Perspective: Incantations of a Restaurant Critic
Words by Brenda Hock
Illustration by Anna Takahashi
There was a time in my life when making dinner reservations was an act of espionage. I used different first and last names, foreign accents; one night I was a doctor, the next a divorcee. My hairstyles, like my accessories, took on personalities of their own. My companions — even my husbands — depended on the place and time. Back then, I was a restaurant critic avoiding detection in New York’s fine-dining scene.
I wrote a weekly column for nine years reviewing restaurants; each week, I penned 700 words and consumed 2 million calories. The writing consisted of a rating system of one to four stars for food, ambiance, service and value. But this system was not necessarily objective. On several occasions, I dined at restaurants where the food and service were, at best, mediocre, yet the New York Times critic had awarded them four stars. Was I brave enough to give an honest two or three stars? You bet. On one occasion, my bravery was rewarded with spite when a highly influential family took umbrage at my review and paid for a full-page rebuttal ad that accused me of incompetence. My husband at that time wanted me to get an unlisted phone number.
My inspiration for becoming a food critic was by author Jeffrey Steingarten’s book, The Man Who Ate Everything. He was an attorney who became the food critic for Vogue magazine. The book details how he set out to overcome his distaste for such things as kimchi, lard and Greek cuisine. When I started, I was a financial advisor with a degree from the French Culinary Institute, and an aversion to Indian and Mexican Food. The book was like a roadmap of sorts.
In terms of restaurant options, Poughkeepsie, NY, is not on par with Las Vegas or Manhattan. But this small town, home to telegraph innovator Samuel F.B. Morse, is also the headquarters of the Culinary Institute of America, so a lot of graduates open cutting-edge restaurants nearby. If green papaya carbonara with guanciale and a coddled quail egg is not your thing, you might prefer to dine elsewhere.
I had my share of peanut butter dust, lobster foam, cuisine minceur and the ever-present kale, radicchio and arugula. On the flip side, the wines of the Hudson Valley were darn good. As a matter of preference, I was inclined to award an extra star to any fine-dining restaurant where I didn’t have to pull out my French-Italian-English dictionary just to order.
Though I’d later become expert in concealing my identity as I investigated every detail of a restaurant’s food, façade and service, like any novice spy things started out a little rocky. It was Valentine’s weekend and I was dining at the ultra-romantic Troutbeck Inn. I was careful to be inconspicuous as I jotted down notes of their menu and specials onto a notepad on my lap. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, I realized at meal’s end that I had written all of my notes on their tablecloth.
There were lots of funny moments like that throughout my career, but the work was no laughing matter. A restaurant review can have a major economic impact on a dining establishment and I wielded my power with as much integrity and respect as possible; I always checked my facts with the owner, and if I was submitting a positive review, I gave the restaurant a heads up so they’d be ready with staff for an influx of customers. As reviewers — and today, that goes for Yelp and Google reviewers — we have a responsibility to recognize the power of the pen on local businesses. I made the decision to never review a restaurant where I had a bad experience. In my opinion, reviews are a form of advertising and I thought, “Why publicize a place that should be avoided?”
With the passage of time, it became apparent that no disguise would keep me from being recognized. I began to notice all the extras brought to my table: the samplings of amuse bouche, a multitude of desserts and visits from the chef. I figured into my reviews that my meal was likely the best they could offer.
My palate expanded as I swirled, twirled and speared entrée after entrée across nearly a decade of reviews. Despite my tongue’s displeasure in it, I couldn’t avoid reviewing cuisines I disliked. To be as fair as possible, I brought with me friends who enjoyed those cuisines and let them evaluate, while I stuck with chicken satay or fajitas.
At the end of 1999 I moved to California, where I found my food footing teaching cooking classes for the local Jewish community and talking about food on KVEC radio from 2000 to 2007. Those who tuned in to my “SLO Cooking” show know I steadfastly remain anti-cilantro, -goat or -feta cheese. I no longer review restaurants for a living, but I still enjoy dining out, except now it’s just as me, Brenda.
