CLIENT: High-end Japanese omakase restaurant, Singapore
GEOGRAPHY: Singapore, with aspirations to be the kind of restaurant people fly in for
AUDIENCE: Diners 28 to 50 who appreciate exceptional food and have enough self-awareness to find the theatre of fine dining slightly absurd and go anyway. They have opinions about portion sizes. They have also cleared every plate. These are not contradictory positions.
PURPOSE: Build a campaign that makes the restaurant feel genuinely confident rather than defensively precious, by being completely honest about the experience before anyone walks through the door.
BRIEF: Fine dining advertising is almost universally the same. Moody lighting. A single beautiful plate. Copy that describes the chef’s philosophy in terms that require a second read. None of it prepares you for the reality of the experience, which is that you will spend three hours eating things the size of your thumbnail, each one extraordinary, and leave having spent a significant amount of money and made immediate plans for a second dinner. The brief was to write the campaign that says all of that out loud, because the restaurant that is honest about what it is has already won the argument with every restaurant that isn’t.
TONE: Completely straight-faced about something inherently absurd. Dry. Confident in the way that only comes from knowing the food is genuinely exceptional and not needing to convince anyone of anything except that yes, this is what you’re getting into, and yes, it’s worth it.
MY ROLE: Campaign concept, tagline, OOH copy, social captions, menu copy, reservation confirmation copy.
FORMAT: OOH / Social / Digital / In-restaurant copy
Research for this one started at a very small table in a very quiet restaurant, when I was 22 and had absolutely no business being there but went anyway because someone suggested it and I said yes before I understood what omakase meant.
The server listened to my preferences with the expression of someone who has heard this before and will hear it again and has made peace with both of those facts. Then explained, with genuine warmth and zero concession, that everything on the menu was coming. In that order. At that size. The things I didn’t want were already on their way from the kitchen in portions too considered to argue with.
I had dressed up, made a reservation, and come to tell a Japanese omakase chef what he felt like cooking that evening. I was 22. He did not feel like changing his mind. The food arrived anyway. It was extraordinary. The complimentary dessert at the end was the size of a good decision and tasted like one.
Naturally, the food was amazing. That part I did not see coming, which given everything I should have.
What stayed with me long after the meal was the confidence of the whole thing. The restaurant that doesn’t negotiate. That already knows what you’re having and trusts completely that you’ll thank them for it. Fine dining advertising almost never captures that trust. It sells the fantasy of the plate, the moody lighting, the single perfect garnish, and none of the reality of the experience, which is that you will spend three hours being completely wrong about what you thought you wanted and completely converted by the time you leave.
That’s the campaign. The restaurant that tells the truth about itself before you walk in, because it already knows the food will do the rest.
The campaign is completely straight-faced throughout. No winking. No irony. The restaurant is not making fun of itself. It is simply describing itself accurately, which in the context of fine dining advertising is the most radical thing it could do.
Every piece of copy was written from the position of a restaurant that has nothing to prove and knows it. The OOH was designed for the kind of person who walks past it, reads it, and either laughs or books a table. Ideally both.
OOH: “You will leave hungry. Come anyway.” “Twelve courses. Each one the size of a decision you’ll stand by.” “The portion is small. The point is not.” “We know what you’re thinking. You’re wrong. Come find out.”
Menu copy: “Everything on this menu is coming to your table. In that order. At that size. Trust us.”
Reservation confirmation email: “Your table is confirmed. We suggest a light lunch. See you at eight.”
Social captions:
“You will spend three hours eating things the size of your thumbnail. Every single one of them will be worth it.”
“The menu is not a suggestion box. It is a schedule. We look forward to seeing you.”
“Fine dining tip: arrive hungry, leave converted, make dinner reservations somewhere nearby just in case. We’re kidding. Mostly.”
“She started listing the ingredients she didn’t want. They were all coming anyway. In quantities too small to argue with.”
“The dessert was complimentary. It was also the size of a compliment. It was the best thing we ate all evening.”
In-restaurant card on the table: “You have questions about the portions. Everyone does. By the third course you will have stopped asking.”
End card. Brand name. You will leave hungry. Come anyway. Anton Ego cried at a single bite of ratatouille. Size was never the point.
