N.B — I originally planned for this post to include reviews for Toast Paninoteca and Six Plates Wine Bar. But as this post is already long and complicated, and your eyes are probably already glazing over, I think I'll leave that for another time.
There's a plethora of moderately priced restaurants out there that I never write about and rarely visit. I refer to them collectively as T.J. McFlanafluckers: all the Chipotle Mexican Grills, Ruby Tuesdays, Fuddruckers, and Olive Gardens of the world. These places are chain mid-list restaurants: they fit in-between (say) eating leftovers at home, and going out for dinner on a special occasion at a special restaurant.
Between the low-end chain and the mid-list chain, a lot of mom-and-pop grills, home-town restaurants, greasy spoons, and interesting startups have just about been pounded out of existence. Perhaps "good riddance" is the right thing to say about some of them, because they weren't uniformly good. But some were: some offered different things; some made something in a way that was exactly right for you; perhaps some offered a comfortable niche, or the best damn coffee in town.
There's a reason: money. Money doesn't make the world go round; people do. But those who subscribe to the belief tend to be those who drive business. Those folks, for better or worse, have a lot to do with making the world go round. The rest of us carefully husband our purchasing power; as we do, the folks with the lowest profit margins, or with the smallest cushions for adversity, are driven out.
There are different ways to look at work, businesses, and their products. One way I like is described in The Nature and Art of Workmanship by David Pye. Pye writes mostly from the perspective of woodworking, but he draws two sets of distinctions, or continua, that I've found I can apply to damn near anything, and have informed the way I think about the world:
- "workmanship of certainty" ↔ "workmanship of risk"
- "regulated work" ↔ "free/rough work"
An example of "workmanship of certainty" might be a factory-made car, or a glass jar for canning: every step in production leads inexorably to a pre-determined, exact result. Very little of the work product or raw materials are at risk during the process.
An example of "workmanship of risk" might be someone with a hammer and chisel, carving a chunk of stone into a statue, or a parent at home fixing dinner from scratch.
An example of "regulated work" might again be a car, or a watch, or a beautiful, handmade, Windsor chair: every step, whether automated or not, has to be very precise, and results in a very exact product.
An example of "rough work" or "free work" might be cutting a tree down with an axe, or fingerpainting a mural on your wall at home.
Please keep in mind that these distinctions are independent of mass production, or considerations of quality. All of these things can be done well or badly, quickly or slowly. But free and rough work, and workmanship of risk, tend to lead to diversity in the environment. Both workmanship of certainty and highly regulated work tend to lead toward mass production and an erasure of diversity (generally speaking).
Also, while rough work is imprecise, it's not necessarily bad, and sometimes necessary. Similarly, precise work is not necessarily good, or what's needed.
Once I got these distinctions straight in my mind, my head exploded as I realized how they could be applied. For instance:
- Why would Hollywood rather throw $150,000,000 at a blockbuster than $150,000 toward an independent film?
- Why do today's buildings all tend to look the same?
- Why do people eat at McDonald's?
Both people and businesses tend to be risk-averse. Someone who wants to minimize risk, and is hungry, might want to eat at McDonald's: for a small amount of cash, they pretty much know what they're going to get, even if they're 10,000 miles from home.
Someone who wants to sell a billion hamburgers in a year while minimizing risk might design a business like McDonald's or Burger King.
10 or 15 years ago, it seemed like there was a trend toward what were called mid-list restaurants: places that had prices and food in-between specialty destinations and sustenance. They weren't all chains. But where are they now? There aren't many of them. Most of the ones that are around tend to be the above-mentioned chains, specializing in packaging the optimum amount of salt and fat into a supposedly edible package with the least risk for themselves and least risk in choice for the consumer. If they're not a chain, maybe they're forced to the low end: reducing prices, service, and choice, while retaining customers. Or perhaps they're forced upward: charging more, while customizing more and offering more, better, or more specialized food.
I do not think the mom-and-pop business is totally dead. Neither is the mom-and-pop restaurant. I do worry about them dying, because I see so few of them. They are where a lot of creativity, ferment, and change is going to happen. And most large businesses start as small businesses. Some will survive, and some won't. But in my mind — maybe because I'm easily bored, or maybe because I think too much — these places are crucial to my world. They're real places, run by real people, with real food, local character, and local money. They're constantly in danger of being smashed by (say) a new Subway or a new supermarket's "new" fried chicken, or maybe by being bought out or expanded beyond recognition. They're worth my attention, and my money. Maybe I'll occasionally get a bad meal, or a place that's closed when I want them to be open, or doesn't offer exactly what I want. But what's the alternative?
Tripp's.
Chili's.
Wendy's.
KFC.
No, they're not bad, in one sense. But in another, they're stultifying.
Do you really want to shop just at Wal-Mart for the rest of your life? How about eating there, or someplace like it?
Think about it.
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