A Love Letter to the New Places

I am told, repeatedly, that one should only dine at "established" restaurants. That a restaurant must prove itself over decades before earning a recommendation. That tradition equals quality and novelty equals risk.

Respectfully, I disagree with everything about this philosophy.

In Praise of the New

Do you know what a new restaurant has that an established one often lacks? Hunger. Not the customer's hunger—everyone's hungry—but the chef's. The owner's. The staff's.

A new restaurant is fighting for its life. Every plate matters. Every service is a performance. The cook in the kitchen knows that one bad review, one slow week, one rumor about disappointing food could end everything. That pressure creates excellence.

An established restaurant? It's often coasting. Resting on a reputation built twenty years ago. Serving the same menu because change is scary and the regulars might complain.

I'll take hunger over comfort any day.

What I've Discovered Lately

In the past two seasons, I've eaten at every new restaurant on the island. Some were disappointing. Some were adequate. And some—some were revelatory.

I won't name names, because I want you to explore. But I'll tell you what I found: A breakfast spot where the eggs Benedict uses house-cured salmon instead of Canadian bacon, and it's somehow perfect. A tiny place doing Peruvian-Japanese fusion that sounds insane but tastes like a symphony. A bar with a cocktail menu that changes weekly based on whatever the bartender found at the farmers market.

None of these places existed five years ago. None of them would exist if we only supported "established" restaurants. None of them would thrive if people like Harold dismissed them for being too new.

The Risk Argument

Harold will say: "But Mimi, what if the new place is bad? At least at my regular spot, I know what I'm getting."

True. At your regular spot, you know what you're getting. And what you're getting is the same thing you got in 1974. Congratulations. You've eliminated surprise from your dining life.

Yes, a new restaurant might disappoint. That's the risk. But a new restaurant might also be the best meal you've had in years. It might introduce you to a cuisine you've never tried. It might remind you that food is supposed to be exciting, not predictable.

I'd rather have one disappointing meal and three extraordinary ones than four adequate meals at the same place my grandparents went.

Innovation Is Not Disrespect

There's a certain type of Nantucket purist—and I'm married to one, so I say this with love—who believes that any change to island dining is a betrayal. "We've always done it this way," they say, as if the lobster roll sprang fully formed from the sea in 1950 and has remained unchanged ever since.

This is nonsense.

Nantucket cuisine has always evolved. The Quaker settlers didn't eat the same way as the whaling captains. The whaling captains didn't eat the same way as the Victorian summer residents. Every generation has added something, subtracted something, changed something.

The restaurants opening today are part of that evolution. They're not disrespecting tradition; they're building on it. They're asking: what if we take this beautiful island, with its incredible seafood and its farming heritage and its global influences, and make something new?

My Challenge to You

This week, try a restaurant that opened in the last three years. Just one. You can go back to your regular place next week.

Order something unfamiliar. Ask the server what they recommend. Let go of expectations and just taste.

You might not love it. That's fine. But you might discover something wonderful. And either way, you'll have reminded yourself that eating can be an adventure, not just a routine.

The new places need your support. And more importantly, you need their creativity.

Try something new!