Lesley Chesterman spent nearly three decades as the Montreal Gazette's restaurant critic, eating her way through the city's dining rooms with a rigour few could match. These days she writes on Substack, travels widely, and remains a sharp observer of restaurant culture in the country.

Earlier this year she watched the Michelin ceremony in Portugal live on YouTube, saw Belcanto get passed over for its third star despite what she considered a flawless meal, and came home with some hard questions about where the pursuit of culinary excellence is heading.

With Michelin's second Quebec guide dropping in days—and Montreal’s restaurant scene no doubt quietly holding its breath—I connected with Chesterman to get her read on the guide, the city, and whether we're asking the right questions about both.

You were in Lisbon recently and watched Belcanto get passed over for its third star. What did that moment clarify for you about how Michelin operates?

What I saw at Belcanto was a restaurant operating at the absolute highest level—the food, the service, the setting, everything. And they've been working toward that third star since 2014. Eleven years. So when they didn't get it, I think a lot of people, myself included, were left wondering: what more do you want?

There are three-star restaurants in France that are not going as far as Belcanto. And then you add the fact that no restaurant in Portugal has ever received three stars, and you start to wonder whether Michelin has a hierarchy of countries, whether they're really willing to go there with places they see as lesser than, say, France or Spain.

That would be a very difficult thing to accept if you're a chef who has given everything.

You've written that the pursuit has become punishing.

I worked in a one-star restaurant in France in 1990 that was chasing its second star, and the staff talked about it constantly. So the obsession isn't new. What's changed is the standard.

Today you need 30 or 40 people in the kitchen, the right glassware, the right ceramics, a tasting menu printed on card stock with the date on it. Everything costs money, and these restaurants are almost always losing money. Add to that the sacrifice—(Belcanto’s chef José) Avillez told me that for years he barely saw his family—and you start to see this accumulation of pressure that can make somebody short-tempered, aggressive. That's not an excuse for abusive behaviour, but it's a context worth understanding.

I think about it like a ballet company. The corps de ballet is one star, the soloists are two, the principal dancers are three. A lot of people spend years as soloists hoping to be promoted, and then Michelin says: not yet. Or never.

I sometimes think they're playing a little game—we're not going to give it to you yet!—and that can drive chefs, quite literally, around the bend.

Is the bar now too high to lower?

I'm not sure anyone could lower it even if they wanted to. Once a standard is set, nobody accepts a top rating that's been diluted. But I do wonder what that extra thing is that they're looking for. Sometimes I even ask it going backwards, what is that extra thing they're looking for at one star?

Because when I look at Toqué!, which has been our most gastronomic restaurant for thirty years, the restaurant that any highlights festival would pair with their most famous visiting chefs—and they didn't get a star—you have to ask what the criteria really is. It's a bit of a mystery, and that mystery is part of what makes the whole pursuit so maddening.

You've been to Lima and Mexico City recently. How does Montreal's gastronomic ambition look from that vantage point?

I ate at Central in Lima, which is one of the most extraordinary restaurants I've ever been to, and Lima doesn't even have a Michelin guide. They have a lab alongside the kitchen where employees work exclusively on developing ingredients in new ways. That is a massive investment. And I sat there thinking, if Michelin came to Lima, would Central get three stars? I think it would. It goes further than Eleven Madison Park. Further than some of the top restaurants in New York. The walls are practically made of Peruvian ingredients.

I'm a cheerleader for Montreal restaurants first, and I think we eat extremely well here. But when it comes to gastronomy specifically, I think we were stronger ten years ago. There was more of a push toward tasting menus, toward serious kitchen investment. What happened was that the casual end became more and more delicious—Au Pied de Cochon showed the city that food could be fabulous without formality—and somewhere along the way, gastronomy became associated with elitism.

There are companies in this city that still tell their employees they won't cover a meal at Toqué! because it's too high-end. That says something. In Lima, in Mexico City, I'm watching chefs who approach this with a do-or-die mentality. Here it's more like: a star would be nice. That gap in ambition is real.

