The Critic

At a glance, Drew looked like an unremarkable American man. Average height, medium build, dusty brown hair, wire framed glasses. He didn't stand out in any way. He was neither intriguing nor repellent.

Drew was a restaurant critic. That was probably the most interesting thing about him. He knew it, but didn't know how to change it. So he convinced himself that he didn't care. He made a good living and had a comfortable life and he told himself that was all that mattered.

The perks were pretty nice, too. Never having to wait for a table. Always being invited to opening night. Stellar service, the best the house has to offer. These are great fringe benefits, if you enjoy dining.

So Drew was guaranteed a table on any given night, and careers were born and buried on his word.

But it hadn't changed the fact that he was socially invisible. Certainly that quality lent itself to his work, but it also reinforced the nagging, desperate feeling that he was unimportant. Though he could make or break a restaurant, he was otherwise irrelevant. He was also lonely, bitter, and generally unlikable.

So he flexed the only muscle he had.

On any given day, he went to overpriced restaurants and ate overpriced food, then rendered his overpriced, arrogant opinion in a newspaper column. Ironically, he couldn't recall the last time he'd enjoyed eating anywhere, outside of Denny's.

Monday: he reviewed a chic restaurant with linen napkins on the table, framed Impressionist prints on the walls, and an impressive wine list. He ordered the salmon with dill sauce, seared asparagus, a salad of micro greens, and a half carafe of Chardonnay. Sure, it was good. He gave them a glowing critical review, designed to appeal to a demographic who could afford to pay a two hundred dollar tab without flinching. Really, though, he would have preferred a chicken fried steak with two eggs over medium.

Tuesday: he went to the soft opening of a new Italian restaurant. He had spinach ravioli with marinara sauce, a small loaf of garlic bread, a Caprese salad, and two glasses of the house wine. Yeah, it was good, but nothing special. The sauce was over seasoned and the pasta had been over cooked. Drew went right to work and wrote about the ambiance and the service, then lambasted the chef for his lack of subtlety with Italian cuisine. The same chef was fired within hours of the publication of Drew's write up. Two investors pulled out of the restaurant before the end of business that same day. Feeling he had done his duty to the dining public, Drew daydreamed about a Reuben sandwich on grilled seeded rye, with a heaping side of beer battered onion rings.

Wednesday: he was tasked with reviewing the new chef at a private dinner club. So he buffed his shoes, brushed the lint off his sports coat, and borrowed his colleague's BMW for the evening, so as to blend in. It's all about blending in. He knew how to do that well enough. Give the keys to the parking valet. Discreetly advise the door person that you are expected, and they should find your name on the list. Wait to be shown to your seat. Order whatever the server recommends. That turned out to be pork loin, medium, stuffed with mushrooms and chestnuts, a medley of roasted vegetables that the average person couldn't even name, and a glass of blush wine. Dessert was espresso, snifters of pear brandy, and a strawberry rhubarb cobbler with French vanilla ice cream. He ate all of it, then wrote a column heaping high praise on the chef's ability to present traditional dishes in a creative but approachable way. Obviously he would have preferred a kosher beef hotdog with mustard, relish, and onions.

Thursday: he had a deadline for an article about a family owned pizzeria that had been in business for eighty years, but was closing at the end of the summer. He'd eaten there, though never professionally. It was a homey little place. Red checkered table cloths. Shakers of Parmesan cheese and crushed red peppers on every table. An older couple ran the establishment, and they felt like the work was getting to be too much for them. Besides, nobody really wanted to sit down in a restaurant to eat a pizza anymore. They wanted to order one for carryout or delivery. They wanted it hot, cheap, and fast, not lovingly crafted according to an old family recipe.

So he went, and had a final pizza, and then composed a properly sentimental farewell to one of the only authentic pizzerias in town.

Friday: When everyone in any given restaurant knows you’re a food critic, you get a thoroughly curated experience. This bothered Drew to no end: he hungered for authenticity. Utterly depressed, Drew cleared his schedule and went to a 24 hour “breakfast for dinner” establishment. After perusing the menu, he ordered scrambled eggs, grits, biscuits and gravy with extra sausage. He took his time and ate it all, washing it down with three or four coffee refills. Then, he impulsively ordered a chocolate shake. It was served in an old fashioned tulip-style glass, with whipped cream and a spoon as well as a straw. Satisfied, he left a hundred dollar bill on the table to cover the twenty two dollar check.

