From listicles of winners and insider stories about chefs and carinderia owners to debates on who deserved recognition, our feeds have been devoured—pun intended—by the arrival of the Michelin Guide in Manila.
Arguments about which cities or restaurants were snubbed and which winners are overrated continue to simmer. Two themes recur: first, that Filipino cooking is world-class and finally getting long-overdue recognition; second, that Michelin’s list isn’t perfect because taste is inherently subjective.
But where, exactly, do we draw the line between expert evaluation and personal preference?
Why taste is tricky
Food may be the most subjective human experience. Our preferences in art or music are also shaped by culture, upbringing, and personal history, but those preferences don’t stem from a function as essential as eating.
Our literal taste is constantly reshaped by every meal we’ve ever had. A dish tied to childhood, comfort, triumph, friendships, or romance can instantly become more delicious to us. A restaurant linked to grief or heartbreak can feel disappointing before we even pay attention to texture, flavor, or price.
This layer of subjectivity is easy to understand. To counter it, Michelin employs 80 anonymous inspectors who revisit restaurants multiple times, compare notes, and follow strict rubrics. They are trained to disregard décor, ambiance, and service, judging only the food.
The goal is to create a more “objective” system. Yet even this process carries a subtler, deeper bias.
On stars and bibs
Michelin is a French tire company founded in 1889. People often highlight the “tire company” part to emphasize that the Guide isn’t the ultimate authority on dining. But it’s the “French” part that carries the heaviest influence.
Any serious discussion of taste inevitably touches on French haute cuisine. This fine-dining tradition has long been treated as the global benchmark for culinary excellence. It shaped restaurant systems—from the brigade hierarchy of head chef to sous chef, to kitchen organization and plating standards. Many culinary programs still treat French and Italian cooking as core curricula, relegating Asian, African, and Latin American cuisines to electives.
The results speak for themselves: most of the world’s top Michelin-starred chefs are French or trained extensively in France. Unsurprisingly, France also holds the most Michelin stars globally.
Consequently, other culinary traditions are often labeled “exotic,” “novel,” or “quaint”—recognized occasionally, but rarely treated as the standard.
Under- or over-rated?
Michelin’s French lineage adds yet another layer of subjectivity, which may explain why many Filipinos hoped for stronger provincial representation instead of what some considered safe, predictable choices.
Think of the famous climax in Ratatouille. Anton Ego’s powerful, emotional response to a humble dish reshaped his judgment. Had he assessed it strictly by formal criteria, he might have dismissed it.
Even Michelin inspectors, with all their training, are not immune to the influence of a system built around French culinary values. And we, lacking their professional background, can’t claim our own preferences as absolute truths either.
Ultimately, no single institution should dictate what we enjoy. Guides like Michelin can help us discover new restaurants, but our relationship with food remains intensely personal. A beloved local spot that never receives a star isn’t automatically inferior.
Instead of squabbling over stars or debating bibs, perhaps we’re better off examining the complexity of the Filipino palate and exploring the unexpected eateries that shape it.
