I wouldn’t exactly compare being a dining critic to being an international man of mystery, but there’s a certain cat-and-mouse element to my job. Anonymity is part of the critic’s gig.
In theory, if the staff at a restaurant knows there’s a critic in the house, they can raise their game, making it harder for a critic to write about what the “typical” experience at that restaurant is like.
So to avoid this, I make reservations under a phony name. I pay in cash, or with someone else’s credit card. I space out my visits over the course of several weeks, so I don’t become a short-term “regular.” I change my appearance from week to week as best I can.
Usually it works. Most restaurants have no clue. Even if I have been identified by the staff of any restaurant I’ve been in over the course of the past year, I wouldn’t know it from the treatment I’ve received. It’s not like anyone’s suddenly raised the bar so dramatically that I changed my opinion.
(Aside: I’ve been misidentified a lot. I frequently hear stories about restaurants I’ve supposedly been to on nights when I wasn’t even in town, and about people I’ve supposedly hung out with who I don’t even know. I love these stories, because they muddy my trail.)
Every now and then, however, it’s inevitable that I’ll be spotted.
Take, for example, the excellent Summit restaurant, which is reviewed in today’s paper. On each of my visits, I used all the regular tricks to keep my identity secret.
But according to Michael Seznec, the general manager of the joint, I was busted. He says (not to me but to my editor) that he knew who I was and when I was there.
And maybe he did. After all, one of the first things I saw on the way to my table was a picture of me, culled from a book I authored a few years ago, blatantly posted above the reservations phone at the front desk.
Mea culpa, I suppose. When I took that picture of myself, extending my camera at arm’s length and snapping my own mug, I had no idea I’d end up as a dining critic one day.
But who knows how, or whether, he really knew me? I’ve never met or spoken to him, so I can’t be sure.
I don’t believe (and neither do my dining companions) that the excellent service we received was any different from the excellent service any other customer received that night.
Yes, in theory, it’s better for a critic to stay under the radar.
But in practice, if a staffer notices when I walk in, there’s only so much the restaurant can do to customize my experience.
Sure, they can assign their best server to my table. They can try to send out free food (which I must refuse or pay for, in keeping with The Post’s ethics policy). They can smile extra wide.
But they can’t revamp the restaurant while I’m waiting at the bar. They can’t get Jacques Pépin to fly in and assemble my fricassee. They can’t vacuum the rug or polish the silver or change the wine list. They can’t instantly retrain their staff or rewrite their service policies.
All they can do, from food to service, is what they’re already capable of doing.
And if a restaurant isn’t already excellent, it’s impossible to fake it.
Even if there is a picture of me hanging on the wall.
Dining critic Tucker Shaw can be reached at 303-954-1958 or at dining@denverpost.com.
