Bernard St. Laurent, the radio host, the person/thing I never thought I would ever see (who ever imagines oneself in front of a radio host? It’s not a normal human expectation) asked me the questions I always get, by email or in person.
What is it like being a food critic? Well, thought I, it’s great. I get to go to the restaurants of my choice and eat lots of food and then write about it. Unfortunately, I pay for all the meals and no one pays me for the writeups.
But isn’t that the great part? That is the great part. I am beholden to no one. No editor scans my review. Literally no one has a fingertip on anything I write except me. So what sets me apart from the horde of Zagat zombies who mail in their “reviews”? Did I graduate from some school of reviewerdom that makes my opinion any more valid than theirs?
Yes. I goofed around in English class and received a C for my opinion about the reasons for the Peloponnesian Wars.
But I also fucking knew how to make a mean Sunday Gravy, which is more than those motherfuckers have a hope of knowing anything about.
So fuck them and the horses they rode in on.
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