It was mid afternoon on a Wednesday. I was putting my station together on the line, as my sous chef and I were going over plans for the evening. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Michael bounce into the dining room. “CHEF, CHEFFFIE”, he shouted. “We got it! Four stars! Two for me, and two for you!”

I knew when we opened Levain [1] that it would be a success. Not that I was personally assured of success; I knew full well that there were nuances about this market that I didn’t yet understand. But I also knew that Levain was a good copy of 71 Clinton (fresh food) in downtown Manhattan. Wylie had nailed the casual theme with high end food. It worked with stunning success and eventually launched his career to a new level, which led to WD-50. 71 Clinton was a killer concept that cut through the airs of classic fine dining restaurants. It was an environment that put people at ease but didn’t sacrifice the food; it pushed fine dining forward with a greater focus on flavor and less on being precious.

The moment I heard the words come out of Mike’s mouth I felt embarrassed. I turned to my sous chef, who extended his hand in congratulations. I knew by the expression on his face that he was disappointed.

I continued setting up my station. Service was going to happen the same way it would have anyway. Nobody walking through the door was there to celebrate the restaurant. They were there to eat. As dinner drew closer I asked for the proteins to be delivered to the line. My sous chef made a point of doing that himself. It was clear to me that he had been stewing on our new rating for a couple of hours. I knew him, and exactly what was going through his mind.

“You know,” he started, “this is not a four star restaurant.”

I turned to face him: “Does it matter what I think?”

“Of course it matters!” he shot back.

“I didn’t write the review. What the fuck am I supposed to tell him? To reconsider? He is going to do whatever the fuck he wants. He doesn’t give a shit what I think.”

Slowly and coolly he gestured toward the open dining room and repeated, “This is not four stars. You know that. We know that. We have been to the mountaintop, and this isn’t it.”

I scratched my head and turned slightly away. I stared at the sconces across the dining room on the far wall and as gently as I could I said, “I know. (insert pause, deep breath, hand gesturing) Look at it this way, you go to the bar and your friend’s friend shows up. She’s hot, smokin’. Holy shit. You come to realize she’s checking you out. She’s flipping her hair, getting her groove on. Shit! At that moment, are you going to tell her that you’re some fucking shlub? ('Baby you’re way out of my league. I don’t look any better with my clothes off.') No fucking way. You’ll hear yourself making shit up, like 'My grandmother inspired me to be a chef. It was her strength, her vision.' Shit. You’ll pull her chair in and out if think you have a shot. In the morning, on your way home, I guaran-fuckin-tee you’re going to stop at church, get on your knees, and say thank you for looking the other way just for one night. No? Hey man. Can’t you just look up and say thank you? Take what life gives you and make the most of it?”

“Thank you.” he said. “Put your ego away for two seconds. Think about what we’re supposed to do now. Are we supposed to act like we think this is the best we can do? Is this how high the bar is set? Where are we supposed to go now when there is no up? Open your eyes. This is bullshit.”

“Yeah, it’s bullshit. Life is fair all of a sudden? Are you really gonna fall on your sword over this?”

He looked at me like I had shit my pants, turned around, and walked away. We never spoke about it again.

He was right of course. Where were we supposed to take it? So yeah. I think stars matter if only because they give you an indication of where that bar is set and where up is.