Then he went home to his immaculate, spacious apartment, his surly cat, and the fern that seemed to be thriving despite the fact that he never watered it.

The cat immediately greeted him with stern demands for dinner. He opened a pull-tab can of cat food and emptied the congealed mess into the cat's bowl. Then he flopped down on the couch and turned on the television.

Nothing was good. It was all vapid drivel. Just vacuous fluff, not so different from the deconstructed sushi he had two weeks ago. That still irritated him. Sushi, he reasoned, was satisfying partly due to the art of presentation. Eating the unassembled ingredients was emphatically not the same thing, in fact it was an insulting and lazy premise.

The whole sushi thing reminded him of his ex-girlfriend. Laila, a bohemian artist with eccentric style and unconventional aspirations. She left him ten years ago. Though on one hand he was surprised the relationship lasted as long as it did, he never saw it coming. They hadn't fought, and neither of them was cheating. He came home to find her packed, ready to go. She said she was leaving because he was rigid and selfish, and she knew he didn't like or approve of her. She said she was tired of trying to be good enough for him. She left the cat behind.

That cat. Laila had taken him in as a runty stray, three months before she left. Ten years later, Drew was still stuck with this cat that he didn't like too much and never wanted in the first place. He never even bothered to name it. To Drew, he was merely “the cat”. Only he was no longer a runt. Now, he was sturdy, demanding, and fussy.

Having finished his dinner in privacy, the cat was now on the couch next to Drew. He took his time, delicately grooming his whiskers. Then he yawned, stretched, and went about licking his paws.

Drew might well be insufferable, but at least the cat wasn't leaving him. Birds of a feather and all that.

…….

Drew blinked against the morning light that washed the living room. Did he fall asleep on the couch again? Yes, yes he did. It must be after eight, because he could hear his housekeeper, Anne. She had a key and always let herself in. Though he was rarely there as she did her work. Saturday was an office work day for Drew. This was the day he prepared his drafts for publication.

Now he contemplated the awkwardness of facing a woman he usually managed to avoid. Though his evasion stemmed from no good reason, it was comfortable for him. “Good morning” seemed too intimate to utter to the person who folded his towels and changed his bed linens.

It's not that he disliked her; it was more that casual conversation made him feel raw and exposed. His human interactions usually involved wait staff in settings where he had the upper hand. He didn't think about it much, but this woman who scrubbed his bathroom tiles was, in some ways, more familiar with his home than he was. In Drew’s mind, that gave her the advantage.

(Intimacy really was a zero/sum proposition for Drew.)

Still fully dressed from the previous day’s outing, he calculated that he might be able to slip out unnoticed, but fate would have it another way: Anne entered the living room, bearing a tray with a pot of coffee and a ceramic mug. She wore her usual costume: a faded floral house dress, and plain white slip-on sneakers which were always parked by the front door in her absence. Her silver-gray hair was neatly coiffed in a low bun.

“Good morning, Mr. Drew,” she murmured. “I hope I didn't disturb you.” She stacked the coffee table magazines, making room to set her tray. As she moved around his vicinity, Drew observed that she smelled like lavender and soap.

“Thank you, Anne. That's fine. You didn't wake me.”

She poured coffee. He always took it black. He sipped from the steaming mug. It was smoother than what he usually drank. Mellow and rich, with the faintly sweet undertone of chicory.

“I didn't think you'd be home,” Anne apologized. “I usually cook my breakfast here on Saturdays, while you're at your office.”

“Well, that's fine. You can go ahead and do what you'd normally do. I overslept, is all. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can be.”

“Don't be silly, Mr. Drew. This is your home. You take your time. If you can wait a few minutes, I can make you some breakfast before you go.”

He thought about that. Breakfast? At home? Breakfast, made by his housekeeper. In the twelve years he'd had this place, he hadn't so much as fried an egg. The only consistent food prep was opening cans of food for the cat. It was a beautiful kitchen, modern and bright, and he'd never even turned on the oven.

Drew cleared his throat, a little uncomfortable as he replied. “Thank you, Anne. Breakfast would be nice, if it's no trouble.”

“Well, that's good. No trouble at all. I'll be glad of the company. A nice change from eating alone.”

