I had thought this commonplace of simply eating would also bring together the mutual understanding of what the “correct” way of eating was. Every time I checked into my reservation I had the principle of “I am in their home and what I get is what I eat.” And this simple practice of gratitude was hardly used by anyone else in the room. Excuse it for greed, excuse it for ignorance, hell, call it a brag. I can’t let someone else ruin my meal. And I didn’t. 

That was then, this is now. Yet those past qualms pale in comparison to the absolute buffoonery I see on a daily basis. Yesterday was merely rich people doing rich people shit -- I can afford it, I will eat it how I please. This pipeline has now become something even more sinister to anyone who’s currently working in a kitchen. No shade toward the following but their audience: Tik Tok (derogatory), The Menu, Covid home cooking, Bon Appetit, Vice Food, and The Bear. I could list plenty more but I think this should suffice. In a world where content is not just king, but Christ, the Antichrist, the dictator, and ruler, a new type of diner has hit the restaurant scene in troves. 

I listen to podcasts a lot, just to pass the time. I do not, however, listen to Tim Dillon, but one of my Line Cook friends sent me a snippet from a recent podcast where he mentions the breakdown of autonomy in the restaurant industry. In typical solo comedian style, he rants about how dining used to be independent of life outside the restaurant: No phones, no friendly chats with your server, and certainly no substitutions.

Simply enjoying food has gone out the goddamn window.

Not only are these now expected in almost every restaurant but the diner has a perceived understanding of cooking without ever picking up a knife. See, the list I made prior gave the common man the “tools” and “knowledge” of food. Instead of learning to cut an onion, some dude in jorts is asking the server which dishes incorporate the Maillard effect. Instead of making a normal broth, some woman with a Prada nylon is asking where the shellfish is sourced from and if they’re pan-roasted, or seared, or boiled, or blanched, or crusted, or were they raised in a two family home… Do they have a 401k? These folks have no actual fucking clue what they want but the staff better understand that they are “in the know.” Simply enjoying food has gone out the goddamn window. The respect for people who break their backs for peanuts has been diluted to the mystic appeal of the kitchen itself, not the food. The fetishization of working in a kitchen without even understanding the ins and outs is barbaric. Most people’s opinions on restaurants steer more towards “vibes” rather than the actual consumption. It lives in the vein of a “get ready with me to make sourdough” and it’s just some guy putting on his Tillit chef’s jacket in his 1 bedroom apartment making 10x the revenue of any standard kitchen. All fruit of the viewership of the very same people who are googling what meal pairs well with a bottle of wine you just blindly purchased because it’s got a neat skull on the front. 

Between food prices, rent, talent retention, and the other seven deadly sins in the food industry, it appears they have lost their autonomy. All these constrictions require restaurants to bend over backward for customers. Want no nuts because the texture is scary? Can you wedge cut the potatoes because diced triggers my gambling addiction? Can you unsalt my broth because I don’t want to feel bloated before going to 169 Bar? Sure thing big man! Oh, and you told the server “behind” before going to the bathroom? Come on down, time for you to work the hot station on a 400 cover night! Restaurants have lost all ability to say a cordial “go fuck yourself” in fear of being host to social media’s angst. The fork-for-my-dim-sum crowd has intellectually evolved too far past just enjoying food. They must show you that they know food, despite not knowing how to taste it. Imagine I walked into your creative director office (WeWork) and asked you for advanced regression analytics on your Shopify business that is netting $400. It simply doesn’t work. I don’t want to yuck someone’s yum, but feigning pseudo-intellectual food knowledge or editing a menu item folks have labored tirelessly perfecting in their own image is just not for me. You must accept what is given to you based on the choice you made; reaping what you sow if you will.

Fortunately, there is a cure to avoiding the people who point at an open kitchen like it’s a zoo. Enter the 30 top. After having dined in countless restaurants, and worked in quite a few, I’ve grown to absolutely adore the intimate places. Seemingly pedantic, these places are typically walk-in only, require you to book a reservation a week or two in advance, or message their social media page directly inquiring about seating. The reason is simple. The people there WANT to be there. It’s why underground music flourishes,  cinephiles have friend groups, and generational fluid art pop-ups thrive. Actively seeking something drives like-mindedness. The appreciation for an intimate dining experience comes from the trust you place in the restaurant and staff. The kind of trust you would place in your mom’s homemade soup or your dad’s grilling skills — It may not be what you had in your head but it’s exactly what you didn’t know you wanted. 

Now with millions of small intimate places on the map this doesn’t mean they’re all good. I’ll avoid listing out a Vice-esque set of tips and tricks but there are fantastic dog whistles that signify a solid dining experience. 

A straightforward signifier is the clientele. A well-adjusted small top restaurant is calling upon everyone from any age, race, and class. Food should transcend class in the most accessible way built upon respect. One of the physical indicators is their fashion. Look for the couple in a suit and an office dress sitting next to a dude wearing a hat. Fashion etiquette aside, this tells me that one party doesn’t care about the clientele because the food is that good and the other party is comfortable enough to enjoy a meal looking like he just mowed the lawn. And guess what? They both pay the same price.

