Home By Marquel Zagat Nation

Zagat Nation

fenelMarquel, TPVs NYTimes Macaroni-And-Cheese Section correspondent, was trying to swallow something when he read Hey, Chef: Next Time, Skip the Fennel.  A pop-up restaurant company is dedicated to the notion that high-end chefs should listen to their customers’ feedback. Marquel read the story and thought fondly of the Michelin guides in Europe that rate restaurants on how good they are, as opposed to the American Zagat Guides where ordinary diners get to vote…usually on how big the portions are.

Now the Zagat approach is invading not just the restaurant but the kitchens themselves. The notion is that patrons should have a voice in what the chef does, somewhat reversing the normal way people choose good restaurants: the chef does his job and the customers form lines out the door. Marquel feared that this democracy run rampant somehow mirrored, in an unhealthy way, the erosion of democracy in the U.S.generally. Is the idea, he asked himself, that if we can’t get single payer health insurance, at least we can get more salt in our potatoes au gratin.
Marquel was getting more and more angry thinking about it so he called Mufi, undoubtedly the worlds greatest chef, specializing in Sichuan cuisine, as well as the most accomplished international spy in the history of the world.
“Oh yes, I’ve heard about it,” he said, “they wanted to install terminals that diners could enter feedback on. I said why do I need that? My people come here because they love my food. Once in a while someone might come up to me and say the curry wasn’t my usual and I listen to him. But this voting booth approach is just anti-culinary.”
“So have you heard about anybody who’s actually using this system?” I asked.
“Oh my God yes. What a mess. Totally destroyed a fine restaurant.” He said.
“What happened?” I wondered.
“The entire menu ended up so watered down, so democratized, that it lost all its personality.”
“So I guess nobody goes there any more because it’s too crowded?” I jokingly asked.
“In a sense. For instance he had this gorgeous filet mignon under a creamy pepper garlic sauce with just a touch of mint. Everything was criticized piecemeal, all the ingredients disappeared, and now it’s an expensive Salisbury steak. Hamburger, and not a good one either.” Mufi answered.
“Do you think I could talk with the chef?” I asked. Mufi agreed to set it up.
We met in a small office in the back of the kitchen. The restaurant opened to rave reviews several years back. It still gets rave reviews, but in the form of computer printouts. And the menus are planned accordingly.
“I had a beautiful pigs feet, à l’alsacienne, With a gorgeous mustard sauce, a bit of brandy and, of course à little garlic. They installed these computers and suddenly people wanted it milder, softer, even breaded. Now we sell “pigs feet” in quotes because it’s actually chicken fingers with ketchup. Americans are nuts.” He moaned.
“What else didn’t they like?” I urged.
“I had the city’s, if not the country’s, finest foie gras. Thin slices, barely seared, a Sauterne sauce with myrtle honey, again my trademark hint of mint, and the freshest grapes, all quartered and selected for uniform size. A masterpiece. Then they voted. Tastes too much like liver! What did they think they were buying? Then they wanted chicken liver instead of goose, and no wine, mayonnaise instead. Now they get chopped chicken liver on small rye crisps. And they’re complaining about the eggs.”
“Do you still call it “foie gras” in quotes?” I asked.
“Yes, but the description below makes it into a joke.” He complained.
“That sounds terrible. Anything else?” I wondered.
“Plenty. I had a beef tongue salad from a recipe that’s over three hundred years old. Absolutely authentic. First they voted out the “bumps” on the tongue so we carved them off. Then it was too chewy. The dressing was too pronounced.” He said.
“What is it now?” I asked.
“It’s rolled bologna around black olives with thousand island dressing. And what they did to my bourbon strawberry creme brûlée made with fresh cream from a farmer in New Jersey who delivered every morning. The votes said it was too rich, alcohol was inappropriate in a desert, can you imagine, and the melted sugar was too crunchy. Now I go to D’Agostino for prepared vanilla tapioca pudding and put it in our glassware. It’s a hit.” He said.
“So what are young going to do?” I asked.
“I’m conflicted. The people love it. My salary was quadrupled and my prep time is more than halved. But it’s a Horn & Hardardt’s or maybe even a Friendly’s.”
“That’s a tough position.”I sympathized.
“I’m thinking of going into politics,” he said.
“Politics?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’m a winner. Everybody votes for me.”
“What platform would you run on?” I asked.
“No platform. I’ll just let the voters comment like they do in the restaurant and I’ll do as they say.”
“Sort of takes away the leadership function, doesn’t it?” I asked.
“Oh I think those days are over. Welcome to the Zagat Nation.”
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BY MARQUEL:

6 COMMENTS

  1. loved this: Then they voted. Tastes too much like liver!

    Ketchup will helps smooth out that liver-y taste…

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