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I started writing restaurant reviews at a newspaper in Vermont in 2008. Since then, my work has taken me to publications in Houston and the DC metro area. Over the past 15 years, restaurants have changed a lot, but how I choose a winning dish hasn’t.
This article should serve as crib notes for any restaurant diner looking to order the way one professional restaurant critic does.
Pork loin with strawberry gochujang and tangy yuzu kosho? Scallops flavored with chermoula, cashews, and coconut served on dry ice? For some diners, it might sound like overkill, but to me, these dishes were a gateway to discovering the chef’s vision even before I interviewed them.
Though those particular examples were scores, I even order flavor combinations or unlikely preparations that are almost bound to be bad. I still remember an eel-and-banana roll at a sushi restaurant in Vermont more than a decade ago. The combination didn’t work, but I absolutely gave it the benefit of the doubt.
I know that some pizza purists espouse that it’s all about dough, sauce, and cheese. But I would argue that when tasting a pizza, the quality of the pepperoni and how it’s crisped tells its own very illustrative story.
That’s why, when I order pizza, it’s always a pepperoni pie. From there, it’s OK to try something with more creative toppings but to get a baseline, I want to eat pizza in its most basic, and arguably also most compelling, form.
For years, I’ve said that if I were ever to open a restaurant, it would specialize in the ribs of many different animals. I love the fatty, tender flesh that much, but I also order it with a critic’s eye.
I have no tolerance for falling off the bone. Thanks to having reviewed some of Texas’ best ‘cue, I know that meat should adhere just until a diner tears it from the bone. This rule applies whether I’m at a barbecue stand or an upscale restaurant.
There are few things that speak to my soul quite like a salty duck leg slow-cooked in its own fat. Any application will do, whether it’s served with sweet saba or aromatic pistachio dukkah.
That said, if the skin’s a little flaccid, I’ll note it for work purposes, but happily push it aside and keep eating.
I’ve made it myself before, but for the most part, it falls squarely in the category of things I would rather someone else cook for me.
Cream sauces can break, so a chef always wins points in my book when they turn out right. The same applies to buttery but creamless Béarnaise sauce — it’s one of my most beloved things, but matters can go south quickly, so it’s always worth my appraisal.
For years, I kept a list on Facebook of every type of animal I’d eaten, slowly growing as I cooked camel from a Somali grocery or traveled to Peru for guinea pig.
The list has long since disappeared, but I believe that I’m well into the 30s or 40s. My favorite so far is bear. I’ve found that if it’s braised properly it can take on some qualities reminiscent of wagyu beef.
I’ve often joked that if I were to run for president, it would be on the platform of making it law that restaurants must have at least one chocolate dessert on the menu at all times.
I opt for a chocolate dessert unless there is something far more creative or interesting. I love tasting the breadth of what pastry chefs can do with the most crave-able of ingredients.
Charcuterie boards have taken over menus, but I have to be careful when ordering them. I don’t want packaged meats that chefs throw together with an upcharge when I could just as easily buy good prosciutto to eat at home.
Though there are exceptions to this rule (perhaps a few slices of beautiful jamón ibérico de bellota off a whole leg), I’m usually only interested in ordering charcuterie if the chef has crafted it themselves. But when they do, I’m sure to taste my way through their pâtés de campagne and hot coppas.
I order chicken Parmigiana everywhere I can. Like a pepperoni pizza, it tells me practically everything I need to know about a place in a single dish.
How thinly pounded is the chicken? How brown and blistered is the cheese? Is the pasta al dente? This is one of the dishes I judge most harshly, but when a chicken Parm hits right, it can make my year.
I didn’t realize until I left New England for Houston that hot turkey sandwiches were such a regional treasure. But they are, as are Northeastern-style diners themselves.
In my opinion, the best open-faced turkey sandwiches are bathed in yellow gravy and accompanied by crispy fries, but I’m not too picky. As long as the sandwich doesn’t have deli-sliced turkey (which has, sadly, happened to me), I’m likely to be thrilled.
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