The Face Of Anonymity

Few issues trouble those outside the professional food writing industry as much as anonymity–or the lack thereof.

Critics themselves have long ago exhausted the topic, although it still comes up in our conversations from time to time. Some hope against the odds for complete anonymity. Others, including at least one national magazine writer, don’t mind announcing their visits long in advance. The rest of us have resigned ourselves to the reality of being discovered–eventually–no matter how hard we strive for concealment.

Yes, we’ve discussed this subject here already. Each time a restaurant critic appears at a dining event or hobnobs at some gathering, however, it rouses consternation amongst the concerned public. When a chef or server recognizes a critic it discredits any subsequent review, or so they believe.

So let’s walk through those realities one more time.

Anonymity is a tenuous thing, at best. In this market we all try to
achieve it at some level. But, depending upon the publication, the
critic may have other duties–feature writing, for example–that
occasionally interfere. As budgets tighten, critics sometimes end up
covering news, in addition to the normal run of restaurant visits.
Blogging creates new problems, such as phoning up chefs for a 10
Questions session. We can limit our public appearances, of course. But
as visits pile up and food service personnel move from one venue to
another, it becomes ever more difficult to hide…at least from those
determined to uncover our identities.

Certainly you know the general rules by now: no photographs (although
sometimes that can’t be controlled…and some credible people even
double-cross you after swearing not to post party pics), fake names,
etc. Even so, anonymity often boils down to using a nom de plume,
trying not to call attention to yourself and hoping no one notices.

That’s how it gets defined over time: If they don’t know you’re coming, they can’t prepare.

But anonymity isn’t the real concern. If they do spot you sitting down
for dinner, what really changes? Better service? Well, that’s pretty
easy for a critic to figure out. Freebies? We’re reimbursed for meals
already. Better cooking? Yeah, the chef may take over for one of his or
her line cooks–if the chef isn’t too rusty for such duty–but it’s not
as if they can suddenly learn to saute or call their purveyor for
instant delivery of a better cut of meat.

No, the real concern voiced by some of the wiser critics of critic
behavior runs more along the lines of friendships between cooks and
writers–and it’s a valid one. There are, after all, amateur writers
out there in the online world who put their chef buddy on a pedestal
while ignoring word of that person’s sleazier activities.

This is where the word “professional” comes into play–hopefully,
anyway. To reiterate something I mentioned in a previous post, most of
us understand that we have no true friends in the industry. People are
nice to us, yes. They are generally nice in that annoying “PR” sense of
the word, however, so you grow immune to it…though it can be fun to
babble about sports, war movies or even politics when you know the
other person is cringing inside.

If real friendliness develops, most of us also understand the
requirements of our job: to be honest and accurate, no matter whether
we like a chef–or despise a chef, for that matter. It’s like that
scene in North Dallas Forty where Charles Durning yells something to
the effect of “you’re professionals; you don’t have to like each other
to play together.”

In the food critic world, professionalism means a willingness (and
ability) to put your feelings aside, to tear your best friend apart in
print and be kind to your worst enemy, again in print. But only if they
deserve it.

And if they deserve an ‘eh, it’s alright.’ You give them that, as well.