Secondly, take a trip to the bathroom. Assuming common health code passes, a bathroom is almost always the restaurant's only opportunity to show their creative side. This is obviously objective but I can finally provide examples from two places that I consider embody my point perfectly and I’ll address menus later. Helm, located in South Kensington, Philadelphia, has a very classic design. Two and four top tables comfortably fill the room — close enough to see other diners' food but far enough to not hear their conversation. A trip to the bathroom and you will see their entire wallpaper is printed out pictures of quarter containers, Cambros, & hotel pans incorrectly labeled presumably by a prep cook who did their best to sound meez-on-ploss out. It’s genuine, creative, and, most importantly, hilarious. Going #1 or #2 is funny to begin with because you’re an adult and should wait until you go home. Scanning the mismatched photos adds to the ridiculousness of your endeavor, it’s endearing. My second example is Dankbaar in South Philadelphia. Similar layout to Helm, Dankbbarr boasts a solid 24 tops with beautiful French windows that open in the nicer seasons. Each table is lined with a white linen cloth and a freshly lit candle as you arrive at the table. Yet taking a trip to the bathroom is the very antithesis of their outside aesthetic. Atop the sink, you have a loud neon sign showcasing the restaurant’s name. Left of the sink, they have tiny grab boxes you’re encouraged to open with tons of ironic goodies in them. Items include candies, mints, floss, C-folds, hand sanitizer, and condoms. Behind you, there is a beautiful chalkboard that you’re encouraged to write kind or witty comments on. And, because the diners are not grandiose freaks, we don’t have to worry about someone writing “Chad was here.” The perfection in this lies in the fact that once you’re done exploring, you immediately walk back to the dining room, greeted by the smell of fine fare, a quaint dining room, and all the intricacies of a Dutch restaurant.

The BYOB tears up the safety net in the restaurant circus and forces a kitchen to prove its worth.

The third, and final, signifier is the menu — in three parts. I’m not going to analyze menu items, their layout, or their specials, I’m going to break it down moron style. Firstly, the more BYOB the better. It might come as a surprise, but alcohol is where everyone makes money. Aside from the upsold bottles, ROI on cocktail ingredients, and the hilarious $8 Tecate, drunk customers buy more. Initial expenses on alcohol can oftentimes rival food costs which is why bar-centric restaurants often have extremely mid food. But the cocktail with a flaming marshmallow on top will absolutely drive traffic to an otherwise lackluster restaurant. So in the BYOB’s case, you have to show up or show out. There is no new riff on an old fashioned, no shaken drink in a pineapple, and certainly no fucking fernet (unless your dusty ass is bringing it). The BYOB tears up the safety net in the restaurant circus and forces a kitchen to prove its worth.

Secondly, the format of the menu. It should be small but not too small. It sounds conniving, but paying attention to the range of the menu is important -- ask yourself a few questions. Is there a cuisine theme? Am I being told it's only Prix Fixe? Why is the server forcing this item on me? Why are there just as many small plates as there are large plates? Why is there a NY Strip steak again? Helm disobeys everything I just said because we’re trusting professionals, right? There is no cuisine theme, it's ONLY prix fixe, the server is going to tell me what’s new, there are six small plates and six large plates, and yes, there is a strip steak. You can forget being a menu snob at a small top. If it’s small they’re doing it well, otherwise they wouldn’t be in business longer than a year. Helm has two menu chalkboards placed on the walls of the dining room. It leaves it all to the imagination as it only lists each item’s three main ingredients. It doesn’t tell you how it’s prepared or what it's in (unless you have aforementioned allergies). All plates will be titled: Bacon, Asparagus, Ramps or Lamb, Ragu, Spring Onions. Down to their desserts where you will see Ricotta, Strawberry, Shortbread -- you get it. Additionally, the menu is rotating, often with what’s in season or what I’d imagine works best on the line. Going there one month might mean you’ll see a different menu the next. If you want to ask more about the process go ahead but you’re already showing your hand, breaching a sacred trust, and wasting your time because it's all good. 

Third, do things with consistency. Dankbaar is a classic Dutch restaurant with small plates and large fares. It rotates items out monthly based on availability but, most importantly, all large plates are served in a Dutch oven. Braised Rabbit leg, Dutch meatballs, and whole quail served with its pairing sauce & vegetables. As you eat the meal and tear it apart all the leftover bits fall into the same sauce and the meal continues to get better with each bite. This is replicated night after night in a dance with perfection. Muscle memory in action and timers going off like bells in a church. My first time there, after service, the head chef and owner came out to sit at the table next to me. As he sank into the table he became one with the chair, smiling ear-to-ear, he admired how full his room was and continued on to check how everyone’s meal was. He ran back into the kitchen to finish desserts and, like an apparition, was never seen again; until my next meal there. I once brought a group of friends, completely forgetting one is predominantly vegetarian (bro idk, not my body). As you’ve probably gathered, this place is meat-centric. Without skipping a beat the server brought the chef out and he enthusiastically lectured my friend on his favorite vegetables. Once the server delivered our Dutch ovens, our friend was without a meal. We joked saying he pissed him off with his dietary restrictions. Not one minute later the chef himself walked out with a charcuterie board of all vegetables cut, cooked, and pickled in every conceivable way. He proceeded to walk my friend through everything and left saying he was thrilled for such a rare opportunity. In the end, my friend trusted a professional and he did more than deliver a meal, he delivered a memory which is still recounted to this day. 

But, for the love of all things holy, stack your plates responsibly and bus accordingly. 

Contemporary restaurant autonomy is not dead. It’s just increasingly besieged by soulless people. I’m calling for a line in the sand between customer and professional. Understand that you do not know everything, despite all the short-form media you’ve mainlined into your brain. Naturally, this is a two way street. On the restaurant side, I’m not calling for cold servers, militant-like environments, or 3-4 small plates thrown at a customer. I’m calling for places that reflect honesty, a staunch cause, and a commitment to fostering a community built around good meals. As a diner, you’ll find yourself appreciating the labor of love and understanding that you will never be them. And, in almost every way, that’s okay, because you can’t be everything at once. But, for the love of all things holy, stack your plates responsibly and bus accordingly.