Story M.
Google
I went to a restaurant featured in the Michelin Guide; not yet starred, but clearly aspiring. The food was good, even thoughtful: each plate balanced and precise without feeling fussy. But what I’ll remember most wasn’t the food. It was the Michelin Man.
A small statue of him sat right in front of us throughout dinner; a squat, beaming sentinel of white rubber rings. Up close, he looks less like a mascot and more like a relic from some ancient civilization that worshipped tires and torque. His form is hypnotic: dozens of concentric ridges stacked into a soft geometry of confidence. His smile is the calm grin of someone who’s seen a thousand steering wheels and lived to tell the tale.
The longer he sat there, the more alive he seemed. Light rippled over his curved belly, giving the illusion of breath. He looked on approvingly as we lifted forks and glasses, as if silently evaluating both our meal and our manners. There’s something humbling about eating under the gaze of a creature who has become a global arbiter of taste; not through culinary mastery, but through tires.
The food, yes, was quite good. But it’s the Michelin Man who lingered in my mind: serene, spherical, and strangely divine; the patron saint of dinner and the open road.