I first became interested in cooking with locally sourced ingredients about 15 years ago -- at least as far as a restaurant setting was concerned. Admittedly, many restaurants around the country were staring to get press for their interest in local foods and that helped push me toward the farmers' market, but it didn't take long to realize that the food I cooked was going to benefit in quality enormously from this shift in how I purchased raw materials.
My love for the foods and farmers of West Michigan grew exponentially after opening my own place. Sure, it was good marketing, but the food coming from our kitchen was different and people noticed. We certainly tried our best to cook well, but it didn't take long to discover that the heavy lifting was done at the farm. The first time we ran out of eggs and had to run to the local grocery store to replenish, it was crystal clear that we'd never go back to mainstream suppliers. That food just wasn't good enough anymore.
After some time, the farmers became friends and a small community started to gel around the restaurant, something that can never happen without reaching out to local growers. I began to realize that there was more to sourcing from your backyard than the typical sound bites bandied about. Yes, it was better for the environment. Yes, the food was more nutritious, helped the local economy, was fresher and tasted better. But one day, almost without even noticing the transition, we had a story.
Our food had context -- a place in the world where it lived and took influence.
This is, of course, true of all food. Unfortunately, the story is usually not very good. Over the last few years, I began to realize that this story was what really made good food exceptional. It's why wine always tastes better at the winery. The story helps us regain focus on the plate. It engages us enough to pay attention, to look for what makes a pastured chicken different than a battery chicken. It helps us think about which details matter and which don't. This is the real gift we have been given by small-scale agriculture. Slowly, we are reminded how fully our neighbors help flesh out our lives, the details that make us unique.
As American food moved from the farm to the factory, that influence became more and more diluted. Chicken became a commodity, the same everywhere you went. The quality bar was set pretty low and gets lower every year as the industry struggles to keep food prices artificially low. When food is produced by small farms, there are legions of individuals deciding how to do things best in place of an industry seeking a financially lucrative middle ground. Every day, we cooked good, local food, I started to feel like I was standing knee deep in the primordial soup of West Michigan terroir. Every time we cooked something from an institutional food service provider, we felt, well…at best, nothing.
We had several "Farmers' dinners" at the restaurant, where growers were invited to dine with our patrons and tell them face-to-face what their farms were all about. At the end of those evenings, I closed things out by telling our guests that this is what it is like to eat here; these are the flavors, aromas and colors of West Michigan. To me, the worst criticism anyone could levee at our cooking was not, "I didn't like it," or, "It's too expensive," but, "It's just like everything else." Like it or not, that's fine. It was (and is) much more important that the food have a sense of place, something either barely perceived or easily identified that was its own and not repeatable in another location.
In the end, that ended up being what I was most proud of about that restaurant. No amount of money or effort could reproduce what happened there naturally and organically. It infected and was then reshaped by everyone who walked through the door -- staff, customers, farmers. I have two former employees as current sous chefs in my new digs. I sometimes describe them as spoiled because they hold so true to the standard we have been trying to set for years that they are almost physically unable to cook with anything less than exceptional. The three of us hold on tightly to the lessons we learned, but understand clearly the new place needs its own story. And we know it will have to develop slowly, naturally, organically, with our stewardship, not under duress. You can't go back, but you can build on what you loved once it's gone. Stay tuned for the next chapter.
Matthew Millar is the Executive Chef at Reserve Wine Bar and former owner of the Journeyman Cafe in Fennville, MI.
Enjoy this story?
Sign up for free solutions-based reporting in your inbox each week.