The Michelin Miss

Picture this. You own a restaurant — somewhere in France, or New York, or London. A stranger walks in. Alone. Sits at the bar. Orders half a bottle of wine. You notice the smallest things: a fork placed just under their stool, two quiet trips to the bathroom — half an hour apart. A calm, comfortable solo diner. And something about them feels familiar, as if you’ve seen them before. Maybe they even ordered the same dish last time. Bingo! You might just be in the presence of a Michelin inspector — or at least, that’s what the folklore says. Because that’s the thing about the Michelin world: the myths are as delicious as the meals.

Three things come to my mind to say to you at this moment. One: congratulations — you’ve been deemed worthy enough to be tasted, tested, remembered.
Two: if the food was good, the plate licked clean, and you happened to pick up that napkin the inspector “accidentally” dropped the first time, you might just be on your way to Michelin recognition. And three: both of those could be nothing more than figments of your imagination — stitched together from the folklore and stories that surround Michelin inspectors. So please, serve the diner their food. Pour their wine. Hand over the bill. Smile. Treat every guest like they’re an inspector, and recognition — Michelin or otherwise — will follow.

The History Of The Michelin Guide

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The history of the Michelin Guide is surprisingly simple — and far removed from the culinary prestige it holds today. It’s almost amusing to think that what is now the world’s most respected benchmark for fine dining began as a marketing tool to sell more tyres. When the Michelin brothers founded their company, they wanted to encourage travel and, in turn, boost automobile sales in France. So they created a free manual for motorists — a guide that included instructions on changing a tyre, where to refuel, and places to rest along the way.

A few years later, the guide became a paid publication and began listing restaurants. Legend has it that the brothers intentionally included far-flung dining spots, hoping longer journeys would wear out tyres faster — an indirect way to sell more of them. Whether or not that’s true, what did happen is this: the guide evolved into a culinary compass, mapping out cities not for motorists, but for anyone in search of great food. And with the introduction of its star system, the Michelin Guide — now a century old — became synonymous with one thing: extraordinary dining.

Here’s what the guide actually comprises (in the dining segment):

Recommended Restaurants: Great food, and often on the radar for a Bib Gourmand or a Michelin Star.

Bib Gourmand: A distinction for restaurants that serve excellent food at good value — not star-worthy yet, but full of potential.

Michelin Stars:
• One Star: High-quality cooking, worth a stop.
• Two Stars: Excellent cooking, worth a detour.
• Three Stars: The best of the best — exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey.

The process of recognition is simple — and yet, shrouded in mystery. An inspector walks in, nameless and unseen. They work solely for Michelin, pay in full for every meal, and guard their identity with absolute secrecy. No one knows. No one can ever know. You’re judged on many things — the quality of ingredients, the mastery of technique, the harmony of flavours, the emotion and personality on each plate, and the consistency across many visits. And if you do win, all you can do is look back at the thousands who walked through your doors that year — and wonder which one of them changed your life.

A common question is: How does a mention actually help a business? For starters, global recognition. A mention in the Michelin Guide can attract diners from across the world; in fact, many travellers plan entire vacations around eating at Michelin-recommended restaurants (and often staying at hotels listed in the guide too). A feature or star in the Guide also brings a certain prestige — one that allows restaurants to raise their prices without hesitation, as they’re now seen among the best in the world. Add to that the surge in visibility, international press coverage, and increased footfall, and it’s easy to see why a spot in the guide is a serious financial advantage. So yes, it’s safe to say — it does matter. From an economic standpoint, the Michelin Guide has the power to transform a city’s food landscape. It boosts tourism, drives business for restaurants, and, when implemented across a country, becomes a win for the national economy at large.

Next year marks 126 years of the Michelin Guide — and a hundred years since the first Michelin star was awarded. Yet, in all that time, India has remained absent from its pages. It seems clear that India’s absence from the Guide has little to do with the quality of its food or chefs. Our dining scene today rivals the best in the world — with restaurants like Naar, Papa’s, Indian Accent, Comorin, and Avartana leading the charge. So why, then, have we still not been deemed Michelin-worthy? The Michelin Guide certainly doesn’t overlook Indian cuisine. In fact, modern Indian restaurants around the world are being celebrated like never before — Trèsind Studio in Dubai recently earned an impressive three stars, Gaa in Bangkok holds two, and Semma in New York City proudly carries one. Even newer spots like Bungalow in NYC have been recognised with a Bib Gourmand. It’s clear that the complexity and depth of Indian flavours are finally being understood — we’ve moved far beyond the days when Indian food was seen merely as buffet fare. But the question remains: why is this recognition happening everywhere except in India itself?

