At Amira's Kitchen, being taught mansaf, and more, in Cheektowaga

Rotisserie chicken, falafel, kibbe, and more lessons from Palestinian grandmother

Mansaf with fameed sauce at Amira’s Kitchen

When I was issued my critic’s badge in 2012, my marching orders were to put a restaurant in its place. Assign it a grade from disappointing to extraordinary.

When I served as The Buffalo News’ restaurant critic, the grade was my call, period. No boss ever interfered. I wrote that a billionaire’s steakhouse billing itself as Top 10 U.S. could maybe make a case for Top 3 in Buffalo.

But doing an honest job meant sometimes registering disappointment. Despite picking places I hoped would shine, I’d hit a dud. That week, I’d call an owner to arrange for photography. In other words, asking them to run up dishes, at their expense, for an article that said nicely as possible that readers should consider other options.

Amira Khalil dressed up in traditional garb for her Cheektowaga ribbon-cutting.

Eventually, that bothered me enough that I made a rule. If I was going to tell the whole world why I didn’t like their place, I should at least show them the respect of hearing it from me before everyone read it in the paper.

Grading the work of people trying their damndest against an authoritative database I just made up was the worst part of the gig. So when I got the chance during the pandemic, I chose my own paradigm.

My review is a love letter to a restaurateur whose work I admire. The review is my attempt to explain what’s gotten me worked up this time. Then try to transmit that ardor, using my big boy words and images, in a bare-faced attempt to help them stay in business. When it comes to loving restaurants and the human beings who comprise them, it would be fair to describe me as professionally polyamorous.