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.
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
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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.