Peter found this review of Aces yesterday. Utterly slams the place, and then says:
The saving grace is the food.
Uh. Thank goodness, considering it’s a restaurant. For all the space aliens reading, that’s a place where you go to eat food.
This does point to a fundamental schism in the world of restaurant customers. On the one hand, you have people who look at a restaurant as a whole event, with items like maitre d’s attitude, choice of flatware and music all weighted evenly with what is on the plate and in what form. These people tend to write most of the world’s restaurant reviews, and also include my former roommate Aaron, who’s willing to blackball a place for good if the servers seem uppity.
On the other hand, you have people for whom the food takes up 90 percent of the scorecard, if not 99 percent. Again, for the benefit of the space aliens, these people tend to call themselves “chowhounds.”
Incredibly, this isn’t all working toward how this latter category is vastly superior, because of course I’m in this category.
For one thing, the chowhounds tend to develop this dangerously martyrlike and even competitive tendency to avoid atmosphere in favor of flavor: The place that sells 89 cent noodles in a literal hole-in-the-wall just behind where the Chinatown bus backs in and lets its engine idle–now that’s the ultimate restaurant! You might die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but, dude, those noodles are just like they make ’em in Peking–and I do mean Peking, because that’s how old-school I am!
Whatever.
I learned my lesson about atmosphere vs. food several years ago, when a passing Spanish acquaintance was in town. We decided he should come to Astoria for dinner, just to get another perspective on the city. His other New York friend wanted to take him to Uncle George’s, the 24-hour greasy-spoon par excellence that hasn’t been good since the eponymous uncle died, probably four decades ago now. I argued strenuously against, and instead dragged them to S’agapo, because it had “interesting things you don’t see on a lot of Greek menus.”
BFD, I realized, as we ate some cheese pies dipped in honey…in total silence. There was no one else in the restaurant, and all the tastiness in the world, and the general niceness of the staff, didn’t make up for the fact that this place was not exuding the energy that I love about Astoria.
Later, I walked past Uncle George’s–it was packed with people, barely visible through the steamed-up windows, but I could tell they were good, New York-y looking people, talking loud and generally creating a vibe that would’ve made a Spaniard really see what Astoria was all about. He wouldn’t have noticed the oven potatoes were mealy, or that the gigantes probably came from a can.
I’ve been in this exact same position when I’m on vacation. Sure, I try to find the hardcore chow, practically peering under the wheels of the second-class bus to see if some overlooked street vendor is workin’ his magic down there. But some of my most memorable meals haven’t been about the food at all, but about the energy and vibrancy and the people all around me, where I felt at once in the middle of everything and outside, witnessing a foreign culture at work. (Perversely, bad food can even enhance this thrilling feeling of foreignness…except maybe in Cuba, where it’s just depressing.)
And of course I think of this every time I write a travel guide. When I get too chow-y, I have to actively remind myself that many tourists will not be pleased if they walk 20 blocks to reach the Casa de Unrecognized Taco Genius, where an arrogant bastard dishes out superlative tongue tacos–honest, try ’em, you’ll love ’em!
In fact, the Uncle George’s Dilemma came up again just last year, when I was finishing the Rough Guide to New York City. I’d done all the outer-borough restaurant reviews, a great opportunity to boost all my beloved haunts, and carefully put “author’s pick” stars next to my very, very favorites. Turns out there’d been some miscommunication, and some other author also updated the outer-borough restaurants–he barely touched the existing listings, but he did star his own favorites.
When I got the chapter back to proof, Uncle George’s was all aglow with a big fat “author’s pick.”
I immediately wrote a huffy email about what dreck the place churned out, and how I couldn’t bear to see the Queens dining list–and by extension my very own reputation as a food critic!–cheapened and dragged through the gutter in this way.
And then 20 minutes later, after recalling the Night of the Visiting Spaniard, I wrote an apology.
The saving grace of Uncle George’s is the atmosphere–and that’s a valid line in a restaurant review.