Life in a changing restaurant world, where everyone with a laptop is a potential food critic.
A few weeks ago I went to a seminar for the restaurant trade. There was a lot of excellent information for chefs and owners — where the real-estate market is going, what concepts are sharp, what’s gone dull. But the presentation titled “Enhancing Your Review” generated the most energy. One of the panelists was a recently retired critic for a major Boston daily; one was a successful restaurateur; and the third was James Ringrose, a restaurant marketing sage who runs an online restaurant-review site (www.restreview.com).
The former critic downplayed the importance of restaurant message boards and blogs. The restaurateur said she doesn’t read them because she finds them too hurtful. Only Ringrose was willing to articulate the new power of the blogosphere in the restaurant world. “Everyone who walks through the door of a restaurant and drops a satchel on the table is a potential reviewer,” he said. “Some of the most influential people who dine out — baby boomers, mostly — are still tethered to the reviews in the mainstream print. And a good or bad review in the paper or a magazine can shape both the restaurant’s view of itself and some of those newspaper-reading customers. But for a whole generation that gets its information primarily on the Web, each anonymous, instantaneous review has the ring of truth.” Is that a bad thing? Well, yes and no.
Positive reviews in the mainstream press absolutely, definitively generate valuable buzz for a restaurant during its early days. But most major periodicals only give a restaurant one shot (i.e., one review) — when it’s still young enough to be news. It’s a rare eatery or chef that gets a second chance. The continuous news cycle for restaurants is the gift of the blogs. Now every restaurant, whether it’s been open one month or 10 years, is always subject to review by a citizen critic. That’s one of the good things. The 24/7 review cycle keeps owners on their toes. After all, you’re only as fresh and fabulous — or as crummy and overpriced — as the meal you served last night.
The overall impact of the Internet has been to democratize the restaurant experience. When anyone can write a scathing or rave review — whether they’ve been to culinary school in France or know nothing about food and service, restaurants can’t afford to treat VIP and non-VIP customers differently. And just as a review in a glossy magazine, or three stars in a daily, can live forever in cyberspace, so can a posting on Chowhound.
To me, that’s okay. Every diner knows whether he or she has had a good meal or not. They may not be able to analyze it with the language and intricacy of an experienced reviewer, but like art, everyone knows what they like. That’s authentic and important, and it’s fair to share. It’s the stridently unhappy diners who really get my imagination going. I envision an avid poster scurrying home to dissect the meal online, fingers rehearsing the keystrokes, or, even more urgently, texting a scathe while waiting for the train. A review can be on the Web before the busser has wiped down the table. Forget the classic image of chefs anxiously waiting for the morning paper to see whether or not the famous critic killed them.
Recently I’ve been devouring the local food blogs and message boards, following threads, lurking in the shadows, never actually posting, but reveling in the vitality, the venom, the lust of the prose, much of it posted “9 minutes ago.” I love the stories of surly servers, the long diatribes, the sensual recollections that would do Marcel Proust and his madeleines proud. It’s a kind of food voyeurism for me, like watching a soap opera with infinite installments. Who knew there would be so much passion about slow service, slightly doughy gnocchi, or a “rare” meat order served medium rare, bubbling up in boring Boston? There’s just one problem: how does one filter the anonymous cranks from the anonymous connoisseurs? For a
blog subscriber or message-board reader, the challenge is distinguishing between one person’s (very subjective) bad or good experience, and a chorus of them.
That’s because the good or bad review can come from anyone. It might have been written by a savvy diner whose taste is a lot like yours, or it might have been posted by someone who was just canned by the chef. The idea that just 20 minutes ago a poster named plang22 had a fabulous hanger steak with perfectly garlicky mashed potatoes makes me salivate. I immediately wonder if they serve late at night, if they deliver. I want to believe that every post is an unvarnished, reliable snapshot of what it’s like to dine at that particular eatery, tonight and every night. But it may not be. A negative write-up might just reflect an off night at a good and professional place.
Bad nights happen. For years, I’ve been getting hate mail from readers who’ve had a terrible experience and want me to call a restaurant and complain on their behalf, or write something nasty in this column, or never write anything about the loathsome place again. I don’t doubt the veracity of the diner’s experience (although I am always shocked and flattered that they think I can do something about it). But my unvarying answer to these readers is the same response that knocks in my head every time I read an angry posting: why didn’t you say something to the manager? Why wait to write to me or put it out on the Internet? Is it some mistaken sense of public service? If you really want people to eat well in Boston, give the restaurants the immediate feedback they need to do a better job. I know that people hate confrontation, but restaurant owners, equally, hate disappointing people and will do almost anything to make them happy if given the chance.
All this said, the instant review is a good thing: it’s authentic, immediate, and mostly objective. But it’s one frame taken out of an epic movie. So remember: there’s power in those dancing, texting fingers. Use it wisely.
Louisa Kasdon can be reached at food@stuffatnight.com.
