Himalayan Salt, Local Doubt: When Menus Borrow Authority

A strange form of credentialism has taken over the contemporary menu. Restaurants no longer serve bread; they serve “sourdough,” preferably “from Bakery X,” as if the crumb required a chaperone. Ham is not ham but Joselito. Butter comes with a family name. Tomatoes arrive trailing an appellation like a scented scarf. Even salt—salt, the ancient democratic mineral—must be flown in from the Himalayas to be taken seriously. The dish is still the dish, but the menu has turned into a press release.

This is sold as transparency, a moral posture: look, we have nothing to hide. But provenance has become less a piece of information than a substitute for judgment. The restaurant doesn’t persuade you with its palate; it attempts to pre-approve itself with borrowed prestige. Instead of saying, “We tasted twenty oils and chose this one because it sings,” it says, “We bought the oil you’ve heard of.” The chef becomes a procurement officer. The menu reads like a shopping list designed to win an argument before the food arrives.

Of course, naming producers can be a genuine act of respect, even an economic lifeline. Yet the current mania feels less like gratitude than self-protection—an insurance policy against mediocrity. If the plate disappoints, the diner is invited to blame their own expectations, not the restaurant’s decisions. After all, the ham was famous; the salt was exotic; the bakery had a reputation. What more could anyone reasonably ask?

Plenty. A restaurant’s real luxury isn’t a brand-name ingredient; it’s discernment. If you’re charging for dinner, your authority shouldn’t come from a logo in parentheses. It should come from the fact that you chose well—quietly, relentlessly, and without needing the Himalayas to vouch for you.