The Fears of a Food Critic
My first assignment as a food critic is on Thursday night. I'm terrified. I can't help but replay this possible scene over and over again in my head:
We are escorted to our table and shown our seats. I can barely fit into mine because of the enormous wine menu that spills over the side of the table. "And what will you be drinking this evening?" asks the obsequious waiter.
"Actually we won't be drinking tonight," I reply timidly, knowing this to be a cardinal dining sin. The waiter's eyes sharpen.
"May I recommend the 1999 Pride Mountain Merlot," he says as if he hadn't heard me. "This wine has fierce muscularity expressed with brilliance and drive. From the first impression of a crush of blackberries, the fruit lifts up over a chalk line of tannins, superripe but contained, red, black and gripping. It ends in a blast of raspberry, a trumpet of fruit flavor. The finish is juicy as a -"
"No wine, " I whine. Then I whip it out the big guns, "we're Mormon."
With exquisite disappointment in his face, the waiter gives a curt nod, snatches the holy wine menu off the table and stomps from the table.
And we haven't even started eating yet.
We have no menus. Chef Marcell has instead insisted we sit back and let him decorate the table with the finest dishes of his choosing. As the minutes tick by, the tense atmosphere at the table grows. With snapping heels, our waiter reappears with a tray. "Bon Appetite," he says and lays an appetizer on the table. Foie gras pate with a sprinkling of Beluga caviar on a bed of asparagus and French bread.
My stomach lurches. Engorged goose liver garnished with fish eggs over my most spited vegetable? Dare I try another escape? "Actually..." I say, "that's against our religion too." The waiter's jaw drops but I give him "The Look" and try to instill shame in him for even offering us this freakish dish. "Mormons?" I remind him and point back and forth between me and my husband.
"Of course," he says, confused now. "I'll alert Chef Marcell."
As I watch him retreat to the kitchen, my mind wanders to the In-N-Out two blocks away. A Double Double animal style taunts my senses and I my stomach gives a wistful jerk. What have we gotten ourselves into? and I converse stiffly about our kids until another dish is presented. "Eggplant and Veal Pastitsio" announces the waiter and nervously awaits our response.
What choice do I have?
"You've offended us for the last time!" I yell and shove away the table. What part of 'Mormon' don't you get? Veal? Eggplant? ABOMINATIONS! Let's go, ."
I grab my husband's hand and drag him to the door. The chef leaps from the kitchen and grabs my sleeve, begging us to give him another chance. The waiter has collapsed into a heap by the serving station in uncontrollable sobs. Their terror of a scathing review drives them to desperation but I am committed to my course.
"S’il vous plaît, madame," begs the chef, "vee have saltines, milk, ice cream, please tell us vat to serve you!" At the door now I turn and spit at his feet.
"I would never eat in this hellish place. I'm a Christian!" And with that, we whip out the door leaving the entire staff wailing in despair. The glow of the In-N-Out sign leads us to safer shores.
The next morning I read in The Times that Chef Marcell skewered himself to death with brochettes. My twinge of guilt is barely perceptible beneath a hamburger hangover.
We are escorted to our table and shown our seats. I can barely fit into mine because of the enormous wine menu that spills over the side of the table. "And what will you be drinking this evening?" asks the obsequious waiter.
"Actually we won't be drinking tonight," I reply timidly, knowing this to be a cardinal dining sin. The waiter's eyes sharpen.
"May I recommend the 1999 Pride Mountain Merlot," he says as if he hadn't heard me. "This wine has fierce muscularity expressed with brilliance and drive. From the first impression of a crush of blackberries, the fruit lifts up over a chalk line of tannins, superripe but contained, red, black and gripping. It ends in a blast of raspberry, a trumpet of fruit flavor. The finish is juicy as a -"
"No wine, " I whine. Then I whip it out the big guns, "we're Mormon."
With exquisite disappointment in his face, the waiter gives a curt nod, snatches the holy wine menu off the table and stomps from the table.
And we haven't even started eating yet.
We have no menus. Chef Marcell has instead insisted we sit back and let him decorate the table with the finest dishes of his choosing. As the minutes tick by, the tense atmosphere at the table grows. With snapping heels, our waiter reappears with a tray. "Bon Appetite," he says and lays an appetizer on the table. Foie gras pate with a sprinkling of Beluga caviar on a bed of asparagus and French bread.
My stomach lurches. Engorged goose liver garnished with fish eggs over my most spited vegetable? Dare I try another escape? "Actually..." I say, "that's against our religion too." The waiter's jaw drops but I give him "The Look" and try to instill shame in him for even offering us this freakish dish. "Mormons?" I remind him and point back and forth between me and my husband.
"Of course," he says, confused now. "I'll alert Chef Marcell."
As I watch him retreat to the kitchen, my mind wanders to the In-N-Out two blocks away. A Double Double animal style taunts my senses and I my stomach gives a wistful jerk. What have we gotten ourselves into? and I converse stiffly about our kids until another dish is presented. "Eggplant and Veal Pastitsio" announces the waiter and nervously awaits our response.
What choice do I have?
"You've offended us for the last time!" I yell and shove away the table. What part of 'Mormon' don't you get? Veal? Eggplant? ABOMINATIONS! Let's go, ."
I grab my husband's hand and drag him to the door. The chef leaps from the kitchen and grabs my sleeve, begging us to give him another chance. The waiter has collapsed into a heap by the serving station in uncontrollable sobs. Their terror of a scathing review drives them to desperation but I am committed to my course.
"S’il vous plaît, madame," begs the chef, "vee have saltines, milk, ice cream, please tell us vat to serve you!" At the door now I turn and spit at his feet.
"I would never eat in this hellish place. I'm a Christian!" And with that, we whip out the door leaving the entire staff wailing in despair. The glow of the In-N-Out sign leads us to safer shores.
The next morning I read in The Times that Chef Marcell skewered himself to death with brochettes. My twinge of guilt is barely perceptible beneath a hamburger hangover.
Comments
Second of all, the cardinal rule is that you have to try everything no matter how much you think you won't like it. Maybe you do like it, you've just never had it done 'right' before. Veal is deliciously delicate. Moo.
Adum is the one I'm counting on for strength here. When he lived in Poland he was served raw horsemeat on bread with a raw egg cracked on top. He managed to eat that so I guess I can handle some veal.
Can't wait to read your first review. You will post it, won't you?
Good tip about the sparkling water, citymama! I'll stick that one in my bag of tricks.
I'm sure you will get some tasty things! I am supremely jealous!
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Good luck! I can hardly wait to read it!
If you have any questions I am sure Chronicler could help you out. She has been in the food industry for years. Heck she can deconstruct Cool Whip! She can tell you, not only what a caper is, but where it is grown, how it is brined, and what it is best used for.
If you get stuck, give her a shout.
http://foodchronicles.blogspot.com/
have fun!
My advice, eat like Padma. Bites, small bites. Get creative with your facial expressions. It's all about the advertising anyway! Have fun, I'm sure it won't be near as terrifying as you think.
I've never had fios gras, before, but I have had smoked caviar. To be honest, I wasn't impressed. It reminded me of ground up hot dogs on a table cracker. I'm gonna argue with you over the asparagus and eggplant though (if you get them at the right time of year and cook them properly, that is).
That last bit reminds me of the Monty Python skit of the couple in the fancy restaurant with the dirty fork. The entire staff end up dead by the end of the skit, offering their lives as atonement for the "dirty, filthy, smelly piece of cutlery" that has sullied their good name.