Demise of the Restaurant Critic
Disclaimer - The restaurant in question and this review are entirely a work of fiction. They are excerpts from my novel called The Curse of Gluttony , an inter-generational battle between the old and new world of restaurant critics.
For almost thirty years I have been working diligently to bring my cherished readers the best possible advice on the restaurant sector across our rich and diverse country. There has been no stone left unturned on my gastronomic sojourn. I have taken on this task sustained by you my wonderful friends. I have seen the good, the bad and frankly the inedible.
But now I face a more challenging task. As I stare in to the distance, I see storms approaching, I find myself assailed on a regular basis by two flighty young girls, who claim to be a bit Yummy. The antithesis of a storm. No blacks and greys, just rather sickly pastel colours. I half expect them to break out their pom-poms and do a TikTok dance.
Every time I write a review for my audience, they are staring through the whimsical window of my restaurant showering me in pain. I don’t know why they choose to denigrate me so much, perhaps in a previous life they have suffered immense personal pain. It might take many sessions on the couch to unlock it.
For a generation that prides itself on being inclusive they have a rather odd way of showing it. I have been fat-shamed on a regular basis. They dismiss my age as a burden rather than one of valued experience. They remain deeply unhappy. I presume that they won’t be happy until they have achieved their ultimate obsession, to have me sacrificed at the altar of the gods of cancel culture.
They want to put me out to a journalistic pasture. Perhaps a pathetic on-line petition might do the trick. Oh, lets fuel it with a little crowd funder thing that they all seem to love. Hapless grifters and pan-handlers unlikely to use their own pennies.
I do wonder how much they really care about food, and do they even know what they are talking about. Their limp reviews are adorned with pretty pictures, carefully crafted to within an inch of their lives. Their pieces are bereft of any explanation as to how ingredients come together in harmony. How the great chefs of yester year created perfect flavour combinations.
Are they really foodies or are they just photographers. Maybe that’s what happens when everybody’s phones are loaded with millions of pixels.
I like to imagine what would happen if we transported them back in time to dine with the great Escoffier. I like to think they would be evicted before the starters.
Anyway, next week I am off back to Bartonbury, to the scene of the crime. I must confess, I don’t want to go, I worry it will become a trivial circus.
But my editor is insistent, so I will head down there full of vigour and good intentions. I look forward to giving Olivia Johnson a second chance. I look forward to looking my hostile combatants squarely in the eye. To maybe find out how much they truly know about food.
Rest assured, dear reader, you will be the first to know.
Raymond Rodgers