To Tell or Not to Tell: That is the Question

When I was young and innocent (I’m still naïve, but no longer spry) I thought that all the “big boys” in food criticism told all, assuming they were journalists first and publicists last. It’s been a tough slope of disillusionment I’ve slid down. My first clue was in 1968, I remember it well, when a bunch of friends challenged me to find a place in Chinatown (NY) where we could have a Chinese banquet that had superb food, wouldn’t be booked and in which my best pal had space to demonstrate his famous tongue in the chopstick trick (for demonstrating this too often, he was exiled to Switzerland). I called the only person I knew who knew everything about food at the time that was worth knowing, an unknown cub reporter for the New York Times called R.W. Apple Jr. whose claim to fame (for me and countless other food-obsessed nuts) was having covered every Congressional race in every god-forsaken corner of America and survived his eating experiences, not having won the Polk Award for the best article ever written on the Viet Nam debacle. In any case, as always happened when I had a weird “Where do I eat in…..” question, recall young’uns this is before the eGullet Society of Culinary Arts and Letters existed, I’d call Apple. And predictably he’s get back to me within two days with the answer if he didn’t know the answer immediately. But to my point. He called back and in that loveable, gruff voice said: “Talbott, Craig says to go to ‘X’ (I’ve long since forgotten the name),”he’s never written it up, it’s his secret, it’s the best place in Chinatown, call the chef, ‘Y,’ to arrange what you want to serve and – guard it, Talbott, tell no one.” Talking to Apple (unless you were a political source or restaurateur in Scotland) was like talking to a surgeon; quick, accurate and no nonsense. I sat back, “Craig,” I said to myself, “Craig?” Not Craig Claiborne, the guy who could make or break restos in New York from 1957-1986, he has secret places he doesn’t tell the other million subscribers about? I was shocked, shocked! But more recently, reading, between the lines and sometimes in the lines, the books by Francois Simon, Gilles Pudlowski and Thierry Wolton, one realizes that they all keep secrets or accuse all the other critics of keeping secrets. Is it really important? Well, journalists, as we learned from that great scientific source – Hollywood in “Leatherheads” – struggle between loyalty to whom they’re covering and the public who are buying their rags. Nowadays, with the internet, the question is pretty much moot. For instance, just a few years ago there was an active discussion on the eGullet France Forum concerning keeping one’s secret places in pectorum (like the Pope kept the names of cardinal(s) living behind the Iron Curtain), now it’s pretty difficult. Francois Simon, for example, has a published phone number and invites anonymous tips; others surf the net for newly opened restaurants’ telephone numbers; and the competition to “find” a place before others is fierce. The reason I go into all this history is because recently I went to a place, La Table d’Eugene, which is walking distance from where I live and has been reviewed no where and whose name came to my friend, the real food critic, from a trustworthy source. We had a spectacular meal. The ethical question; do I tell the world or keep it “secret” until I’ve taken my gang or maybe never tell? I’m neither a real food critic nor a real journalist, but I feel an obligation to my readers; so here it is folks; but don’t tell anyone. My newest tell all place is: La Table d’Eugene 18, rue Eugene Sue, 18th (M: Jules Joffrin) T: 01.42.55.61.64 Menu 30 Euros. ©by John Talbott 2008 My blog, John Talbott’s Paris is at http://johntalbottsparis.typepad.com/