It’s not a new thing that I’m a girl that loves to eat.
Girls love food.
If Tim had a penny for every time he found me on the couch with incriminating smears all over my face pointing to me as the culprit of the curious case of the missing chocolate dipped bananas, good lord, that man would be a millionaire.
“I can’t stop eating!” I cry in confession almost daily. “Do you still love me?”
I wince in waiting for his response.
“Of course I do,” he always relieves.
“But I also had a whole box of Cheez-It’s, two Arizona Peach Teas and a package of Mini Powdered Sugar Donuts before you got home,” I admit.
I shrug down even lower into the couch in shame.
Tim starts honking a horn sound out of pressed lips -a joke he makes in reference to a Family Guy bit he saw once where it was Stewie’s job to follow around fat people with a tuba.
“I KNOW!”
The truth is, like all girls, I love to eat food.
All food.
Of course I’m a sucker for some good ol’ fashioned junk food.
Dominos pizzas (I order mine with extra cheese).
Sugary cakes.
Chewy candies.
But I’m not just a credible food critic source for you because I can eat 20 Cowtails in one sitting without throwing up. I bring more to the table than an empty stomach and a sweet tooth. What’s unique about me is my food knowledge.
I’m a credible food critic source for you because of my combined experiences.
I’ve worked in the restaurant industry for over 10 years.
I’ve worked every position.
Dishwasher. Hostess. Food runner. Server. Bartender. Manager.
I’ve seen it all in the restaurants I’ve worked at (I once got punched in the face in trying to separate a happy hour cat fight that broke out between two belligerent girls when I was managing a hoppin’ beach bar in Santa Barbara. Another time, at the same beach bar, a man was stabbed in the neck at the entrance of the restaurant and I had to explain to one diner that his steak was taking a particularly long time to cook that night because the chef was holding the injured man’s throat closed in hopes that he wouldn’t bleed to death). There’s little that shocks me anymore.
Stab wounds and sucker punches aside, as far as my credibility as a food critic goes, it goes without saying that the importance of growing up in a family of gourmets was paramount in developing and honing my palate. When I was young, we ate in fancy restaurants that didn’t offer children’s menus. As kids, we were encouraged to eat like adults. We were taught to order dishes as they were prepared without requesting modifications or substitutions.
My mother was, and still is, actually, a fantastic cook. In the kitchen she whips up filings for macaron cookies and cures her own lox by pressing salt-marinated salmon fillets under heavy garden rocks in the refrigerator for two days. The woman can roast a fucking mean chicken.
Dinners cooked at my house were never less delicious than dinners cooked at our favorite restaurants. We were lucky kids at home. From both my parents we had gained fundamental knowledge about food. It’s preparation. It’s storage. They exposed us to exotic produce, foreign cuisines, all the proteins. Growing up, we feasted on racks of lamb, spaghetti squashes, steamed clams. (We were expected, also, to have impeccable table manners when eating these meals that had been prepared for us. We chewed with our mouths closed, spooned soups away from us and rested our silverware at 7 p.m. on our plates when we were finished eating.)
We were also ethnic eaters. Curries. Sushis. Sashimis.
My dad’s a Mexican which means I grew up loving heat.
My travels around the world have played no less an important part in my knowledge of food and dining.
I’ve eaten flaky croissants in Paris, Iberico ham slices in Spain, tofu in Thailand.
Still, as a self-proclaimed dining expert, I insist that my standards aren’t impossible to please.
I’m not a difficult diner by any means. I don’t want sides of ranch. Or ketchup. And, no, thanks, we’re good on more bread. I always tip 20 percent.
That’s not to say, however, that just because I’m an easy diner doesn’t mean that I don’t have high expectations when I eat out. I laced myself into sandals with heels for this dinner date night, and God damn it, I’m going to enjoy myself.
What’s is important to me in a dining experience is of course the food and the service. But my experience with restaurants has taught me that a successful dining experience is tied up in so many things.
The presentation. The ambiance. The menu’s font.
I like to dine in clean spaces. I like big windows, restaurants with views, simple interiors where the food is the focus and not the clutter of the decor.
I’m a firm believer that good food is the appropriate preparation of seasonal and regional ingredients. I’m not convinced that white truffle foams, dehydrated crumbles and liquid nitrogened garnishes make for a necessarily better dish than a simply fresh pasta dressed with fresh butter and fresh cracked pepper. I want ingredients to be fresh. For the success of dishes to rely on a simple char, a quick sear, a modest drizzle of really good olive oil.
I want menus to surprise me and to feed me preparations of a dish that I’ve never seen before.
I want my dining experiences to feel comfortable and personal.
I like a restaurant to present me with a thoughtful and short menu that reads clearly and thoughtfully.
I want a chef to offer a few good dishes that they’re confident will please because they know how to prepare them well.
Too many choices on a menu not only clutters the kitchen with ingredients, but leaves me feeling indecisive when it comes to ordering. Oh. And I won’t ever pick a restaurant who’s menu is illustrated dishes with pictures of the food. It’s a tacky strategy that tells me that the restaurant either a) serves a lot of illiterate diners or b) is a Hard Rock Cafe.
I want my meal to taste like it was cooked for me.
I promise I’ll always do better than to describe the service of a restaurant as simply “good” or “bad”.
A great server has a personality at the table. They’re funny and knowledgeable and they have opinions. I want them to tell me honestly, that, yeah, the pork belly is good, but the baby back ribs are better. When I ask for salt, they’ll also bring pepper.
I want a bartender that offers me a drink when he notices me glass of wine is getting low, not after it’s already empty.
I want my dinner to be thoughtfully plated. These days, where we’re checking our Instagram’s before we even open our eyes in the mornings and where we won’t let our boyfriends take a bite of bread until we’ve taken a picture of it from ever angle, it’s so important that a dish not only tastes good enough to eat but also that it looks good enough to eat.
I like eating on white plates so that I can really see my food.
A good coffee shop will ask if I’d like my cappuccino wet or dry. Espresso shots are served with a soda water back.
A steak is cooked perfectly when it’s inside temperature is a rosy medium rare and a real taco is only served with chopped white onion, cilantro and a lime wedge.
It’s a really nice thing when restaurants have free tampons in the restroom.
I always want to steer others in the direction of really good food.
To help you to make special memories over special bites.
For you to start marking birthday’s by frosting flavors and ringing-in anniversaries with champagne floats and seasonal draught pours.
Are you guys hungry?
Me too.
Let’s eat.
