I believe a menu is a letter from the kitchen
When you open the leather-bound folder or pick up the single printed sheet at a neighborhood spot, you are not just scanning a list of dishes. You are reading a message. Someone wrote this. Someone chose these words. And those choices tell you exactly what the restaurant believes about you—how much they trust your palate, how well they think you understand food, and whether they see you as a guest or just a transaction.
I have been cooking for over two decades, and I have written hundreds of menus by hand, in bad lighting, late at night, when the rest of the kitchen is quiet. Every word mattered. Not because the dish changed, but because the way we described it shaped the whole experience before the first plate ever left the pass.
Let me walk you through a few menus I have seen, and what they quietly confess.
The menu of empty adjectives
When every dish is “famous” or “world-class”
You know the one. “Our famous grilled salmon.” “World-class tiramisu.” “The best burger in the city.” The menu is shouting at you, and behind all that noise is a quiet insecurity. A restaurant that trusts its food does not need to declare it famous. The dish earns that word from the people who eat it, not from the printer.
This language tells me the restaurant thinks its diners need to be convinced, not invited. It assumes you will not recognize quality unless someone labels it for you. It is the language of a place that worries you might leave before dessert.
I once staged briefly at a bistro where the chef insisted we write “legendary” before the onion soup. The soup was good. It was not legendary. And every time a server had to explain that no, there was no actual legend behind it, the trust between table and kitchen frayed just a little. Words like that ask the diner to suspend disbelief before the spoon even arrives.
The over-explainer
Then there is the menu that treats you like you have never eaten before. “Hand-cut, triple-cooked, rosemary-scented, golden-brown potato wedges served with a small-batch, house-made tomato reduction (ketchup).”
This is the menu of a restaurant that is proud, yes, but also a little condescending. It does not trust you to know that potatoes can be cut by hand or that ketchup comes from tomatoes. It wants credit for every single step, as if the diner is a critic who must be impressed by process rather than pleasure.
Real hospitality does not lecture. It guides. There is a way to tell you the potatoes are special without turning the menu into a recipe card. A simple “Crispy potatoes, smoked paprika aioli” often says more. It leaves room for the diner to discover the care in the texture, the smoke in the aioli, the surprise of something familiar made beautifully. That is a conversation, not a monologue.
The menu of genuine respect
When the kitchen trusts your senses
The menus I love most are the ones that name the ingredients with quiet confidence. “Roasted carrot soup, harissa, yogurt, cilantro.” No “velvety,” no “bold flavors,” no “perfectly balanced.” Just the truth of what is in the bowl. That is a menu that believes you can imagine the taste of roasted carrots deepened by spice, cooled by yogurt, lifted by fresh herbs. It respects your memory of flavors.
This kind of writing comes from a kitchen that has done the work. The carrots were roasted until they blistered and sweetened. The harissa was stirred in at the right moment so its heat bloomed without bitterness. The yogurt is not just a swirl; it is the counterpoint that makes the whole spoonful sing. The menu does not need to tell you all that because the soup will.
Years ago, I worked under a chef from Puglia who wrote his menus by hand every morning after tasting the day’s produce. He would stand at the counter, chew a raw fava bean, close his eyes, and then write only two words: “Fava, pecorino.” That was it. The menu trusted the diner to know that those two ingredients, when perfect, need no introduction. And the diners who came to his table understood. They felt seen.
When the menu listens
There is another quiet signal: the menu that leaves space for the diner’s needs without making a performance of it. A small line at the bottom: “Please let us know about any allergies or preferences. We’ll adapt.” Not a paragraph, not a disclaimer, not a legal warning. Just an open door.
That sentence tells me the restaurant sees you as an individual. It does not assume one diet fits all. It does not treat a request for no dairy as an inconvenience. It simply says, in the gentlest way, “We are cooking for you, not just for the menu.”
I remember a guest who was allergic to alliums—no onion, no garlic, no shallots. In many kitchens, that would mean a plain piece of fish and steamed vegetables. But that night, the menu didn’t list a single dish she could eat. When she quietly asked, the server came back to the kitchen and we built her a plate from scratch: seared scallops with a fennel and orange salad, bright with citrus and fresh herbs. The menu had not predicted her, but the kitchen was ready because the menu had taught us to listen, not just to talk.