Lesley Chesterman spent nearly three decades as the Montreal Gazette's restaurant critic, eating her way through the city's dining rooms with a rigour few could match. These days she writes on Substack, travels widely, and remains a sharp observer of restaurant culture in the country.

Earlier this year she watched the Michelin ceremony in Portugal live on YouTube, saw Belcanto get passed over for its third star despite what she considered a flawless meal, and came home with some hard questions about where the pursuit of culinary excellence is heading.

With Michelin's second Quebec guide dropping in days—and Montreal’s restaurant scene no doubt quietly holding its breath—I connected with Chesterman to get her read on the guide, the city, and whether we're asking the right questions about both.

You were in Lisbon recently and watched Belcanto get passed over for its third star. What did that moment clarify for you about how Michelin operates?

What I saw at Belcanto was a restaurant operating at the absolute highest level—the food, the service, the setting, everything. And they've been working toward that third star since 2014. Eleven years. So when they didn't get it, I think a lot of people, myself included, were left wondering: what more do you want?

There are three-star restaurants in France that are not going as far as Belcanto. And then you add the fact that no restaurant in Portugal has ever received three stars, and you start to wonder whether Michelin has a hierarchy of countries, whether they're really willing to go there with places they see as lesser than, say, France or Spain.

That would be a very difficult thing to accept if you're a chef who has given everything.

You've written that the pursuit has become punishing.

I worked in a one-star restaurant in France in 1990 that was chasing its second star, and the staff talked about it constantly. So the obsession isn't new. What's changed is the standard.

Today you need 30 or 40 people in the kitchen, the right glassware, the right ceramics, a tasting menu printed on card stock with the date on it. Everything costs money, and these restaurants are almost always losing money. Add to that the sacrifice—(Belcanto’s chef José) Avillez told me that for years he barely saw his family—and you start to see this accumulation of pressure that can make somebody short-tempered, aggressive. That's not an excuse for abusive behaviour, but it's a context worth understanding.

I think about it like a ballet company. The corps de ballet is one star, the soloists are two, the principal dancers are three. A lot of people spend years as soloists hoping to be promoted, and then Michelin says: not yet. Or never.

I sometimes think they're playing a little game—we're not going to give it to you yet!—and that can drive chefs, quite literally, around the bend.

Is the bar now too high to lower?

I'm not sure anyone could lower it even if they wanted to. Once a standard is set, nobody accepts a top rating that's been diluted. But I do wonder what that extra thing is that they're looking for. Sometimes I even ask it going backwards, what is that extra thing they're looking for at one star?

Because when I look at Toqué!, which has been our most gastronomic restaurant for thirty years, the restaurant that any highlights festival would pair with their most famous visiting chefs—and they didn't get a star—you have to ask what the criteria really is. It's a bit of a mystery, and that mystery is part of what makes the whole pursuit so maddening.

You've been to Lima and Mexico City recently. How does Montreal's gastronomic ambition look from that vantage point?

I ate at Central in Lima, which is one of the most extraordinary restaurants I've ever been to, and Lima doesn't even have a Michelin guide. They have a lab alongside the kitchen where employees work exclusively on developing ingredients in new ways. That is a massive investment. And I sat there thinking, if Michelin came to Lima, would Central get three stars? I think it would. It goes further than Eleven Madison Park. Further than some of the top restaurants in New York. The walls are practically made of Peruvian ingredients.

I'm a cheerleader for Montreal restaurants first, and I think we eat extremely well here. But when it comes to gastronomy specifically, I think we were stronger ten years ago. There was more of a push toward tasting menus, toward serious kitchen investment. What happened was that the casual end became more and more delicious—Au Pied de Cochon showed the city that food could be fabulous without formality—and somewhere along the way, gastronomy became associated with elitism.

There are companies in this city that still tell their employees they won't cover a meal at Toqué! because it's too high-end. That says something. In Lima, in Mexico City, I'm watching chefs who approach this with a do-or-die mentality. Here it's more like: a star would be nice. That gap in ambition is real.