“I’m A Food Journalist, And This Is The One Thing That Will Make Me Leave A Restaurant”
In all the chats I have about food, in all the deep, meaningful conversations I share with chefs, all the vulnerability I experience at tables, the soul searching I do in kitchens — the moral of the story always goes back to one thing: the restaurant is a place for humans to connect.
Suddenly, an iPad is placed in your hand, one that shows you the wine list, or the à la carte menu or the beers on tap. In the blink of an eye, the reminder of the impending human succumbence to the robot is ever-present; the plague has entered the dining room.
Mallory, Junior Food & Drink Editor
The table is made for humans
What does that mean? To me, the table can be an escape from the digital world. In a city like London, it is one of the last places you can go without the bombardment of an LED light, the last gathering place not entirely infested by our own tech addictions. All right-minded people reject lights and tripods at the table. Even the influencers must put their cameras down to eat.
The last gathering place not entirely infested by our own tech addictions.
Looking around a restaurant, what do you see? Raw conversation, the act of feeding oneself and each other, laughter, chatter, an overall want to be in the company of others, to soak up all the senses at their most vibrant.
It almost feels safe, with a protective bubble encasing the dining room, no robots to penetrate it. There are exceptions: a 3 am McDonald’s order is made better by a six-foot screen rather than a queue and an awkward, drunken interaction with the staff. Moreover, a laptop is allowed only in working cafés. But a sit-down meal should bear the quality of two to four hours of disconnection, further allowing for more connection.
The iPad problem
It almost feels safe. Almost. Until suddenly, an iPad is placed in your hand, one that shows you the wine list, or the à la carte menu or the beers on tap. In the blink of an eye, the reminder of the impending human succumbence to the robot is ever-present; the plague has entered the dining room. Faces light up white, eyes glaze over, they are entranced by the invitation to scroll.
The tradition and inherent need to gather and eat with our network might be the last morsel of humanity we have left without the aid of robots, and yet, the enemy still marches toward us.
It doesn’t happen all that often, no. In fact, the last time it happened to me was something like 4 months ago, but it was an experience that stuck with me; it was almost stickier than any positive experience I have had in that same time frame. The iPad menu haunts my dreams.
Perhaps it is because I was raised in a strictly no phones household, maybe that is why the sheer thought of watching the person across from me look down at a screen fills me with such angst, nae, revulsion. But I also think it goes deeper than that.
The second a server places a screen in front of me, it makes me feel as though the very thing that brings us back to ourselves — the ritual we practice worldwide regardless of race, culture, or access — has been encouraged to be abandoned. The tradition and inherent need to gather and eat with our network might be the last morsel of humanity we have left without the aid of robots, and yet, the enemy still marches toward us.
Verdict
AI and screens have penetrated the fibre of our beings. I am not clean, not in the slightest. I am glued to my screen. During my commute, the entirety of my 9-hour workday, and then for at least an hour before bed, maybe more. The only time I feel free is when I am unconscious, when I am dancing, or when I am gathered around a table with the ones I love.
Let us run off into the sunset with a human conversation on light, dry whites or Georgian oranges, a conversation made up of laughter, and mistakes, and eye contact.
Why then must an iPad show me an interactive map of the wine list? Please, I beg of you, just have the guy who knows a little about wine in the back tell me himself, let us run off into the sunset with a human conversation on dry whites or Georgian oranges, a conversation made up of laughter, and mistakes, and eye contact. I do not need a map, I do not need a dumbed-down version of a menu; more than that, I do not need a screen. I’d rather leave and go to the hole in the wall down the street.
The only reasonable defence is the use of paper. In a world on fire, maybe we shouldn’t continue the needless manipulation of single-use cardstock for the sake of an attractive dessert menu.
If it is for the sake of the planet, I say this: for the sake of humanity, use a chalkboard.
