- Robert St. John writes that the satisfaction he gets at the end of a meal doesn’t always come from the precision or the luxury of the experience – it comes from how good the food tastes and how real it feels.
My 23-year-old son is starstruck. It’s not Hollywood celebrities that have his attention these days—it’s the stars awarded by Michelin for restaurant excellence. For over a century, the Michelin Guide has been handing out its coveted stars, a system that was started to sell tires but quickly became the world’s highest culinary honor. My son, who entered— what many consider the “Harvard of cooking schools”— the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, a few years ago, has spent many weekends taking the 90-minute train ride south along the Hudson into Manhattan with his girlfriend, doing what I call “chasing stars.” Most of their spare change goes to indulging in meals at the finest of fine dining establishments across the city.
I get it. They’re in culinary school, excellence is all around. I was there once (not at culinary school, but in a world where I spent decades eating, sleeping, and breathing fine dining). For years, I did my own version of “chasing stars,” conducting research and development across the country, seeking inspiration for our white tablecloth concept. The skill, expertise, and dedication that go into a Michelin-starred meal is nothing short of extraordinary. Every time I’ve dined at a table in a three-star restaurant, whether in Rome, New York, or Napa, I’ve been humbled and impressed by the artistry. Those chefs are masters of their craft, creating food as art. And food as art is good. Very good.
But at this stage in my life, I’ve realized something: just as much as I can appreciate a beautifully plated meal that took several pairs of tweezers, hours of preparation, and years of training to perfect, I can also get the same amount of joy and satisfaction— sometimes more— from a dozen raw oysters at a dive bar or a slab of perfectly smoked pork ribs at a BBQ joint. In fact, these days, I find myself seeking out “real food” way more often than anything that requires a reservation a month in advance.
Fine dining is like visiting an art gallery. One can appreciate every brushstroke, every detail, and every carefully curated exhibit. But most times these days, I just want to loosen my belt, sit down with something real and messy, and savor the simple, casual pleasures. The truth is the satisfaction I get at the end of a meal doesn’t always come from the precision or the luxury of the experience—it comes from how good the food tastes and how real it feels. That’s the difference between chasing stars and chasing something real.
Today, I find myself just as happy with a roast beef po’boy from Domelise’s in New Orleans, a plate of Susan Spicer’s legendary barbecue shrimp, Frank Brigtsen’s squash bisque, or the BBQ at Donanelle’s on US 49 just south of my hometown. I crave fried rice at places where the line is out the door, and the décor hasn’t changed in decades. I’ll take pancakes from The Midtowner with the same enthusiasm— maybe more— as I would a foie gras torchon. In fact, you can give me a plate of hummus from a little hole-in-the-wall in Chicago or a heaping dish of General Tso’s chicken from Miss Shirley’s on Magazine Street, and I’m in heaven. These places, these “dives” and “joints,” offer something you can’t always find in the sleek, Michelin-starred dining rooms: soul.
To be clear, there’s nothing wrong with fine dining. It’s an incredible experience to be in a restaurant where every detail has been painstakingly thought through, where every bite feels like a small masterpiece. But these days, I’m seeking something a little different— meals that bring me comfort, that remind me of my roots, and meals that make me feel connected to a place and its people. There’s something about sitting in a BBQ joint with a plate of pulled pork or beef brisket in front of you, the smell of smoke in the air, and an iced tea in hand, that feels just as special to me as anything you’ll find at a white-tablecloth establishment.
I spent years in fine dining, traveling all over, searching for inspiration, and I wouldn’t trade any of those experiences. They’ve shaped who I am as a restaurateur, and they’ve given me a deep appreciation for the craft of cooking. But the more I’ve traveled, the more I’ve come to realize that sometimes, the best meals are the simplest ones—the ones you stumble upon when you’re not even looking.
It’s not just about the food. Sure, I can overlook atmosphere and even endure lackluster service in a local joint if the food is good, but it’s the whole experience that matters. It’s the people, the energy, the stories behind the food that make a place special. Whether it’s a mom-and-pop diner, a late-night taco truck, or a barbecue pit that’s been smoking for generations, these places have a history and a heart that can’t be replicated.
I’ll never stop appreciating the incredible talent and hard work that goes into earning those Michelin stars, but for me, the chase is over. I’m not looking for perfection anymore. I’m looking for authenticity. I want to eat food made by people who love what they do, whether they’re a world-renowned chef or a guy making authentic tacos inside a food truck.
So, while my son is off chasing stars in Manhattan, I’m perfectly content chasing something else—something a little grittier, a little less polished, but just as satisfying. And you know what? I think that’s okay. There’s room for both in the food world. Art is important, but so is soul. Actually, he and I spent a few weeks together on his summer break, he is starting to see the beauty in the simpler side of our industry as well. That makes this dad happy.
And at the end of the day, the only thing that really matters is whether the food— and the experience of sharing it— makes you happy. That’s the beauty of it. There’s no right or wrong answer. You can have your Michelin stars, or you can have your dive bars. I’ll take both, but these days, you’re more likely to find me in a dark room with a dozen on the half shell and an iced tea.
Onward.
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This Week’s Recipe: BBQ Ribs
There are many ways to cook ribs, but this is my go-to way. Whether you’re hosting a backyard cookout or craving a hearty meal, this recipe will leave everyone coming back for seconds!
Ingredients
BBQ Ribs
3 full Rack of pork ribs-3-4 pounds each (3-inch/down)
2 cup White vinegar
½ cup Paprika
¼ cup Garlic Powder
2 Tbsp Onion Powder
1 Tbsp Black pepper, freshly ground
2 Tbsp Kosher salt
¼ cup Brown sugar
⅓ cup Sugar
1 Tbsp Creole Seasoning
1 prepared recipe of Barbecue Sauce
Instructions
Place the ribs in a large roasting pan or baking dish and pour the vinegar over the ribs. Using your hand, rub all of the ribs with the vinegar and allow them to marinate for 1 hour. Drain the vinegar and dry each rack completely with paper towels.
Combine the spice mixture and coat the ribs completely. Cover and refrigerate overnight.
Prepare the grill. Cook the ribs over indirect low heat for 2 1/2-3 hours or until they begin to pull away from the tips of the bones and the entire rack bends easily when held in the middle with a pair of tongs.
Yield: 6-8 servings
Robert St. John
