In which the critic defines terms and conditions, for both our sakes

Making plain what I'm up to helps us dial in what you want from a review

Ratatouille, the 2007 animated classic, nailed the epiphany moment so squarely that I should write an appreciation of the movie one day, in my spare time.

As a reformed restaurant rater who has renounced his scoring past, defining my review’s terms and conditions will help us both.

Reducing such a complex human endeavor to a numeral is only difficult if you care. So I laid awake nights trying to scry the differences between a 7-plate restaurant and its 8-plate neighbor. Spent hours in third and fourth drafts, arranging praise and admonishment with jeweler's loupe precision to balance the critical summary of an average 7-plate review. Only to have it bounced back for rewrite: “This sounds more like eight plates to me.”

As a proximate result, this restaurant critic detests any ranking system more granular than Michelin’s original trio of folders: Worth the trip by itself, worth a detour, a surefire hit if you’re in the neighborhood.

So here’s the lowdown on what’s going on in my brain as I review. More transparency on my part should help you help me paint the targets you want hit.

My reviews will span those categories, because I have one folder: places I love, or places doing something I love. When the klaxon goes off in my head, my mission is clear: Try transmitting my love to hungry people, in the hope they hear the klaxon too.

Over the years, I’ve learned that the more true I was to my loves, the better it was for everyone. Being accused of playing favorites always gives me a chuckle, because that’s the definition of a critic’s job. Raise up those who want to make you shout with joy. Then have the conversation that follows. 

Because that’s what a review is: One voice that hopes to start a conversation worth having. A critic is not a cleric dispensing pearls of inerrant wisdom, but a passionate advocate who wants to talk about what’s good in their community. 

Their good, your good, it’s all good. Because the goal is not a united truth everyone can agree on. Angling for answers that please the most people is heading for the center where, like Spinal Tap bassist Derek Smalls, you’re not fire or ice, just lukewarm water.

What’s your favorite chicken wing? That’s a productive question. Let’s share our loves, enriching us all by drawing all sorts of loves to the conversation.

This chicken wing is the best in the universe? Have-at-me-bro food opinions bore me. No thanks, I’ll take a flowering meadow over a monoculture every day.

I do my best to choose words aimed at inspiring if not love, at least admiration in receptive readers. You don’t have to agree with a person’s assertions to get a spinoff benefit from their well-argued passion. 

That’s why I’ve long tinkered inside my 800-word limit that I faced in my last job to deliver a cocktail of information you could use, including brief educational digressions on unfamiliar cooking terms or ingredients, and my opinions about whatever.

Another factor you should beware of is that at the start, at least, I’m going to “write long.” In newsroom lingo, that’s the whole package, everything you know that’s pertinent, all the on-topic quotes that were informative or add to the discussion.

To write long is to turn over to the reader everything you deem pertinent, without guessing how much time you can keep eyeballs onboard. No compressing, skipping history that brought us here, or whittling down the payload to a splinter considered tiny enough to lodge in reader attention spans. 

If my customers complain, I’ll give you less, no problem. My goal is to serve readers, not waste words.

So henceforth, I’ll begin with a bolded one-sentence synopsis, as a convenience.

The real deal is found in taking the time to read. My challenge is to get you to the end.

Enough yakking. Let’s see how fast this thing can go.

#30#