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I STILL GET a bubbly stomach for the 30 seconds before walking into a restaurant I’m about to review.
I’ve been a restaurant critic in a national newspaper for almost four years and still get, every time, that rush and excitement of the next assignment: who will I meet, what will I eat, will it exceed expectations, or am I set to be bitterly disappointed?
While you’re at the table next to me, looking into the eyes of your significant other on a cheeky little date night or gossiping with the gals over spicy margaritas, I have just clocked into work. My workplace is a different restaurant each week.
Oh, and I’m also pretending to be someone I’m not by using a fake name, burner email address and wrong number in my booking confirmation.
In a restaurant, I’m pretending to be somebody else, and I’ve been hundreds of different people by now because I rarely use the same name twice. I know too well chefs are in WhatsApp groups trading insights and tell their teams and PR agency what the name used on the booking was.
So to be one step ahead, I change it every time, meaning I routinely open a restaurant’s door and have a split-second panic that I’ve forgotten the alias I was under tonight.
The critic’s beat is dining espionage. It’s a bit like Killing Eve, where hired assassin Villanelle — played by the impossibly brilliant Jodie Comer — shape-shifts for each mission in varied guises, accents and backstories. An Italian chambermaid, a French waitress, a British nurse, and the hired clown at a kids’ party.
The real enemy is being discovered. Any allowance for special treatment muddies the waters. A complimentary glass of Champagne landing on the table, snacks and sides you never ordered, but the kitchen insists you try.
Not only physical things, but in service, from being bumped up to a better table to overly attentive, even suffocating fuss, while offering none of the same to the tables surrounding. It completely skews the experience.
A restaurant should never anticipate a critic’s arrival and should be spooked when they darken their door. The best teams are wholly unfazed by a critic’s presence. Steel-nerved, confident, well-rehearsed, I often imagine them giving each other the knowing nod of “it’s go time” when my cover has been blown before a group grand jeté into the next 90 minutes.
The opposite of that is when teams allow nerves to swallow them whole and trip over themselves, which leads to tension and over-compensation before a dish even crosses the pass.
Despite being competitors, restaurant critics generally adhere to some unspoken rules. No invites or complimentary meals. Book under a pseudonym. Expect zero special treatment. Pay the full bill, leave, then file the receipt as expenses when filing the copy.
Generally, the rule is to allow new openings a few weeks of breathing space — though that grace has been flung out the window in recent years in a race to see who can get in first. The temptation to be first in the door is always strong, but as in breaking news journalism, nobody remembers who was first, only who got it wrong.
You probably think the critic’s job is entirely eating out at fancy restaurants, swilling expensive wine, prodding things around a plate with a face like a smacked arse, but that stuffy, fine dining, tasting menu, wine flight vision is only one end of the covered spectrum.
There are also brunch spots and street food trucks, cafés in New Ross, wine bars in Westport, a family-run gastropub in North Cork, a Polish café in a Galway industrial estate and a ramen-ya in a GAA clubhouse in Kildare. That’s Ireland’s modern dining scene, which is ripe to be picked.
While I’m paid to eat, per se, what’s served on the plate is only one part of the experience and one aspect to consider. The job is not only to taste but to observe, to order correctly (never over nor under), to scrutinise the menus and drinks list for variety and provenance, to audit the pricing structure, keep an ear to the playlist (crucial; does it match the vibe?), to notice the interior (everything from chipped paint and scuffs to expensive art and Aesop in the bathrooms) and — ultimately — to try to understand what the owner or chef is setting out to achieve, and whether they are getting there.
Contrary to popular belief, restaurant critics generally go out looking for a good time. None of us wants to endure a succession of bland, boring or banal meals, let alone having to ruminate on it for a week and produce a thousand words on it.
The notion of the bloodthirsty critic looking for their next prey is an outdated trope. We go out looking for magic, mystery and marvellousness. We live for the unexpected and the captivating, which is not always forthcoming, but when it is, the review writes itself before you’ve paid the bill.
Patrick Hanlon is an Irish food, travel and culture journalist, and is one half of the award-winning duo GastroGays. He is the author of a new food column, The Feeder’s Digest at TheJournal.ie. More on Instagram.
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