In the fall of 2008, I signed up to cook for an Obama campaign fundraiser.
It was going to be an intimate affair, a high-priced function at someone’s loft in SoHo. The senator would not be in attendance, but I was still very excited. In case you’ve forgotten, that first election was a sight to behold. The mere thought of Obama’s candidacy could turn me into the sunniest person on the block.
Our politics aligned on civil liberties, the environment, and a general sense of responsibility to the world, but what really spoke to me about Obama was the promise he represented. It wasn’t only a promise of middle-class tax relief or campaign reform or universal healthcare. It was a promise of purpose. Built into the slogans HOPE and CHANGE was the notion that things could get better, as long as we got up and chased it. I had my doubts about whether plates of sous-vide eggs with caviar and onion soubise—our signature dish at Ko—would make a difference at the ballot box, but that was what I could offer.*1
While fervor built around the upcoming election, there was another, far less meaningful contest on the horizon. Chatter was picking up about who would win Michelin stars that year. The Michelin Guide had begun appraising restaurants in New York only a few years earlier, and the local press had never warmed to them. They argued that Michelin was out of step with the dining culture and lacked transparency. No one knew who the anonymous inspectors were or what protocols they followed. To Michelin’s critics, the flaws were reflected in their haphazard selections; some restaurants with high ratings from the Times and elsewhere were totally blanked by Michelin, while other spots that weren’t part of the local conversation were winning one or even two stars. To almost all of the New York food writers, the tire company was an outsider doing a poor job of recognizing legitimate quality.
I admired Michelin’s history too much to dismiss it. For all its misfires and shiftiness, the organization and its stars had been the standard of excellence in European kitchens for most of the past century. Michelin stars are among the first prizes you learn to respect and aspire to as a cook—or even a diner. I’d be lying through my teeth if I told you that earning a star wasn’t a huge honor.
That, however, does not mean I thought we were in the running. Momofuku restaurants were textbook candidates for a Bib Gourmand—the unstarred recognition that Michelin bestows on “friendly establishments that serve good food at moderate prices” and describes on their website as “most definitely not a consolation prize.”*2 Bib Gourmand restaurants are something between “cheap eats” and “upscale ethnic spots.” I wasn’t complaining. The restaurants to which I feel the most kinship are Bib Gourmands. Ssäm had been listed in the category the previous year, and it was great.
It had been less than seven months since we’d opened Ko. My thinking was that Michelin would not be able to look past the cramped quarters and lack of polish in our dining experience, even if they state flat out that their inspectors only care about the food. If we were lucky, they would maybe give us one star in a few years. As the announcement neared, cooks and friends asked if I was excited. I was actually zen about it.
At the Obama dinner, everything went smoothly. The guests were excited to get a peek at what we were serving at our restaurant, where it was still annoyingly difficult to get a reservation. I befriended people who do very good work for others. It was a nice break from the insularity of the food world—an insularity that might be best summed up by the hundreds of hours people were spending speculating about a guide that they’d all agreed sucks.
The cooks were cleaning up at the end of the night when I ducked into a spacious broom closet, took a seat on an overturned bucket, and caught up on emails. I scrolled to a message from Ben Leventhal, the co-founder of Eater.
Dude, you got two, he wrote.
What are you talking about?
Michelin. I saw an early copy. Congratulations, sir.
Ko was among the seven restaurants in the city that had earned two stars. Only four establishments—Per Se, Masa, Jean-Georges, and Le Bernardin—had received the full three.
I stayed seated in the closet for another few minutes, not quite sure how to describe the feeling in my stomach.
Looking back, I know what it was.
Dread.
“You know, we have never awarded a restaurant two stars that I haven’t visited myself.”
“It’s very surreal for us. This is such an honor, sir.”
“Never to a restaurant in its first year, either.”
Jean-Luc Naret, the director of Michelin at the time, came to check out Ko for himself. It was a couple of months after the announcement, and we were ready for his visit. He did not use aliases. His job was to be the face of Michelin and its anonymous platoon. Although I had heard about chefs in Europe developing relationships with local directors, getting lunch together, eliciting regular feedback, I didn’t feel comfortable going any deeper than pleasantries.
“Chef,” he continued. “I must ask: do you desire the third star?”
I mumbled something about how I didn’t know how to answer that question and how we were thrilled with what we had. I shrank back into the kitchen.
I glanced over at Naret and his companion as often as I could during their meal. I noticed that they were only picking at the food. They seemed pleased but not euphoric. They weren’t exactly devouring a dish of hand-torn pasta with chicken-and-snail farce, fines herbes, butter, and a nice little chicken-skin crisp on top—one of Serpico’s classic dishes. How could we be a two-star restaurant if we couldn’t get the Michelin director to lick his plate clean?
It was such a good dish and I wanted so badly for him to like it. I was upset, not because we’d failed as a kitchen but because of how much his approval meant to me. This is the power of organizations like Michelin or the World’s 50 Best, and it’s the reason why chefs loathe and curse them behind closed doors.
You’ll observe that a lot of chefs who win a Michelin star say something like, “This is a tremendous honor, but we try not to be driven by awards.” They say this because they’re simultaneously worried about losing their stars and terrified of the power that these awards possess. It’s not just the fact that Michelin can make or break your business, it’s the control they have over how you approach or even enjoy your work.
So do I want a third star? Absolutely. Do I want my team to feel the elation of reaching the very top of the food world? Of course I do.
I also fear it.
I fear the inevitable fall from the top. More than that, I fear what it means for people to think they’ve reached the pinnacle of their profession. What happens to a cook’s motivation when the job becomes about maintenance and not improvement?
With a third star, you do everything you can to avoid disturbing the delicate balance you’ve created. No grind. No friction. You’re trapped by your own self-confidence, scared to abandon what you know already works.
I know that not everyone benefits from this kind of emphasis on perpetual struggle, but a lot of people in the culinary world do. You know why Noma continues to be the best restaurant in the world? I’m fairly sure it’s because they’ve never gotten three stars. To me, it’s actually a blessing.
To thrive in this business, we need the promise of purpose—a reason to tackle the prep list every morning and push to come up with something new and extraordinary.
We need hope.
*1 A decade later, chefs are still figuring out how best to use our platform to support the causes we believe in. It’s tricky because of all the ways that restaurants can serve the greater good, perhaps the most important is being a space where people come together. My big dream for Momofuku has always been to emulate the classless dining I’d experienced in Asia, where if you want to eat, you have to be comfortable rubbing elbows with people from all walks of life. As a restaurateur, I aim to feed everyone, even those I disagree with. Within reason, of course.
*2 If your only idea of the Michelin Guide comes from the movie Burnt, here’s a quick primer: it was originally developed as a tool for motorists traveling through the French countryside. (This would be the reason why a tire company is involved with food at all.) The official guidelines describe a one-star restaurant as “high quality cooking, worth a stop.” Two stars is “excellent cooking, worth a detour.” And three is “exceptional cooking, worth a special journey.”