Sweating the small stuff

A month or so ago, I sat in a meeting where people were asked to share the best advice they’ve ever received. More than half the room (like at least 30 people) gave some version of “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” THAT’S HORRIBLE ADVICE!

Everything good comes from sweating the small stuff (so to speak)! Caring about quality in any regard means caring about the minute details—if that’s not on your radar, I gotta tell ya, I don’t trust your work, or your taste.

Last summer I had one of the best meals of my life. At Quintonil in Mexico City, every detail is accounted for. We had the pleasure of sitting at the bar of the open kitchen, so I saw firsthand the precision with which every slice was made, the care that went into every pour. Even the plates were cleared with deeply-focused attention. Beyond that, infused into every bite, every sip, every interaction, was an incredible warmth that highlighted the depth of intention.

I’d never eaten at a Michelin-starred restaurant, and honestly, I was a bit nervous. While fake it ‘til you make it is a mantra that serves me well, I felt pretty out of my depth confronting not just an incredibly elevated atmosphere but challenging cuisine as well. I shouldn’t have worried. From the moment we walked in the door, every effort was directed toward my care and comfort.

As an aside: I’m obsessed with Ebon Moss-Bach Bachrach’s portrayal of Richie on The Bear, and I think it’s almost entirely aligned with my experience at Quintonil. They weren’t just doing excellence for excellence’s sake, but because there’s this deeper sense of small actions adding up to deep human care. I’ve never experienced hospitality like that before. To that end,  I’ve watched Forks more times than is probably healthy for a human and cry every damn time. 

Cousin learning to become Richie

Ok. Back to Quintonil. 

From the bar seat, you see every action and interaction, and while the Panopticon has its creepy eye on all of us, my awareness of the people working being perceived was incredibly intense. This of course added to how intentional each action felt. It wasn’t perfect, and I think I would have hated it if it were. Rather, when mistakes happened, you saw quick, conscientious care to remedy quickly and without emotional elevation. It was an invitation to see the humanity in the service, which subsequently showed up in every dish. I don’t know what it feels like to work there, but from the outside it seemed like they hired the best possible people to do their best possible work. Not for perfect people to do perfect work. It’s a distinction I appreciate so deeply. 

I’m thinking of the “small stuff” so to speak, and am overwhelmed by how much of it there was. It was orchestral–every note mattered in making the grand thing come to life. From the stunning ice jade green marble (that’s what Google tells me it is. I’m happy to be corrected) to feather-light, kinda slutty wine glasses (Josephine Hütte, I think?), perfectly-shaped plates to just enough heat felt from the oven, the smallest details made astounding impact. I can still feel the texture of the stone that a mind-blowing, palate-cleansing sorbet was served on. That’s the impact

One of the sluttier glasses in question

Forever on my mind

The food, of course, was exceptional. It was the best meal I’ve ever eaten, and some bites were genuinely transcendent. AND, and, and it was hard. I’m pretty texturally squeamish, so eating things like ant eggs and beetles and crickets (IDK, kind of listing the menu from memory here) was a lot. I think that was part of how stunning the meal was, though. The space made to make something delicious with something most western eaters turn their nose up at further points to the intention behind every decision. The meal forced me to confront my own biases of what and how we eat while never failing to be delicious. I mean, it’s literally a year later and I still think about it at least once a week, always with a little thrill of goosebumps and tears in my eyes. 

I’ve always been emotionally responsive to art. I can sense the intention and control–the small stuff that makes the big stuff work–behind a line of music or the stroke of a paintbrush. I’ll cry immediately at a perfectly-turned phrase. But until this meal, I didn’t really know that food could be art, and now I think it’s the highest form. A meal like this accounts for how each sense will respond, and I can’t think of any other medium that does so–scent and taste are rarely incorporated into the creative spaces we consider art, and boy, do we miss out!

I’m returning to Mexico City this year for my twentieth wedding anniversary, and Quintonil is the first reservation I plan to make.

Please enjoy some photos that do absolutely zero justice to the experience.

How could it not bring you to tears?