Writing restaurant reviews

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Writing restaurant reviews
For Christmas, one of my Paris eating companions suggested that my wife Colette give me Dianne Jacob’s Will Write for Food.  It’s a terrific book but I realized it’s not for me after eating at two places in the past while: the spectacular L’Escarbille in Meudon and the glitzy but banal Seafood Bar Prunier aka Caviar House & Prunier in Paris. Why do I say this?  Surely I, among all persons, need a lesson in writing well.  Granted.  But I don’t know how to say this and be respectful of Ms. Jacob: I can’t write by formula or by using guidelines.  Sure, I include the name, coordinates, closing dates, prices, etc., of restos.  But it is rare, in fact, I cannot recall a time, when I haven’t either loved a place or hated it.  So I’d be dead in the media markets where one has to sell papers or magazines or whatever and seemingly find something good about even the most dreaded experience.  Therefore, as opposed to such intellectual, gifted and golden tongued masters as Francois Simon and Sebastien Demorand in their “Croque Notes” and “Zurban” respectively, whom you finish reading and say – “huh, but should I go?,” if you read my stuff – it’s pretty clear.  (I think that Simon was told this 10 years ago and then, at least in his “Haché Menu,” began to specifically ask himself at the end of each piece – “Should one go?”)  On the other hand, in defense of them and in all honesty, it’s also a lot easier when you are eating for yourself and only 20,000 readers max and any reimbursement you get is independent of how the review comes out.  I know at least one food writer in Paris whose hate mail is pretty nasty. So what did L’Escarbille and Prunier teach me aside from loving one and hating the other?  Well, first, that aside from taking notes (hell, no one here knows who I am until the review appears anyway), I begin my writing a review in my head from the instant I set eyes on the place.  For example, with L’Escarbille, the moment you get off the Toonerville Trolley in Meudon you’re thrown back decades, if not more, trudging beside the train tracks up to what looks like it was the auberge serving the town.  There it is, in full view of the station, homey and comfortable if not comforting; gravel outside, warm greeting inside.  I always insist that the quality of food has to be judged separately from the décor, welcome, service, etc. and that I’m equally happy eating great food off newspaper as on linen, or equally unhappy eating bad stuff in starred-places.  Anyway, as soon as I got the amuse bouche I began writing in my head – “pretty good tampenade, nice toast.”  Then the menu – terrific selections, wine list – sensible and broad, and order taken –  promptly and caringly.  From then on it was all terrific, right up through the coffee that could have come straight from Naples, it was made so correctly.  By the time I’d reached the train station to return to town, the review was all but written. Ditto at poor Prunier but as opposed to the day before, I remember that name from a long way back.  To me Prunier represented the most famous, indeed, “the” almost mythic fish place in Paris.  I’d read some good reviews of this recent incarnation and went, fully knowing it was touted as a “seafood bar” and was dependent on its downstairs’ larder/boutique, but hey, both Petrossian 144 and Flora Danica are as well.  Anyway, I know the Place de la Madeleine well, passing through it probably twice a week when I’m in town; and things didn’t look much different.  But on climbing the stairs I realized that the place was in the grips of a designer’s serious vision.  Bright, mirrored and stark (not Starck).  Off-putting?  Not necessarily.  The guy who greeted me seemed OK.  Two people downstairs at the empty boutique; six upstairs for about the same number of customers.  OK, so far, so good.  Would I like an aperitif, no thanks, a menu would be fine, I thought to myself.  No menu, for 5-10-15 minutes; all the while looking/smiling/raising eyebrows at the wait-staff talking amongst themselves, safely ensconced behind the bar.  My review began to write itself.  This place is in trouble – in the wake or the defeat of the government’s “first employment contract,” these young folk, whom I hope have night jobs, know they’ll be let go in six months, so why should they hustle?  Finally, I order and the bread and toast are from yesterday at best.  That’s OK in your local crummy bistro but a place that gets close to a $1,000 for 125 grams of caviar should have a little pride.  And it went downhill from there to such an extent that I fled before any hint of dessert or coffee.   So let’s come back to writing reviews.  In both cases, where the settings, meals and experiences couldn’t have been more different, I could no more write a formulaic piece than whistle through my ears.  As I approached each place, I began to compose; when looking over the menu and wine list, I formed certain impressions that took shape as phrases; eating definitely pointed out the pluses and minuses in bold type; and from that point on, the reviews were out of my control. My only favorite: L’Escarbille   8, rue de Velizy, 92nd (Transilien train from Montparnasse to Meudon @ Bellevue on the Rambouillet/Mantes line – 4.10 € RT) T: 01.45.34.12.03 Closed Saturday lunch, Sunday night and Mondays Menu-carte 36, a la carte: firsts 21 €, mains 22 and desserts 8€….
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