Menu Implosion: Play the video game!

The author, like many others in stressful times, finds comfort in cynicism.

I think it’s time to talk about experiential analysis.

OK, I expected the eyeroll. You’re probably thinking that I have railed about the fundamentals of labor and food one time too often, and wound up naked in a blizzard, howling at the moon. And the next day, I no doubt traded my calculator for a yoga mat and convinced the teenager at the local Starbucks to swap my last pint of Talisker for a soy-milk decaf latte.

There are a couple of mistaken assumptions here. First, you can’t see the moon in a blizzard. Second, I like Glendronough.

As for giving up on numbers—honestly, sometimes I wish I could. I was just reading some current invoices and looking back over a cost analysis I did six months ago, and every single price has crept up a little. This is not enough to cause more than a 90-decibel scream by itself, but the other side of the teeter-totter hasn’t been bringing in as much lately. Who knew that there were so many people in the world surviving on water and an entree split for two?

I am, like so many in stressful times, finding comfort and refuge in cynicism. My latest video game is going to be called “Menu Implosion,” in which you, as a pompous, self-willed, arrogant chef, destroy your own business. You can design menu items which sell too poorly, take too much labor, require single-use inventory, or aggravate the guests. You can make the kitchen layout unworkable; and you can move the servers’ stations to locations of maximum inefficiency, and in some cases, actual physical danger. Extra points are awarded for the speed of the concept’s exit and the fanfare with which the chef publicly blames others for his demise. Scores in the upper range get an Iron Chef appearance, which adds a huge Credulousness Bonus (this is not “credibility,” which is another thing entirely, and in this game is a liability; this refers only to your financial attractiveness to the credulous). You move to the next level of the game by accumulating enough “suckergelt” to start another, more expensive, restaurant.

In the course of trying to arrange for as much as possible to go wrong, I noticed that I was most successful when I looked at the restaurant from the point of view of the customer. This should not come as any surprise, though many of us let the nerve for empathic self-analysis get covered by a layer of scar tissue: We are in the business of providing an experience, after all; and the memory of the experience will linger long after the food has turned into aortic plaque.

This turned the game into quite a bit more work. I had to try to control first contact with the customer, and to evaluate whether it was more effective to insult them with snooty marketing and just have them stay away, or to entice them with attractive coupons, then fail to honor them—and point to the fine print.

That was easy; word of mouth is vastly more effective—you want them there. So, they’ve come in the door—what’s the next thing a guest notices? Hah! You missed the parking lot! Extra points for impossible parking, bonus for illegible towing rules, half-shoveled sidewalks and litter. Once inside, you have a decision to make—get them comfortable and set them up for the kill, or start from the beginning letting them know that they don’t deserve to be there. This is a matter of personal taste and philosophy; you can score either way.

Most people at this point will be concentrating on food and service. Differences in temperament will determine which scapegoats each player will choose—untrained kitchen help, clumsy servers, ignorant customers—but the truly subtle will be looking around the dining room as well, making the tables rock slightly, leaving crumbs from the last party, ignoring the condition of the bathrooms.

The analysis of food sales is done the same old way we’re all used to, with opposite intent. Dump the winners, weaken the workhorses, feed the dogs—but you have to do it in a way that keeps your hands clean. An example: “Yes, the scallops cost $13 a pound, and no, we don’t charge that much for the bisque, but it is my signature and will make us all rich when the word gets out.” To progress upward through the levels, you must have both a keen eye for the numbers and a quick wit when called to explain them.

The one thing you’re not allowed to do is cause an outbreak of foodborne illness. Oh, and arson. Both too easy—where’s the artistry in that?