Joe Bastianich needs to lose a couple of stars – one at least to The New York Times and maybe one back to those nice folks with the tires.
Joe, son of the beloved Lidia and partner to gregarious and gifted Mario Batali, has written a book. That’s his right and I’m guessing, the result of a good sized advance. But it’s filled with the kind of banal vulgarities and score-settling that is not only sadly tiresome but more importantly, a breach of the sort of social contract that is reserved for the very top of our industry.
I would always trust – as we do when we put our fork to our mouth – the likes of Daniel Boulud, Thomas Keller, David Kinch, Eric Ripert and a few more, without hesitation. It’s a critical connection to all who feed us, but especially at the top level of the business and craft, it should be inviolate and quietly restrained. Joe is clearly not, to my mind, an advocate of what we often call the Hospitality Industry. He’s a vendor and a success, but this isn’t a quiz. The industry is a delicious social interaction that Joe has now soured.
Back when Joe and Mario opened Babbo they made a calculated decision to offer top notch food and world class service in a more casual environment (read: rock-and-roll music at the bar). The result was a glowing and money-in-the-bank three star review. It was a choice — and a very good one, too.
Perfect star ratings from Michelin, The New York Times, The San Francisco Chronicle and other publications suggest that a restaurant is excellent, brilliant and more than the sum of its parts. Sadly, for me, Joe has rendered himself to be a slightly grim, bitter and vulgar fancy tavern keeper.
It’s his right and his business, but it’s also our right to tiptoe quietly past his doorstep and pop in somewhere more truly welcoming.
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