After yet another disappointing dining experience—at Lee He Fook this time, where the food didn’t justify the price and the head chef ignored our presence despite being just inches away (if I had raised my hand, I could have touched the tip of his nose)—I decided to trust my late-night intuition: I cancelled my booking at Vue de Monde.
The restaurant had been on my Australia bucket list forever. Ever since back when I worked in Indonesia and was about to be transferred to Melbourne, the company MD—someone I saw as the epitome of success—told me I must have a meal at Vue de Monde.
His words planted the idea in my mind that dining there was a symbol of achievement, a marker of having “made it” in life.
Last year, I made a reservation to dine there (they only had the availability months later, spilling into early this year).
I’m not sure I would say I’ve reached the level of accomplishment required for such an experience—even if it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event—but milestone birthdays have a way of making you question things and rush into decisions, essentially being more reckless than usual.
This was one of those moment.
The thing is, my recent disappointing dining experiences—and others before that—made me question whether eating at semi-fancy restaurants (not even fine dining, mind you) is truly worth it.
Sure, the food can be good, but does it justify the short, sharp phantom pain in the chest when I see the numbers on the credit card statement?
Does it bring joy—lasting joy? And how long does this lasting joy last?
Would I proudly recommend these places to others? Would I even return? Unless the meal includes bottomless Gamay and with someone else picking up the bill, probably not.
Reflecting on these questions, I thought of the life-changing restaurants that have left an indelible mark on me.
There was Garuda in Jakarta, filled with memories of shared meals with my cousins. Sop Sani weekends with my parents. And the monthly visit to Mangga Besar with Appa’s gang and their fams, where we enjoyed Medan-style Nasi Campur for countless years.
In Singapore, there was the (now long-gone) steamboat place on Beach Road where my girlfriends introduced me to the joys of hotpot. Or the (still-standing) neighbor restaurant Chong Qing—a steady must-visit while in Singapore—alongside Chili Up in Chinatown.
After Singapore, Dainty Sichuan in Melbourne became a favourite, thanks to my friend Liz, who introduced me to the place, which was practically a stone’s throw from her old apartment.
These late-night musings led me to two realizations:
First, and unsurprisingly, I love eating out in restaurants that serve spicy food; it enhances every dining experience for me.
Second, I have what I call “mid” taste buds. “Mid,” in the Gen-Z sense—not extraordinary, not fancy—with the exception of Japanese Omakase, which, to be fair, has never disappointed me, no matter where I had it.
I remember when I was ten years old, Appa once made an offhand remark that I wasn’t “fancy restaurant material” because I didn’t know how to behave in one (hello, I was ten!). His words stuck with me, though. Classic childhood trauma aside, what if it wasn’t just a criticism but a premonition?
What if it’s okay not to enjoy fancy restaurants? Fancy dining doesn’t define success or accomplishment. And for me, it’s certainly not something that needs ticking off a to-do list.
With this newfound clarity, I’ve decided to be wary of chasing fancy food experiences and instead embrace “mid” dining this year, wearing it like a badge of honour.
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I fully support you in this journey 💪