Every @#%&*!!! Is a Critic: Six More Food Critics to Hate

Turnabout is a bitch. Or is it fair play?


In response to last week's post about the various circles of restaurant critic hell inhabited by legions of Yelpers, Spooners, Chowhounders and other bloggy types, an astute reader pointed out that there are plenty of annoying, ignorant dickheads in the ranks of so-called "professional" restaurant critics too. 

Of course, he was right. 

Just because you get paid to do something doesn't mean you're any good at it. (The letters "BP" have some significance in this regard.) Unfortunately, that toxic sludge of incompetence mixed with attitude rarely even slows these critics' verbal hurling, much to the detriment of their readers, restaurants, restaurateurs, God, country and small furry animals.

Therefore, it's time to saddle up the bitch of turnabout and ride her

like Secretariat to where the "pros" of restaurant criticism live,

calling out like rabid weasels the six most obnoxious of their number.

You can squeal, but you can't hide. 

Pompous Fuckwad.

Everybody knows Pompous--his shirt is so stuffed with his own bullshit he

resembles a sausage with elephantiasis. Not only is he an insufferable

know-it-all (and what he doesn't know he's happy to make up), but he

delivers his pronouncements as if he was God handing down the

commandments from the mountaintop. Or maybe George Will. Hint: he's not


Freddie Freeloader. This chump writes for some

outlet that ostensibly exists but no one has ever heard of. Still, he's

managed to leverage his "position" to wangle invites to every grand

opening party, press dinner, wine tasting and restaurant promotion

within a hundred miles. Hell, he'd go to the opening of an envelope if

he could stuff his face with free food and booze. And he'd probably walk

away with the stamps. 

Sick N. Tired. These types are

the restaurant-writing equivalent of your average employee of

Walmart-Home Depot-Walgreens-McBurger's (insert favorite nightmare chain

store here). They're sick of their job and are tired of doing it but

until they win the lottery they're just going to piss all over

everything until someone makes them stop. Sadly, they missed their true

calling: film criticism. 

Clueless Lucy. Lucy doesn't

know the first thing about food, wine, restaurants or cooking. She got

the job because. . . well, no one really knows. Perhaps because she was

breathing. Or everyone with any qualifications stopped breathing. Of

course, this hasn't stopped her from blithely putting her ignorance on

display. Hamburgers aren't really made from ham. Who knew? 


Correct. What political rectitude did for honest discourse about

politics, GCs hope to replicate in restaurant reviewing. Small ethnic

restaurant with the bleached bones of poisoned diners littering the

floor and cockroaches the size of Shetland ponies crawling up the walls:

Good. Big chain restaurant serving clean, well-prepared, accessible

food that lots of people like: Bad. Uh, okay. . . 


Agenda-ist. Forget the actual food, service, ambiance and décor, the

Agenda-ist has something else on his mind. He hates the chef. Or the GM

or the owner. Or the staff didn't kiss his ass enough last time he was

in. Or he has some other point to make. Don't eat this. Boycott that.

Save the whales. Nuke the seals. Free Wazzizname. Guess what? No one

gives a shit what you think about any of it.

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Bill Citara