During the 18 years I was a food critic for D Magazine, I can’t remember ever sending a plate of food back to the kitchen. It was my job to report on the undercooked fish or the scorched soup.
Dining out as a professional eater sounds glamorous, and for the most part, it’s an amazing job. That said, if I had to sum up all of my dining experiences and divide them into four categories—excellent, good, average, poor—I think 55% of the meals would rate as average. The sad fact is many of my meals didn’t create a stamp in my taste memory. Average food fades from your brain, only excellent and poor seem to stick around.
This subject came up at dinner last week. I was dining at Taverna with a friend. This meal was not an assignment, just a meal with a friend on my own dime. I like Taverna because they offer many gluten free pastas and I try to keep my diet free of gluten. However, that night I was tempted by homemade ravioli stuffed with swiss chard, spinach, and ricotta in a sauce made with butter, sage, and parmesan cheese. Gluten-free pasta is good for the gut, but sometimes I have to fall off the wagon and get a fix of real Italian pasta. I ordered the ravioli.
The restaurant was packed on a Wednesday night at 7:30 p.m. The patio was filled with large tables passing wine bottles to and fro. Inside diners who weren’t glued to their damn phones, were enjoying each other’s company. My friend remarked it felt good to be there. The vibe was bustling and cozy at the same time. Then my pasta arrived.
All I had to do was look at it. The bubble over the stuffed ingredients was cloudy, not opaque. The ends were white. If you can’t cut open a piece of ravioli with a fork, the pasta is undercooked. My ravioli needed a knife. My friend noted my disappointment and encouraged me to send it back. My gut reaction was no. I figured I’d take it home and steam it up the next day.
As I sat there, my brain starting firing. Hang on, they are charging me $17.50 for this dish. Suddenly I didn’t care that the kitchen was busy. I flagged a waiter and told him the pasta wasn’t cooked properly. He picked up the plate and left. I immediately felt a mix of guilt and satisfaction. Funny state of mind. Perhaps my brain is warped from being a food critic.
Fifteen minutes later, a similar plate was placed before me. I say similar because it was almost exactly as undercooked as the first. I signaled for a to-go box. The next day I steamed it to perfection.
