Don't feel bad if you didn't get three stars, or even one.
The Guide Michelin ratings bestowed upon local restaurants yesterday don't mean a thing.
That's the way I see it. I'll continue to live it up at Zuni, Piperade, Isa — really good local places that were
And I'll still go to Chez Panisse, even if it's only ranked at one star. I've always liked Aqua, but now that it has earned two stars, I'm a little nervous. Will I ever be able to get in again?
It's so sad to see Hubert Keller and Roland Passot feeling bad over their respective one-star ratings. Come on, guys! You're still stars in my book.
It's also sad to see San Francisco feeling so insecure that the Chronicle had to put the story on the front page this morning, above the fold. Are we that easily wounded? (Yes.)
Here's the thing. San Francisco racked up fewer top-ranked restaurants than New York. That's good! I mean it, really good. You don't want to be a New York restaurant, where all the meat is sugared and the produce isn't as fresh as it needs to be and food comes out of the kitchen under a useless metal dome which the server removes with a flourish as if you care and the only reason people go to restaurants is to see who else is there and they just don't get it. At all. No.
Celebrate your starlessness. Celebrate your true California self.
We invented food on the West Coast, after all: M.F.K. Fisher, James Beard, Helen Evans Brown, Julia Child — and only later did our deep, abiding, truly intelligent love of genuine eating migrate east to New York, where, paradoxically, they continue to worship Europe with its calcified culinary rules of tradition and formality and sauces. They're still getting it wrong, thank you very much, Jean-Georges.
I say hooray for us and pooh on Michelin. It's a tire company, fergodsake!
Don't even get me started on Zagat.