Urbanspoon, a two year old Seattle company, has launched a free iPhone app that uses the GPS (or the triangulation system on old phones) to search for restaurants that are, theoretically, in your general vicinity. Usually this type of software is only geared towards the bigger metro areas with established dining scenes — which would likely mean that our own Bay area is out of luck — but Urbanspoon recently added Tampa/St. Pete to it’s list. Awfully nice of ‘ya.

No iPhone? Well, you can still log on the old fashioned way and do an actual web search on Urbanspoon’s site, as well as read local reviews culled from the rags (ours included) and customer reviews riddled with shills. Web-browsing … clunky, but it still works.

“There’s an interesting smell coming from the can… Hm. It’s not wholly offensive….Actually, there’s a really profoundly bad aftertaste…Ew, it’s like Newark in my mouth.”

I drop one off on arts writer Amanda Schurr’s desk, the pink can With a Blast of Strawberry Melon Flavor and Ginseng. “Thanks. Ew,” she says, upon looking at the can. “I can hardly wait.” Several minutes later I hear her open the flip top. “Oh, God,” she says. “Some little drops got on my finger and I actually tasted some of it.” She adds, “It tastes like fake strawberry and melon flavor and Mountain Dew, which is to say it tastes repulsive.”

I try the one in the black can, which is Charged With Raspberry Citrus Flavor and Ginseng. Mmm. It reminds me of popsicles from the ice cream man on my neighborhood street when I’d been working hard all day building forts and assaulting my younger brother. “Dew drinker designed,” it says on the can.

Food science is kind of scary that way when you think about it. So invasive is their market analysis, so powerful are they in commandeering our nostalgia, that they’ve managed to replicate the sensation of a tri-color Mr. Tasty Time popsicle from the mid-‘90s and package it in a little black can that they mail to my place of business. I’m trying to become a man, Mountain Dew, to live a brave and productive life without reverting to my helpless childhood. Don’t even try this shit. We are immune.

-Justin Richards 

One of the victims was GQ Food Critic Alan Richman, who won the coveted Douchebag Award “for the best example of twisted, repressed, or compromised “I’d rather be making lemon bundt cake with My Cat, Mr. Mufflesworth” journalist who actually HATES food and hates the people who make food even more.”

As if to prove the point, Richman penned a revenge review of Bourdain’s restaurant Les Halles. He hated it — perhaps rightly, most folks recognize that Les Halles is nothing to get excited about — and spent an inordinate number of words on Bourdain’s “Chef-At-Large” status at the restaurant. Bourdain doesn’t make any bones about the fact that he rarely works a line anymore (just check out the episode where he sweats through a night in the kitchen at Les halles with Eric Ripert), but Richman was gunning for Bourdain, no matter what. The thing is, Bourdain has a sense of humor about his distance from the kitchen and is largely unfazed by the attack. He told Grub Street: “It was like being mauled by Gumby. Afterwards, you’re not sure it even happened.”

Maybe Richman’s lobbying for back-to-back Douchebag awards. Way to hog the glory, dude.

First up is Fred’s:

We happened to read a review of Fred’s about 5 minutes before we left the house to meet friends at Fred’s. But we decided to go and not cancel, and we’re glad we did. Brian Ries displayed his abhorrence for some of the styles that Fred’s served, which may be his personal preference, but has nothing to do with quality of the food at this restaurant.
We had a wonderful dinner. The waitress, Tiffany, was attentive, gracious, and obliging. We didn’t care for the first bottle of wine and she apologized and brought a second one promptly!
The salads were split in the kitchen for each couple, as we had requested. A supply of fresh, hot bread was constantly supplied to the table. The 14oz sirloin, which my husband and I shared, was perfectly cooked, tender and delicious. The other couple had salmon — very tasty — and a shrimp dish — most enjoyable.
And the coffee, even the decaf, was excellent.
And each course came out to our table at exactly the right time.
Most food critics make 3 visits, at least, before reviewing, but it doesn’t sound like Brian did. And he should ignore the Andy Warhol quotes — none of his business — and stick to the food and leave his own personal preferences at home.
We recommend Fred’s highly.

-Mrs. Sylvia Deutsch

Then there’s the other side of the coin, as we hear from Gaetano Cannata at Ortygia:

Brian –
You got it. The feel, the atmosphere, the message I am trying to get across. Most people have no idea of what I am trying to accomplish and how I really feel about cooking. Thank you for the wonderful comments on my place. At this point in time, this is my life. Besides my children this place gives me a reason for getting out of bed every day. Thank you so much for understanding.
You were right on the money pertaining to the two dishes you were not thrilled with. I have made some improvements based on your comments. Thank you for your constructive criticism.
Come back and visit soon

Sincerely
Chef Gaetano, Ortygia

More interesting than that, however, is when our opinions differ. With Cheap, we differed a lot. Chalk it up to a difference in palate, the usual night-to-night variances in a restaurant’s performance, or even a fundamental disagreement in what food should be like. In any case, restaurant reviews are like any other type of criticism: you need to figure out how well the reviewer matches your own preferences before you can determine how to use the review.

When it comes to Cheap, who do you guys agree with?

You can read Ruth Reichl’s Garlic and Sapphires for copious examples of how recognition can affect a dining experience – her Le Cirque review is a classic treatise on the subject – but the culture of dining critic anonymity isn’t universal. At The Times of London, pics are posted with critics’ bylines; no matter where you are, a Google image search can often turn up a pic or two of even the most circumspect reviewer. Here’s my pic.

As always, I’ll be dressing in drag, undergoing regular plastic surgery and faking my own death every few months, just to keep my mystery man image intact. Maybe image was the wrong word.

After the lunch I just had at The Table on Hillview in Sarasota, I’m willing to single them out as an exception. My wife and I (her birthday, hence the Big Lunch) started with ceviche — tuna in a spicy chipotle and tart yuzu dressing, cubed shrimp with poblanos and radish, both served in edible tortilla cones — and small tostadas loaded with the luscious short ribs that are my favorite Table protein. Then came fried black grouper strips atop a brilliant salad of chayote and red onion dressed in citrus juice, nut oil and pungent dried herbs, along with a few crushed plantain patties. (Anyone who watched last night’s Top Chef will immediately realize that The Table’s “fish and chips” will immediately see the revision of classic downscale dish. This would have beaten Howie’s boring-ass pork and slaw hand’s down.) My wife settled on a dainty garden salad dressed with a rich and pungent olive/fig concoction.

All told, the bill came in under $60, including two glasses of wine, and it was as good or better than dinner at most of the nicer restaurants around town, and just about as satisfying as a full dinner at The Table.

Got any other out of the way, beachy island spots from anywhere up and down the coast?

To tide you over, here are some choice (and grotesque!) eating records, courtesy of the International Federation of Competitive Eating:

84 ounces of baked beans in under 2 minutes
46 dozen oysters in 10 minutes
247 pickled jalapenos in 8 minutes

Sound disgusting? I saved the worst of them for next week’s article.

Think you have what it takes to compete with the big boys (and girls)? God, I hope not.

And a special treat for anyone who misses Max Linsky –