Life of Consumption

The Michelin Hangover

“Meh, this three-star Michelin restaurant is like eating at Canlis — good, but not world-class,” I said to a friend recently after dinner at Per Se.

And then it hit me: I had just pooh-poohed a globally renowned restaurant as if decades of culinary mastery were merely “fine.” I had become that guy — the kind of silly food snob I used to make fun of. What the hell happened to me?

Eating well has always been one of my greatest pleasures. Back in the day, I’d save for special occasions and keep a running list of restaurants I wanted to try before I died (or went broke). When I first learned about the Michelin Guide, it was gospel — every starred restaurant was a sure bet for an amazing, borderline spiritual meal. It also meant I would need more money!

At one point, I even imagined my dream retirement plan would be to eat at every Michelin restaurant in the world. What more could anyone want?

Fast forward to this past summer, when I actually started living that dream. It began in March, when I was invited to Disfrutar while in Barcelona — you know, just last year’s World’s Best Restaurant. A few months later, a friend had booked El Celler de Can Roca, another former “World’s Best.” Naturally, I flew from Malaysia to Barcelona just to eat dinner.

Since we were already making the pilgrimage, we added another fine-dining stop at Cocina Hermanos Torres, plus a handful of non-Michelin restaurants that were delicious… but suddenly felt “less than.”

That’s when I noticed something strange:
After dining at some of the world’s best, everything else started to feel like background noise. Had we eaten ourselves out of enjoying food?

And it wasn’t just food. Over the past year, my wife and I decided to try something we called “the year of no restraint.” We’d been disciplined savers for decades, so we thought: what if, just for one year, we bought whatever we wanted?

We didn’t go completely off the rails — no Lamborghini Urus (though, let’s be honest, still thinking about it) — but we did indulge in plenty of toys and treats. And you know what? The joy was… fleeting.

The thrill of getting something new was great — for about 48 hours. Then it faded, replaced by a quiet sense of “well, what now?” Oddly enough, having nothing left on the wish list felt emptier than constantly wanting.

Which brings me back to this question of retirement. For so long, I thought it meant freedom to consume — fine dining, nice things, no limits. But having actually tried a version of that life, I’ve realized something unsettling: a life built on consumption eventually consumes you back.

At some point, the piggy bank breaks — or worse, your sense of meaning does.

For #ELF#