Following on from yesterday’s Michelin Guide announcements, here is one of their inspectors talking about his life in food. It’s a bit long but it helps dispel some of the myths about how the Guide operates.
Who are we?
“But you don’t look like an inspector.” “How old are you anyway?” “What’s your background?” These are typical of the type of questions and remarks – based on preconceptions and clichés – that the inspector may hear dryly delivered when arriving at a hotel or restaurant or muttered at the end of the visit. Age has nothing to do with a person’s knowledge of the hospitality business. In fact, no model exists for the inspector. We each have our own style. We may be thin or stout, dressed formally or casually depending on the venue. We may go alone or with others. People close to me know my secret but for others that I meet during the day, I’m someone else. I invent a job, a past, a name for myself. In short, I lead a double life. The truth is that as a child I was already drawn to food and brought up by my parents to eat well. Very early on, I learned the name’s of the leading chefs, read their books and made a list of the best restaurants so that one day I could take my own “gourmet” world tour. A stint as a food critic completed my training and reinforced my desire. As I said before, it was Michelin or nothing at all.
The schedule
The inspector’s yearly calendar is full and well organized. The first step involves dividing the country into sections to be visited by my colleagues and me. Like all inspectors who work on country guides, each year I travel an average of 30,000 km, have 250 meals in restaurants, sleep 160 nights in hotels and visit some 600 other hotels and restaurants.
My first trip is in January. I spend three weeks on the road, followed by a week to update my files and prepare for my next trip. It’s the same schedule every month. I calculate the number of visits and the time needed. I make a list of places that require special attention as they may lose or earn a star or other award. I look for places to spend the night. The schedule is well planned but not rigid since unexpected events may occur. I make a list of alternative addresses in case a hotel or restaurant is closed or full, or if I’m delayed by bad weather. I plan back-up itineraries.
On the road
In a given town, I visit all selected hotels and restaurants, and many others as well. We do a great deal of prospecting, both before beginning our trip and then on the road, consulting different sources of information, visiting hotels and dining in restaurants. Nothing is set in stone. I actively seek out the best hotels and restaurants in each comfort and price category.
I visit up to seven hotels or restaurants a day, both big and small, and always unannounced. If we’re not expected, we won’t receive special treatment. Visits can last from 30 minutes to two and a half hours, depending on how long it takes to visit the establishment, talk with the manager and understand how everything functions, what changes have been made and what remains to be done. In short, how the hotel or restaurant works. After each visit, I write a report that includes both practical information and my own assessment backed by supporting arguments.
In addition to my personal tastes, I evaluate quality using specific criteria, such as the welcome, interior and exterior appearance, equipment, seating, service, upkeep, operations and atmosphere. All of these aspects comprise the notion of comfort, which is represented in the guide by one to five pavilions for a hotel and knives-and-forks for a restaurant. I always ask myself the same questions: “Does this hotel or restaurant meet the selection criteria? Is it rated accurately? Would I recommend it to someone else?”
Each time the welcome is different: sometimes pleasant, sometimes less so but always insightful. “We never see you. I guess we shouldn’t expect a star,” said one manager after I introduced myself. I replied: “Just because you don’t see us doesn’t mean we don’t come.” Others express their satisfaction, enthusiasm or pride. They want to show me everything – wall lights, friezes, curtains – down to the smallest detail. “Look how warm and cosy the décor is. It’s authentic and so charming. Our goal is to earn a red pavilion.”
In addition to these biannual official visits, I also dine out anonymously, paying my own bill. I don’t systematically introduce myself at the end of the meal. Sometimes, I go out the way I came in – just another nameless customers. This can lead to amusing situations. I remember a lunch once in a traditional-style restaurant. I ordered a chicken in cream sauce. The manager, who hadn’t recognized me, asked: “The wing or the thigh?” “The thigh,” I replied. “And I’m serious.” I remember another time when the manager was going on loudly about the quality of his restaurant’s food and the stuffed cabbage I was eating was half cold. As soon as I mentioned it, he took the dish back to the oven, asked me if I was comfortable, what I liked, what I did: “So what’s the little lady doing around here?” He then sat down and had a drink with me, telling me about his life, his girlfriends and his worries until I took out my business card. He turned pale: “You’re serious? And the cabbage was cold! It’s my lucky day.” Full of apologies, he showed me everything in the refrigerator, from the beef filet to the asparagus, and seemed ready to cook me another dish on the spot. Sometimes, however, the reception can be quite chilly. We see things as they really are. A restaurant that is just opening, for example, with long waits in an atmosphere of complete silence and a line of customers that is getting longer while the manager rushes around the dining room, moving chairs and tables about. Initially inattentive to the situation, he may become hostile: “If you’re not happy, you can go somewhere else!” Everything is a source of information – remarks, movements, body language. I have a good eye for the smallest details, even before I’ve tasted a dish. That comes from experience.
The food
The food is judged after the fact. I take no notes in the restaurant, studying each dish closely, tasting it slowly for the enjoyment, and mentally recording how it looks and tastes so that I can prepare an on-the-spot report once I’m back in my car or settled in my hotel room. It’s important to write the report immediately, not to lose time. I describe each dish in detail – the presentation, quality and freshness of the ingredients, cooking and seasoning, and delicacy and balance of the different flavors. There’s nothing mysterious about it but some of the basics are often forgotten. Maybe a dish has too much salt or is either burned or raw in places, which makes me wonder if the chef systematically tastes everything. I rate all aspects of the meal – hors d’oeuvre, bread, butter, coffee – on a scale ranging from standard to three stars. I set up a scale of values. Gustatory memory is most important. Although this assessment is rational, it also integrates my emotional reaction and pleasure in discovering an unexpected blend, a unique texture, an unknown flavor or a rare ingredient. In short, something enchanting.
The other side of the coin
My car serves as both an office and a gourmet larder, full of cheese, wine, honey and other regional specialties purchased from the best producers. I’m obsessed with finding just the right shop, the right product. Even on days off, between two laps in the swimming pool or a round of vigorous pedalling to keep my body and spirit in shape, I crisscross the town I’m visiting, stopping to buy bread, spices, oil, vegetables, chocolate or pastry. I can never get enough. It really is a passion.
Being an anonymous diner is a strange experience. Sometimes I have the impression that I’ve been found out, that word has gotten out through the grapevine. Extra dishes are brought to the table or extra garnishing with finer ingredients, such as truffles, prawns, wild mushrooms and foie gras. The meal turns into a sort of demonstration. And it’s not just the meal. The car may get special treatment too. Once when I was in a restaurant with a colleague, our car was cleaned and polished so that it looked just like new. And then there are the staff members who constantly bow and curtsy. This kind of attention is often heavy-handed and always pointless. What’s more, it can ruin the harmony of a pleasant evening and a good meal.
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In the end, decisions about the selection are made collectively, case by case, thoroughly discussed and validated in so-called “star meetings” attended by inspectors, the editor-in-chief and the Director of Publications for the Michelin guide.
While starred restaurants get the most media coverage, they don’t account for most of the guide – barely 10%. My daily fare is more often comprised of simple dishes. Most often, my time is spent driving around the country and its regions, looking for a modest restaurant worthy of the Bib Gourmand label or a pleasant, affordably priced hotel. That’s the inspector’s immediate day-to-day reality.