The borrowed language of elsewhere
When “authentic” becomes a costume
There is a particular sadness in menus that reach for a culture they do not truly belong to. “Tuscan-style chicken,” “Asian-inspired glaze,” “Moroccan spices.” The words float unmoored from any real tradition. They are not describing a dish rooted in a place; they are borrowing a postcard image to make something ordinary sound exotic.
This language reveals a restaurant that thinks its customers are drawn to the idea of a place rather than the integrity of a flavor. It assumes you will be charmed by the word “Tuscan” and not notice that the chicken has never seen a rosemary branch or a good olive oil.
When I write a menu, if I mention a place, it is because the dish carries a real memory of it. The “Sicilian-style sardines” on my menu once were made with the same wild fennel and breadcrumbs I tasted in a tiny trattoria in Palermo, with the sea still on my fingers from swimming that morning. The word “Sicilian” is not decoration. It is a promise I intend to keep.
The false friend of foreign words
Even single foreign words can feel like a handshake or a pat on the head. “Jus” instead of “juice,” “fromage” instead of “cheese,” “panisse” when the kitchen has never set foot in Marseille. If the word is there because it is the most precise, most respectful name for what is on the plate, then it belongs. If it is there to impress, it will do the opposite.
A menu that shifts into another language mid-sentence is often a menu that believes its diners want to feel sophisticated more than they want to feel fed. And that is a lonely kind of transaction. Eating is too intimate for that.
What silence says
The menu that says almost nothing
There is a famous restaurant in the countryside outside Modena where the menu simply lists: “Tortellini. Brodo. Lambrusco.” That is all. The tortellini are made by hand that morning, the broth has simmered since dawn, the wine is from the vineyard you can see from the window. The menu does not explain any of this. It assumes you will taste it.
That level of trust is rare and earned. But even in a more modest setting, restraint signals respect. A menu that does not over-describe believes you are paying attention. It knows that the way the light falls on the brodo, the scent of the Parmigiano, the slight resistance of the pasta against your teeth will tell you everything you need.
The quietest menus are often the ones from kitchens that are shouting with pride in every other way—the gleam of the plate, the warmth of the bread, the way the server says “Enjoy” and means it.
What I hope you will notice next time
The next time you sit down and open a menu, take a breath before you scan the prices. Read the words. Notice if the kitchen is describing a dish or performing a dish. Notice if the language makes you feel curious or managed. Ask yourself: does this menu believe I have a palate, or does it think I need to be told what to taste?
The answer matters. Because a restaurant that respects you on the page will almost certainly respect you on the plate. And a restaurant that does not—well, the words have already told you everything.
Food is personal. The way we write about it should be, too. Not loud, not flashy, but honest. A menu written with care is a hand extended across the table. And I think we could all use more of that.
Frequently Asked Questions
Why do some menus use so many adjectives to describe simple dishes?
Often, it comes from a place of anxiety. The restaurant may worry that the dish will not speak for itself, so it tries to build anticipation with words like “succulent,” “luscious,” or “famous.” A confident kitchen usually lets the ingredients do most of the talking. When you see a long list of descriptors, ask yourself whether the dish really needs them, or whether the menu is trying to convince you of something that should be evident on the plate.
How can a menu show respect for diners with dietary needs?
Respect shows up in small, thoughtful signals. A menu that includes a brief, warm note about accommodating allergies or preferences—without making it sound like a legal warning—is often backed by a kitchen willing to adapt. Even better are menus that weave inclusive options naturally into the list, so a diner with a restriction does not feel like a separate category. The language should feel open, not apologetic.
Is it ever okay for a menu to use foreign words?
Yes, when the word carries genuine meaning and tradition. “Jambon de Bayonne” is a specific product from a specific place, and using the French name honors that. But if a menu says “poulet” just to make roast chicken sound fancier, it can feel like a costume. The test is simple: does the word add understanding and respect, or does it add distance? If it creates distance, the kitchen might not trust you to know good food when you taste it.
What does a short, simple menu usually say about a restaurant?
A short menu often signals confidence and focus. The kitchen is not trying to be everything to everyone. It is telling you, “These are the things we believe in, the things we do well.” That kind of editing takes courage. It says the restaurant would rather do a few dishes beautifully than many dishes adequately. And it trusts you to understand that value is not in the number of choices, but in the care behind each one.