One major reason is investment. The presence of the Michelin Guide in any country depends on two things: the guide’s interest in the region, and the willingness of local tourism boards to invest and partner. It’s entirely possible that Michelin has already set its sights on India (after all, The World’s 50 Best is here), but hasn’t yet found the local support or funding it needs. Take Thailand, for instance. When the Bangkok Guide was launched, the Thai tourism board reportedly invested nearly ₹40 crore over five years to make it happen. Today, Bangkok stands as one of the culinary capitals of the world — a city people travel to purely for its food, from humble street stalls with stars to fine-dining destinations that redefine the craft. There’s no doubt that bringing the guide to India would make economic sense — it would boost tourism, elevate the restaurant industry, and spotlight the chefs redefining Indian cuisine. So yes, there’s definitely a case for it — and consider this an open call to make it happen.

Looking beyond investment, there are also other deeper reasons for this absence. For starters, there’s a glaring gap in India’s mid-market dining landscape. On one end, we have fine-dining spaces like Indian Accent, where a meal costs upward of ₹10,000 — the epitome of luxury and refinement. On the other end lies the survival market, where food isn’t a creation, it’s a necessity. It exists to feed, not to be celebrated. And while much of that food may very well be Michelin-worthy, it feels misplaced in a context where its audience may never even know what Michelin means. Sandwiched between these two worlds is a segment that’s stuck — aspirational diners who dream of eating at Michelin-starred restaurants, who know of them through social media, and would, perhaps, be the perfect target audience. Yet here, the problem flips: the food often doesn’t meet that standard. There’s aspiration, but not execution. A mismatch across tiers. It’s a uniquely Indian paradox — extraordinary food, caught between two worlds.

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Chef Vinam Bhasin, head chef at Oju, Gurugram (formerly at Eleven Madison Park, a three-starred establishment in New York), believes we might still be about five years away from seeing the Michelin Guide enter India. In terms of culinary prowess, he says, “we’re there” — citing names like Papa's and Naar — “but what we lack is the unapologetic acceptance of our own cuisine and roots on a larger scale. We often cook to please the customer. The Indian diner is spoilt; they want everything Indianised. And we’ve done that to almost every cuisine that’s come here. For Michelin to recognise us, we need to serve authentic, honest food across the board.”

Karan Sen, the restaurant’s general manager, adds another layer to the conversation: “The diner needs to mature, too. People don’t come to a restaurant to understand the chef’s craft; they come expecting comfort, familiarity, and customisation. At the end of the day, it’s also a business, so restaurants adjust their vision for commercial reasons. That makes it harder for chefs who truly want to experiment. Michelin looks for consistency — in food and in vision — and we often lose that because of this diner–dinee expectation gap.” India’s fine-dining scene, long dominated by hotel restaurants, has only recently seen the rise of strong standalone establishments — and with them, chefs willing to take risks and present their art unfiltered. Still, the landscape remains young compared to cities where the Guide already exists. On the bright side, chefs are experimenting more boldly, diners are becoming increasingly curious and well-travelled, and the ecosystem is steadily evolving. “If this keeps going,” Vinam smiles, “the Guide might come sooner than we think.”

Another reason — and one that, I believe, reflects more on the Guide’s loss than ours — is the bias in its vision. Michelin inspectors often expect a certain Frenchification of every cuisine. They want small plates, tasting menus, precision portions — the language of fine dining as they know it. And while there are anomalies, 99% of Michelin-awarded restaurants fit neatly into that mould. But Indian cuisine isn’t built that way. It’s meant to be shared — food served from large pots onto smaller plates, passed around a table, bringing everyone together. It’s a family meal every day. That spirit doesn’t quite fit into their current definition of fine dining. And that, truly, is their loss. The Michelin-perception of refined food often depends on plate size and presentation. Those things don’t not matter — they do — but if Michelin-tasters could look beyond that, if they could understand why we eat the way we do, and the history that shapes it, they’d see that a shared meal can be just as deserving of three stars.

Ultimately, Michelin or not, something beautiful is happening in India’s kitchens. A quiet revolution. Restaurants are shedding the fear of not fitting the mould — experimenting boldly and celebrating regionality. Chefs today are cooking with courage, putting their voice on a plate — and to me, that’s worth far more than a mention in the Guide. There’s still work to be done — in accepting our roots completely and embracing traditional ways, unapologetically, even on the fine-dining stage — just as the Michelin team continues working on removing its own biases. But we’ll both get there! The Michelin Guide will arrive one day. And when it does, it’ll bring recognition, tourism, headlines — and, hopefully, a changed, more open view of Indian food. One that isn’t filtered through a French lens. But that’s not the validation we need to keep chasing anymore. Because what’s unfolding now — this surge of fearless, identity-driven cooking — is recognition in itself. Our long-overdue culinary self-confidence is finally on the rise — and it’s magnificent. Maybe the absence of the Guide, for a little longer, isn’t a curse at all. Maybe it’s what’s fuelling us — pushing chefs to create magic for themselves, for their people, for their land. And it is this movement, this awakening — where the stars go: to every chef, every kitchen, every story being plated with love.