A few weeks ago, I heard an observation that has stuck with me: there are two sides of the fine dining spectrum.
On one end are places like Alinea in Chicago. The chefs are gastronomists—each dish is a wild and unique take on food that pushes our limits and what we believe is possible. We find depth in the creativity of the way the food is prepared and presented.
On the other end is a place like Jiro Ono in Japan. There, the dishes are stripped to the essentials with an emphasis on quality. The fish is sliced by sushi chefs who have been perfecting their craft for a literal lifetime. We find depth in the simplicity. We're not used to eating foods in their purest form, so the experience becomes something special.
This dynamic exists in at least one other place, though I suspect many more. In writing, there are two sides of what we consider to be great writing. Writing that is novel and breaks conceptions of what is allowed and possible. Shakespeare comes to mind—we find deep meaning in the complexity and ingenuity of his writing.
J Cole is another one. His lyrics have double and triple entendres, wrapped in hidden meanings and clever word play. The result is supremely innovative writing that takes multiple reads to understand and appreciate.
The other end is simple writing. Writing is beautiful when it can communicate something we ourselves can't articulate. Complex and squirming ideas in our brains that we can half-picture but struggle to form into words. William Zissner and Matt Levine come to mind for this.
I came across the phrase "photo-negative reflection" in a recent Helena Fitzgerald post (a writer I would classify as the latter type). Our tastes for good food and good writing are photo-negative reflections. Many things in life are photo-negative reflections.
I have a working theory that the human experience is really about the extremes—the minima and maxima of what you feel. Last year I wrote this about Federer's retirement:
A career's worth is not determined by how it stacks up against other greats. Nor is it determined by victories, slams, or titles. When you decide to move on from tennis into a new chapter of life, your career is about what you've experienced. What was it like to win your first slam, hit that tweener, or just feel the emotions of playing in front of a huge crowd.
You can decide to rank your career against others based purely on performance. Or you can decide to acknowledge your fortune to have experienced something that few (if any) people ever experience.
More recently, in conversations with a friend, we talked about how lengthening the range of possible experience as a point of optimization. What would it mean if you were happy all the time? What would that feel like and what does it even mean to be happy?
One view might be that emotions aren't sacred and how we feel is a result of some chemical reactions in the brain. But given that we don't really have a way to inject happiness into ourselves (opiates aside), the search for extremes feels worthwhile.
I’m back in NYC for the summer—say hi if you’re around!