She said this almost absently, as if her voice came from another place. Drew glanced up, surprised to see her pouring water into the fern. She fluffed the fronds, pruned a few dead ones, then carefully rotated the ceramic pot so the other side could bask. Then, she stepped back to admire it. Sitting atop a pedestal stand, backlit against the soft glow of tree filtered light, it was majestically beautiful.

“It's doing so well,” she said. “That's a really beautiful fern. Reminds me of my home in Mississippi. I had them all over my yard. Now, I just take care of yours.”

“I wondered how it was that I hadn't killed it,” Drew admitted. “I mean, I never bother with it. It would probably wilt if I did.”

“Well, I'm sure that's not true. All it needs is a little love. Good soil with peat. Water. I try to move it around in the sun, so it gets even light. I might re-pot it next week. It's outgrowing this one.”

Drew wondered how it hadn't dawned on him that Anne had assumed care of the fern, considering it had flourished. His surprise at it's continued health never led him to suspect that Anne was caring for it.

Inexplicably, he thought of a recent meal at a restaurant which specialized in “comfort food”. They were debuting a new kitchen lineup, and he was supposed to render an opinion. The first course, soup, was a creamy bisque served with hot, crusty bread. He barely gave it a taste: it was good, but far too heavy and filling for a first course. The main course was a slab of meatloaf with a mountain of mashed potatoes and gravy. Very good, if you like meatloaf, but meatloaf is kind of like a Bloody Mary: twenty different bartenders will have sixty different methods. There's no one “right” way to do it.

The thing that stood out, probably because it seemed incompatible with the rest of the meal: a side plate of beautifully presented vegetables. Carrots cut into long julienne strips and shaped into flourishes and fleur de lis, radishes carved into roses, cucumbers shaved into ribbons and artfully arranged to look like leaves. It was too pretty to eat, so he didn't. But the presentation was charming, and the effort made it memorable.

Now it sunk in, as never before: that vegetable plate was someone's job. Someone, probably a culinary student, lovingly created these plates, all the while knowing they wouldn't likely be touched. Still, someone had made it their job to grace each table with this beauty born of care and effort and a genuine, passionate love of food. The meatloaf may have been the main event, but the most comforting food on the table was the part that was least likely to be eaten.

And Drew realized in that moment, he had never done anything so important as the unsung kitchen flunky who sculpted vegetables into flowers.

Oh, he could name the ingredients after just one taste. He could wreck your prospects if you under seasoned or overcooked a dish. But he didn't do anything. Certainly, he got great service. Everyone in the restaurant, from the hostess to the dishwasher, was there to cater to him entirely but he knew it as surely as he knew his face in the mirror: not one of them liked him. Nor did he ever give them a reason to like him. Sure, he might write a flattering review, but so what? They earned it. It was their just due. And if he wrote a scathing critique of the experience? Well, they earned that too, at least in Drew's mind. Kitchen staff might lose their jobs, but Drew would never lose a moment's sleep. After all, this was his job.

Instead of coming to terms with the nature of his work, he went to diners and other places unworthy of a newspaper write-up. In these places he ate ravenously, tipped lavishly, and pretended that made up for something. But always, whether dining at a Michelin starred restaurant or scarfing down the special a disreputable greasy spoon, each bite seemed to be infused with the bitterness that seasoned the days of his life. And always, he ate alone.

“Mr. Drew, breakfast is ready. You come into the kitchen now.”

Thus brought out of his musings, Drew followed the smell of fried bacon and eggs. The small table under the kitchen window was already set with coffee, cutlery, napkins. Anne was at the stove. He watched as she arranged the food onto two plates. Fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy fried bacon, and well buttered toast. She decorated each plate with a few slices of orange. Simple, yet appealing.

“I hope you don't mind eating in the kitchen.”

Drew sat at the table and unfolded the paper napkin. “No, this is fine. I don't think I've ever eaten in here.”

“Well, I do it every Saturday and most Wednesdays. It's a nice kitchen. Me and Sully, we eat here together.”

“Sully?”

Anne laughed. “The cat. You never told me his name, so I call him Sully. It's short for Sullivan. You give him a minute, he'll be under the table begging.”

“I guess his name is Sully, then. Look here, Sully, you old beggar. You want some of this?” He held out a crumb of bacon. The cat sniffed it, then flounced off with an air of disdain.

It's just that easy to be a food critic.