Milan's artist chefs: can anyone judge them?
Agatha Christie wrote that "a clue is a clue, two clues are a coincidence, but three clues make a proof," and the other day I transformed into proof the clues that modern project teams struggle to think of as service businesses.
Clue number one: a cute, minimalist cocktail bar (all the bars in this story are cute and minimalist, perhaps decorated by the same people, and they're all in Milan, which is a hub of trends and flaws, letting you experience them firsthand). I went there once with friends and tried a cocktail I absolutely loved: well-balanced, fresh, and interesting. I returned enthusiastically a few days later, tried it again, and it was a faint reminiscence, my cocktail from last time, spiked with Lemonsoda. Since I just turned 50, I'm starting to lose my inhibitions a bit, but the manager was nice and friendly, so I told him so; in fact, I told the waitress first.
All hell breaks loose, the manager (the nice one) arrives and simply tells me it's not possible, that the cocktails are all pre-batched (mixed beforehand, idiot, I thought they made them on the spot) and therefore all the same, like Minions. Since I trust few things except my palate, I remain convinced that I drank two very different things under the same name, 10 days apart. It happens, but in my house (literally, I ran a family restaurant for a few years, too many), if a customer told me, an AIS-certified sommelier, that the wine tasted corked, I'd unscrew it without a second thought, I wouldn't taste it in their face and call them an idiot.
Clue number two: Saturday morning breakfast at a bakery + specialty coffee near my house, hipsterism to the max (the place—the aforementioned poor kind—both managers and customers). The bartender with the ever-present Marzocco makes a special coffee, so special that it's the only one he serves, along with a macha tea that he dispenses with the same care he takes with very expensive psychotropic substances. He even designs a cappuccino, which he prepares in the same time it takes to serve a few hundred breakfasts in other Milanese cafes, at least to avoid being beaten up by rushed customers.
The coffee is special, unique in fact, but with an acidic roast that I detest and that not everyone seems to like. Then, since you're an artist, but you always have to have permission, you serve me these specialties in cold paper cups (paper), and you charge me two euros for the coffee, because your poetics dictate that one must necessarily drink double. Since one year alone is a year to go mad, I also order the brioche, a delicious one, for goodness sake, that dominates the rather frugal counter and which you charge me 1.80 empty and 2.20 full.
I'm not going to argue here, partly because it's a beautiful spring day, partly because the place's motto is "love it or leave it," but I think the experience wasn't worth the €8.50 for two forgettable breakfasts.
Clue number 3, which proves it: a recently opened Lombardy trattoria with a name that evokes solid values. It's close to my house, a friend gave it a good review, I love Lombardy cuisine and I try it. I order the risotto alla Milanese, not the cailles en sarchofage, the risotto alla Milanese. You bring it to me, perhaps too early, but I let it go, and it's funny to have the marrow on the side, but... But it's in a deep dish, so it gets cold quickly, and the marrow's trick helps cool it. As it cools, the excessive, excessive Parmesan (at least 36 months old) forms a thin crust that's the first and almost the only thing that enters your mouth: so much, so much cheese.
I'm sorry, because the attempt to make good Lombard cuisine is sincere, and I tell the chef so. Why, good God, do you say, "I take note," and then turn around and leave? Things don't go any better on the way out, when I mention this again to another of the managers, who replies, "Strange, it's the most popular dish." What do you mean, "It's the most popular dish"? That he's right? Like the story about the poop and the flies.
All this rant is to say that I'm increasingly under the impression that the excessive skills required to do this job today, along with the business plan, brand identity, and everything else that's transforming a craft into something else, are perhaps a bit detrimental to young bartenders and restaurateurs. In the sense that there's a huge difference between being a customer of a service and being a spectator at an artistic performance. In the latter case, I come to enjoy the performance, and my opinion matters to you, the artist, up to a certain point; absolute freedom of expression or an act of faith counts. You can laugh at Cattelan's banana, or bow to all the metalanguages he expresses. Art isn't democratic anyway. On the other hand, if you're a dog, chances are that in the end, only very few people will understand your poetics, and you'll have to find another profession.
Where I'm a customer, however, I pay for service (even a very refined one). Not only should my opinion count, but if you were to be smart, you'd have to not agree with me, but build a relationship with me, explain your point of view, even convince me, or at least politely listen to me. I've personally seen great chefs stop at the table to talk to customers who clearly didn't understand anything, listening and arguing.
Because "the market is a relationship," and since you're selling me something—food and the experience of enjoying it—it's important that you listen to me. Preemptively, thinking about what customers might understand about what I want to offer them, and especially during the event, if I tell you that I'm not convinced by what you're offering. Even more so if I don't tell you this with a ranting comment on Tripadvisor, but in person.
If you "acknowledge" a well-founded criticism of a hyper-popular dish (after 10 days of opening...), maybe you need to change careers. Just as maybe you need to seriously consider whether all your skills are helpful in building a healthy relationship with the public, given that you're selling me something and therefore, unfortunately, I should also understand and appreciate it. Or at least not feel like an idiot if I don't. Unless the masochism that inhabits Milanese residents has permanently subverted every rule, and to stay afloat in the ocean of pretentiousness, even aperitivo or risotto alla Milanese must necessarily be artistic performances. Which you can and should only love.