Thoughts on Writing and Dining

For as long as I can remember, writing has been my thing. It’s an outlet, a free space that I can create, bend, mold into something that helps make sense of my thoughts and experiences. I’ve delved into this side of me consistently over the years and as much as I could write everything out, it always felt like something was missing. And I would question myself relentlessly, what could it possibly be?

The further I got in my career, the more I started to fantasize about what I really wanted to do. I would ask myself what were the biggest parts of me that if I could just bridge would really make me happy. The answers were always the same: writing and food. Truth be told, I never gave writing a food blog much thought, always chalking that up to my lack of confidence that what I write could be interesting to anyone, much less an entire audience. Silly, yes, but I believe everything happens in it’s time, when it’s meant to be the most impactful.

I have to be honest, it’s still a little scary. As I write more about food and how I am receiving and translating it, it becomes frenetic in my mind and I find myself overwhelmed. I feel exposed and maybe a little unvalidated, that my point of view couldn’t possibly be “correct.” And after I beat myself and my ego up about it, I come to one conclusion.

This site, these words, these photos, these experiences, the myriad of flavors, and my sometimes limited ability in translating it to the feelings that were evoked in me are singularly mine. And to take that, to share and create it into a sometimes erratic slew of words on a screen and to leave that there for you, it is absolutely liberating. I have a voice and a point of view, and both of those things are valid and have place. My writing style or my interpretation may not be what technical food writers deem to be on their level but so what. Often times when I read those blogs I become lost in the technical notes and I all together stop reading. My interest flies out the window when all you regurgitated back was what everyone before you already said. That is not the writing or point of view that I am interested in. I want more.

Give me your truly honest voice and then tell me your experience from that exceedingly rare place of yourself where you become resolute and let your opinion flow without the fear of judgement. To me, that should be the basis of any good writing, not just with food.

When dining out, I look for places that have a focused point of view, a clear and concise place from which everything flows directly from. The devil is in the details and I want those details to shine, especially when it’s a detail I didn’t think could matter. From a service standpoint, did I feel cared for, looked after? Did the Front of House do that with the utmost discretion? Were my questions answered thoughtfully and more importantly, without making me feel foolish for it?

Most often times, I know a little bit about the restaurant and chef before dining. With their food, I look for the stories behind them, the personal history. How have the chef’s experiences colored their style? Does it have a true sense of place, whether geographical or chronological? Is their food reimagined and made into their own; or if it is a classic, did they do the classic justice? Am I intrigued by the description alone and does the dish make me think about flavor in a new way? Beyond all of those pressing questions in my mind, I, of course, want to be satiated. At the same token, I also want to walk away with more thoughts, more information, more ideas, how it relates to the stage at large and ultimately how all of that turns around to impact me.

It sounds a little maddening to have all of those questions swirling in my head, but it is truly what I think about after every dining experience because I have such a deep admiration and respect for chefs and this industry. Chefs are some of the most hard-working and creative individuals I have the privilege of working with. They are judged night after night and in this day and age when everyone is a critic, I imagine that to be a tenuous spot to put yourself in. Like anyone else, chefs have a desire for the work they put out there to be respected. So when disparaging diners jump up on their social media soap box and make light of the hard work put into that very meal, it’s probably enough to drive anyone mad and quit all together.

But chefs are incredibly resilient beasts. They dust themselves off, they regroup, they tweak and redefine and do it again. And again. After all, longtime favorites stay that way because they consistently deliver upon a singular promise. The promise of “I will always give you this meal and/or this service the exact same way every time out without question” is something that as a diner, you come to bank on, and perhaps sometimes, demand that expectation be met and exceeded. Because there is nothing worse than going to a restaurant and being completely let down. I’ve long-held the belief that I am only allotted a certain number of meals in this lifetime, I don’t want to waste a single one.

The restaurant industry is surly, unforgiving, maddening and sometimes heartbreaking. It is not for the faint of heart, weak of mind, body or soul. To work in it, means you are equal amounts of crazy, compulsive, brave and you’re sure as hell tough as nails. But it also means you’re fluid, adaptable, quick and passionate. Sometimes that passion alone can fuel you straight through the weeds.

As a diner with the utmost respect for the industry I love so much, I dare to be more than just a one-note, single-viewed diner, only going to places because Yelp users said so. I don’t want to follow the crowd and pander to the general consensus. I’ve been to popular restaurants and thought to myself, “eh, not so much” and chalked it up to an off night. You’ll find that I don’t always go to the trendy place who garnered four stars in their latest review. Sure, I’ll give them a go, but I’m also intrigued by the mom and pop operation that studied their craft from their mom’s apron strings, the quiet underdog that no one saw coming, or the ballsy chef who is trying things out because risk is good for the soul. As a matter of fact, risk is good for the collective. In fearlessly jumping into what we don’t know, we may get lucky and find greater knowledge of ourselves and how we interpret the experience. That is my greatest hope for this blog and ultimately, for myself.

Cheers!