From Tyres to Tables
A Question That Refused to Be Small
It began, as many serious inquiries do, with a child’s excitement.
My nine-year-old grandson had gone out to dinner with his parents in Manhattan. The meal, by all accounts, was memorable. But what animated him afterwards was not merely the food. It was the knowledge—spoken with a mixture of awe and triumph—that the restaurant bore a Michelin star. The phrase itself glittered in his telling, as though it were an ingredient, invisible yet decisive.
Questions followed in quick succession. What is a Michelin star? Who gives it? How many stars can a restaurant have? Can one be taken away? Do Indian restaurants have them too? And then, pausing briefly, he asked what was perhaps the most profound question of all: Who decides what the best food in the world is?
There was something quietly disarming about this interrogation. Adults tend to accept such symbols—stars, ratings, rankings—as settled facts of modern life. Children do not. They ask what lies beneath the sign, and whether it truly belongs there. His curiosity suggested that the Michelin star system, so often taken for granted, is worth examining not only as a culinary institution but as a cultural phenomenon: an attempt, at once audacious and fragile, to bring order to one of the most intimate human experiences—eating.
This essay, the first of three, is an attempt to understand how that attempt began, why it succeeded, and what it tells us about our enduring desire to measure excellence.
From Tyre to Table
The Michelin Guide did not originate in kitchens or dining rooms, but on roads.
In 1900, André and Édouard Michelin—brothers and founders of a fledgling French tyre company—published a modest red booklet intended for motorists. France then had fewer than 3,000 cars, and the brothers hoped to encourage people to drive more, travel farther, and in doing so, wear out their tyres. The guide offered practical information: maps, repair shops, fuel stations, and places to eat and stay along the way.
Food entered the guide almost incidentally, but it soon became its beating heart.
By the 1920s, restaurants listed in the Michelin Guide were no longer mere conveniences for travellers; they were destinations in themselves. The brothers began to notice that readers paid particular attention to certain establishments—those where cooking rose above adequacy and touched something finer.
In 1926, Michelin introduced a small star next to select restaurant listings. Five years later, in 1931, the system was refined into the hierarchy that would become legendary:
One star: a very good restaurant in its category
Two stars: excellent cooking, worth a detour
Three stars: exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey
These descriptions, spare and almost austere, remain unchanged to this day. Their restraint is part of their power. They do not promise pleasure, happiness, or transcendence—only a reason to go out of one’s way.
The Making of Authority
Many guides have come and gone. Why did this one endure?
The Michelin star acquired authority not through marketing flamboyance, but through discipline. From early on, Michelin insisted on a method that was both exacting and discreet. Inspectors were anonymous. They paid for their meals. They returned repeatedly, often over years. Their judgments were collective rather than impulsive.
Most crucially, Michelin narrowed its focus. Stars were awarded only for what appeared on the plate: quality of ingredients, mastery of technique, harmony of flavours, consistency over time; and the distinct personality of the cooking
Ambience, service, décor, and luxury were deliberately excluded from star consideration. In an age increasingly driven by spectacle, this insistence on culinary substance gave Michelin its moral centre.
What emerged was not perfection, but trust. Diners learned that a Michelin star did not guarantee delight—but it did guarantee seriousness. A starred restaurant took its craft seriously, respected its ingredients, and honoured its own standards day after day.
In a world awash with opinion, this quiet insistence on expertise felt reassuring.
The Psychology of the Star
Over time, the Michelin star became more than a rating. It became a symbol.
For chefs, a star could change everything. It could bring recognition, economic security, and entry into a global fraternity of excellence. It could also bring pressure—relentless, unforgiving, and deeply personal. To gain a star was to be seen; to lose one was to feel exposed.
For diners, the star offered orientation. Faced with unfamiliar cities and cuisines, it functioned as a compass—imperfect, but steady. It promised that someone, somewhere, had paid close attention.
At a deeper level, the star answered a modern anxiety: the fear of choosing badly. In an age of abundance, standards reduce uncertainty. They tell us where to look, whom to trust, and what to expect.
The Michelin star, small and discreet, came to represent not luxury alone, but earned distinction.
What the Star Does—and Does Not Claim
It is important to recognise what Michelin never claimed to do.
It does not claim to judge comfort, nostalgia, or emotional resonance. It does not claim to crown the “best” food in any absolute sense. It claims only to identify excellence within a defined professional framework.
This modesty is often overlooked by both its admirers and its critics.
The star measures mastery, not meaning. It evaluates execution, not memory. It can tell us whether a dish is beautifully made; it cannot tell us why it matters to those who eat it.
That limitation is not a flaw—it is a boundary. And boundaries, clearly drawn, are what allow a system to endure.
A First Pause
When my grandson asked whether a Michelin-starred restaurant is always the best place to eat, I found myself smiling at the earnestness of the question. The honest answer, of course, is no. Some of the most unforgettable meals of our lives leave no paper trail at all.
Yet the fact that a child should be so intrigued by a small star tells us something important. It tells us that we still believe excellence can be recognised, that craft matters, and that someone, somewhere, might be paying attention.
In the next part of this essay, the star will begin to travel—beyond France, beyond Europe—into other cultures, other kitchens, and other ideas of what food is meant to be. And it is there, in that movement, that admiration will meet complexity.
For now, it is enough to acknowledge the audacity of the original attempt: to measure taste without extinguishing wonder—and to do so with humility, patience, and care.
scribo ad LX 