Conversion Experiences

The latest edition of The World’s 50 Best Restaurants has just been released. The appearance of Sézanne at number 7 immediately caught my eye. A couple of years ago, I ate at this restaurant in Tokyo’s Marunouchi district. The accolades seem well deserved. It was one of the most remarkable experiences of my life. There was no menu. Just a card with a statement of the restaurant’s philosophy, a list of suppliers, the date, and the chef’s signature.

In his book Unreasonable Hospitality, Will Guidara describes a visit to Restaurant Daniel in New York that changed his life. It wasn’t just a few nice dishes. Or a break from the sadness in his life at the time. It was an experience that changed his thinking about how magical a meal can be. Guidara went on to be the manager of Eleven Madison Park, which at one time was listed as number one on The World’s 50 Best Restaurants list.

My meal at Daniel wasn’t quite as life-changing. But it was something totally out of the ordinary, in the same way that eating at Sézanne was exceptional. Everything felt perfect. Not perfect in a pretentious or critical way. Perfect in a comforting way. Like every potential problem had been predicted, considered, and solved in a way that allowed you to focus on nothing else but the food in front of you and the company by your side.

Some experiences transcend their immediate context. The meal is suddenly more than a meal. We’re not just tasting food. We’re sensing something deeper about how we should relate to each other, to the place where we are, to all living things.

Typically, we associate these kinds of transcendent experiences with the arts. Music concerts in particular come to mind. Fans lost in the sight of their idols and the allure of their favourite lyrics.

But transformative moments can come at us in the midst of any human pursuit. Like eating a meal in a restaurant. And when they do, it’s a conversion experience. We are changed. It’s a joyous thing. But it’s also a problem.

One Way to Come at Conversion

Most people will never get to eat at Sézanne or Daniel or Eleven Madison Park. These kinds of restaurants are not just very expensive. Sometimes even getting a reservation is difficult.

Which is a shame because what these restaurants do is more than just cook expensive ingredients, or serve them in attractive ways in lovely rooms, tended by helpful and well-trained staff.

The best restaurants bring a philosophy of life to the table.

It’s not about whether the steak is perfectly cooked, the wine is at exactly the right temperature, and the waiter knew where one specific ingredient in one specific dish was grown. That’s just the mechanics of the meal.

It’s about whether the food touches your soul.

Or substitute something else for food. Music, dance, poetry, cinema, nature. Maybe it isn’t something you experience externally but rather as a feeling you have while acting in the world. Perhaps while making something, working in the garden, caring for someone, or simply falling in love.

Conversion and the Limits of Explanation

It’s tempting to think the best restaurants are like normal restaurants but just a bit better. Or more expensive. Or more posh. Or something.

But places like Sézanne, Daniel, and the like aren’t really on a continuum with your local cafe. Yes, both serve food. But it’s like comparing a wedding band to a symphony orchestra. One never becomes the other. And if all you’ve ever heard is wedding bands playing covers of old pop songs, you can’t really imagine what sitting in a concert hall hearing an orchestra would feel like.

You have to experience it.

And this is the problem with conversion experiences. You’ve either had them, or you haven’t. There’s a hurdle. Or maybe a chasm. And it’s hard to build a bridge made of words to help people over that gap. There’s only so much you can do with explanations.

This matters because once you’ve had a conversion experience, it feels obvious that things should be a certain way. You believe something is possible that others might consider impossible.

For example, Will Guidara talks about a system they developed at Eleven Madison Avenue. When you arrived at the restaurant, the person who greeted you was the one who had taken your reservation. And they greeted you by name. No having to explain who you were and that you’d booked. They had looked online for what you looked like. And when it was time to go, they had the bill ready so you didn’t have to ask. By the time you got up to leave, someone was already waiting near the door with your coat.

If you haven’t ever experienced service like that, it seems like some far-fetched fantasy.

Mind the Gap

There are times when we find ourselves caught in that gap. We’re on one side of the conversion experience talking to someone on the other side. What do we do?

Increasingly, I’ve come to wonder if we can even talk across the divide. Maybe all we can do is simply point to the gap?

When I wrote recently about sandwich making and the Coursification of Everyday Life, I was keenly aware of the gap. I dropped some names. I could’ve dropped a lot more. It could’ve become a foodie bragfest. But what matters isn’t ticking places off some exclusive list.

It’s the experiences.

Maybe all we can do when we find ourselves trying to straddle the gap is invite people to try? To encourage them towards the experience?

If the curiosity is there, then maybe they might have their own conversion experience. And if the interest isn’t there, then no number of words and explanations will bridge the gap.

Loose and Tight

What this allows us to do is to hold our conversion experiences loosely and tightly at the same time. Loose in the sense that we don’t feel obligated to explain them or fragile when we feel they are being criticised. But tightly in the sense that they still have deep meaning for us and continue to be our compass for how to live well.

I think about some of the conversion experiences I’ve found myself justifying over the years. Like David Allen’s approach to Getting Things Done. Marie Kondo’s approach to tidying. My own spiritual journey in and out of organised religion. My love of Japanese calligraphy or losing myself on a ski slope. Even the passion with which I approach brewing a cup of coffee. And, of course, the seductive power of a spectacular sandwich.

All of these mean a lot to me. But they might well seem weird, obtuse, or ridiculous to others. And that’s okay. They don’t have to make sense to people who haven’t gone on a journey with them.

We can point to our experiences, to what it felt like to pursue them, how they changed us, and what it means now. But sometimes all we can say is, “I don’t know. Maybe just give it a try.”

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