Welcome to the world of $400 tasting menus, where you sit in a dimly lit room, pretend to enjoy dehydrated beetroot foam served on a rock, and thank a man in a white apron for traumatizing your tongue in twelve overpriced courses. This isn’t cuisine. It’s a religion for insecure rich people who confuse suffering for sophistication.
“Fine dining is just poverty cosplay in slow motion.”
Ever wondered how a tyre company—yes, Michelin, the guys who sell you car insurance with treads—ended up deciding which restaurants on Earth are “worth it”? That’s like letting Gillette rate surgeons based on how clean their razors are. And people eat it up—literally—sitting through a tasting menu where the only thing being tasted is your ability to pretend you’re impressed.
“Nothing says ‘refined’ like a plate that looks like someone sneezed on it with precision.”
The servers? Trained like cult members. They explain each dish like they’re unveiling ancient scripture.
“This next course is a celebration of fermented asparagus pollen, lightly brushed with rainwater from the Andes.”
No Karen, that’s a salad with abandonment issues.
And don’t even get me started on the portions. One scallop. One leaf. One existential crisis. It’s not food. It’s a performance art piece titled: “How to Stay Hungry and Broke at the Same Time.”
“You’re not eating. You’re participating in a theatrical ritual of masochistic culinary humiliation.”
Michelin stars aren’t awards. They’re branding weapons.
You get one and suddenly your risotto costs more than rent. You lose one and the chef ends up writing a memoir titled “Salted Tears.”
Imagine letting your entire identity hang on whether a French tire salesman thinks your duck fat is emotionally moving enough.
Food is meant to nourish. Not to confuse. Not to intimidate. And sure as hell not to be served with tweezers.
Here’s the truth: Fine dining is a con.
It’s elitism dipped in jus reduction. It’s the edible version of LinkedIn humblebrags.
The only thing that should be “tasting” your value is your work, your art, your mind—not a waiter describing oxygen foam with tears in his eyes.
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