Price Is Not the Point
When you go out to dinner in Quebec City, you’re spoiled for choice. I normally include one multi-course splurge dinner in every trip; in Quebec City I booked two (and I was only there for five nights). Both restaurants have Michelin stars. Both restaurants had multi-course menus with wine pairings. One was more expensive and formal and had better overall reviews, but I couldn’t bring myself to choose between the two, and I’m so glad I didn’t, because I probably would have chosen wrong. I looked forward to both, but was more excited for the more expensive restaurant; the reviews had such confidence.
From the moment I walked into the first restaurant, Légende, I felt the figurative warmth of the dining room. The lights were warm and set just so, the crowd was lively and cheery, the servers moved with grace and smiles on their faces. It was like coming to dinner at your family’s home, if you liked your family.
The woman at the hostess stand asked if I preferred to speak in English; I said yes, and for the rest of the night, every other server and bartender who spoke with me spoke in English. The hostess took my winter coat and hung it in a massive mechanized closet; as it disappeared into the cavernous halls of coat after coat, I felt like I might never see it again.
Seated at the bar, I settled in to watching the staff, who moved with the ease of people who genuinely like what they’re doing and each other. They were efficient, graceful, and smooth. Yet they were also bubbly, effusive, gently joking with each other — obviously enjoying themselves, the diners, and their work.
They didn’t get everything about the food right. But everything was interesting, nothing dull. It was high quality and local. A churro made of cricket flour was (surprisingly) as delicious as one made of wheat.
At the end of my meal, when it came to retrieving my coat, a different helper appeared. He didn’t need to be told a thing, didn’t need a tag or slip of paper (which I hadn’t been given), yet was magically able to fetch my coat from the huge mechanized closet with no trouble at all.
I left feeling warm, full, delighted — and importantly, like the experience I’d just had was worth the money.
Two nights later I dined at the more expensive restaurant. I won’t name it, as it’s not about them specifically, but about the principle the contrast illustrates, which will help you navigate choices like this when planning your own trips.
At this restaurant, the entire mood and atmosphere was the polar opposite of Légende. I waited in a dim, austere front room from which I could not see into the dining room. The colors were all grays, blacks, dark greens, unlike the warm blond wood of Légende.
The staff was chilly and stiff. I felt like I had better mind my p’s and q’s here. I told the first server I didn’t speak French, and then had to tell every new server after that the same thing. In other circumstances, I might not have recognized this as a problem, but the contrast with Légende made it stand out all the more.
The food was better than Légende’s, consistently delicious and not trying so hard to be different and original (which sometimes fell flat at Légende). The wine pairings actually paired well.
And here’s the thing: I don’t remember the food at either place all that well. What I remember is how each place made me feel.
At the more expensive place, I felt out of place, nervous, and unseen, like I had to prove I belonged.
At Légende, I was invited in to enjoy every minute of my dinner as family. More than seven years later I still think of it fondly.
Légende understood something the other restaurant didn’t: that a truly extraordinary meal is an experience, not a rote performance of technical perfection.