I’m not often impressed by restaurants. Usually, the experience of dining out garners an “It was okay” sort of review from me, and that’s for a relatively inexpensive place. The prohibitive cost of eating anyplace remotely fancy tends to tip the needle toward disappointment.
During a conversation about eating out, someone once observed that I seem to appreciate the experience more than the food, and I suppose in some ways, that’s true. But I’m not so much interested in mood or ambiance; it’s more about what actually happens during dinner. If any budding restaurateurs are reading, here’s what I’d like to see more of:
Menus. No more menus on smartphones, please—the last thing I want to do after staring at a computer much of the day is to pull up a restaurant menu on a 3-by-5 -inch smartphone screen and scroll away. There’s always at least one printed menu around, but asking for it can feel as audacious as Oliver Twist asking for more gruel.
This request carries over to servers reciting specials from memory, too. It’s impressive that they can remember 7 or 8 different additions to the menu, but just print out a list and place it on the table instead of forcing customers to play along. It’s all a gigantic waste of human effort, and I don’t want to have to create a “memory palace” just to order food.
Robot servers. I don’t know when they’ll be ready for action, but robots could fetch food and drinks reliably, with fewer mistakes and no obligation to tip them or make small talk. Charge me 5% of the bill for repairs and maintenance, and I’d still come out ahead. Yes, lots of people rely on jobs in restaurants, but times are changing, and disruptions will occur. Which brings me to the next part of my suggestion:
Robot cooks. There’s a creative element to inventing or perfecting a new dish, but let’s face it, once the code has been cracked, it’s a matter of simple, precise repetition. And if there’s one thing robots are good at, it’s endless precise repetition. Removing the human element from the preparation could encourage better and more consistent food everywhere. Imagine a culinary world where chefs collect a fee to license their recipes, which could then be downloaded and followed by robot preparers at any restaurant in the world, not just one. Drawing inspiration from the music and book industries, we could see lists of the Top 10 or Top 100 recipes for the week, in a range of categories. Instead of relying on running a restaurant to make money, chefs could let the merit of their recipes carry them to financial success.
Multi-purpose restaurants. One of the interesting things about traveling across the United States is being exposed to restaurant chains that have thrived in other parts of the country, but never made it to the northeast. One is Quaker Steak and Lube, a car–themed dining chain that has thus far avoided opening franchises in New Jersey or New York.
The name is intentionally close to Quaker State, longtime sellers of motor oil, and when I first saw it, I thought it was a place you could go and get your oil changed while you ate. I was disappointed to discover it offered no such service. But why not? If they’re going to go for a car theme, they could at least follow through with a useful way to kill two birds with one stone. Auto detailing, dry cleaning and laundromat services are just a few tasks that could be completed while you’re enjoying a meal: drop-off before ordering your food, pick up when you’re done.
Bibs. Lobster isn’t the only messy food, so why is it the only one deemed appropriate for adult bib use? I’ve ruined many shirts over many years—an olive oil stain here, some cherry juice there—until I started wearing a bib to eat potentially problematic foods. Wearing a bib is like wearing a cape in reverse; it’s even a little superheroic, if you set your heroism bar low enough so that avoiding stains on shirts qualifies.
While there is a very tiny (in both quantity and stature) natural segment of the population that loves to wear bibs along with their home-supplied diapers, and enjoys being fed mashed up fruits and vegetables with a tiny spoon by a “server” while consuming beverages from baby bottles and being entertained by rattles and bright shiny lights, it’s not really a demographic that would support a restaurant chain. But I’ve got other ideas: how about a restaurant called Biblioteca (“library” in Spanish), with free bibs, a menu dominated by Mexican food, and well-stocked bookshelves? Or Bibliotecha, a restaurant that provides bibs, high-speed wi-fi, and computer consultants who can optimize your hard drive or remove computer viruses from your laptop while you eat?
Or take a restaurant with bibs, add religious scholars to offer educational theological lectures during dinner, and call the place Biblical. As long as “Bib” is in there somewhere, I’ll be happy. Sorry to be so glib, but this is the result when you ad-lib about bibs.
Short and to-the-point food descriptions. Wildflowers Too in Yardville offers an entrée with one of my favorite names ever: Chicken Fantastic. It tastes good, but even more to my liking is the precedent it might set. For years, we’ve all eye-rolled as we consulted our smartphones to decipher obscure ingredients and terminology in overlong, pretentious menu descriptions: (“drizzled,” “hand-selected,” “artisanal”).
In contrast, “Chicken Fantastic” presents a simple descriptive formula: main ingredient plus adjective. Instead of Beef Rendang, Schnitzel Wiener Art and Chicken Tabaka, I’d feel much more enthusiastic about ordering dishes like “Beef Brilliant,” “Pork Preeminent” and even “Chicken Enthusiastic.”
Free clothing. Not long ago, I ate at a hamburger chain called 30 Burgers. The food was good, and you generally order by number, which is great for speed and simplicity. But I thought they were missing out on a marketing opportunity by not offering free T-shirts to anyone who ate all 30 burgers on the menu. Since monitoring a customer’s actual food consumption at the store location would be impractical, the best you could realistically do would be to offer a shirt to people who had ordered all 30 burgers. They wouldn’t need to be ordered, or eaten, all at once: an online loyalty account could track your history and keep an up-to-date checklist.
For even greater loyalty levels, say, two or three times through the menu ordering all 30 burgers, prizes would get bigger and bigger. Blind, unquestioning loyalty—for example, eating every meal at the restaurant, or cycling through the entire menu a dozen times—would earn membership to the inner “Trump Circle” level and be rewarded with a prominent position within the company, very possibly one for which the recipient isn’t qualified.
Offering free clothing to frequent customers would spread the word about the restaurant, but it could get expensive. So, if I were an owner looking to reduce costs, I’d make one of the 30 burgers on the list as disgusting as possible, while still maintaining a satisfactory grade from the local health inspector. The goal: to reduce the likelihood of patrons collecting their free shirt. Squid Burger with cheese and pickles? Insect Crunchburger cooked to perfection with special sauce? Or perhaps The Fatburger, literally shaped out of beef tallow and leftover grease? It’s served at room temperature, because if heated, the burger would simply melt away into the fat-saturated bun.
I admit, my ideal restaurant experiences—as a customer and as an owner—might be different from most. But any of these ideas, if implemented, would fit one important criterion: a restaurant experience you’d never forget.
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