The Course that Belongs

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

Every great menu tells a story.

Course by course, dish by dish, a symphony of flavor unfolds—each bite building upon the last, each element harmonized in service of the greater whole. It’s not just food. It’s composition. Balance.

And yet, even in the finest of meals, there’s sometimes a course that doesn’t belong.

Too loud. Too rich. Too raw.

It doesn’t enhance the experience. It derails it.

It doesn’t support the story. It hijacks it.

It doesn’t belong, because it doesn’t understand.

In this match, that’s what I see.

A tasting menu polluted by ingredients desperate to be the centerpiece, yet incapable of cohesion.

Narcissa Balenciaga is the amuse-bouche that confuses novelty with nuance. A burst of color that wants to be remembered but has nothing underneath. You’re all garnish, Narcissa. A glitter bomb on a saltine. You may catch the eye, but not the palate. You’re not here to elevate. You’re here to distract. The dish that thinks being different is enough to be good.

Jasper Redgrave is the undercooked entrée. Bleeding, trembling with how important it thinks it is. You serve yourself like steak tartare, raw and proud—but you lack the acid. The restraint. There’s no refinement in your suffering, Jasper. Just a slab of tragedy, twitching on a white plate, begging to be admired. You want to haunt the room. But all you do is spoil the appetite.

Ezekiel Graves is the scorched palate cleanser. A dish that could’ve steadied the meal, but instead arrives overheated, over-seasoned, and seething with self-importance. You offer purity, Reverend, but serve only fire. You burn the tongue in the name of sanctity. And in doing so, you sabotage everything that follows. No dish tastes right after yours. That’s not clarity. That’s hubris.

And then there’s me.

The course that does belong.

Not because I scream for attention. Not because I bleed on the plate. Not because I demand salvation.

But because I understand what a dish must be to last.

Precise.

Measured.

True.

You see, I’m not here to compete with chaos. I’m here to restore control. To bring structure to indulgence. To remind Arcadia that a tasting menu isn’t a free-for-all. It’s a test. Of craft. Of discipline under pressure.

I won’t decorate myself in revolution like Narcissa. I won’t romanticize my trauma like Jasper. I won’t sanctify my rage like Graves.

I’ll plate the truth.

With every step in that ring, I’ll reset the balance. I’ll cut through the confusion, skim off the scum, and throw out every improperly prepared course that thought it could belong.

Because being memorable doesn’t mean being good.

Being bold doesn’t mean being right.

And being different doesn’t mean being better.

This menu needs direction.

It needs a hand firm enough to discard what doesn’t serve.

Come Ascension, when the chaos has been tasted, when the theatrics have been swallowed, and the crowd sits still, stomachs turning from everything they just consumed…

There will be one course left.

Not the most colorful. Not the most dramatic.

But the one that made sense.

The one the critics remember when they write about this night.

The one that fit.

Anton Savor.