Omnivore Atlanta

It’s not really even an office. There’s a computer, yes. A swivel chair, sure. But the wall is adorned with clipboards, not university degrees. The desk is littered with small piles of cash and a hundred receipts, not ornate paper weights. The three guys hovering over your shoulder, with their full sleeve tattoos, sporting the delicious stench of garlic and duck fat, aren’t exactly corporate material either. And it’s not office hours. It’s midnight. Honestly, it’s amazing this tiny computer we’re all glaring at hasn’t crashed. Because I’ve hit refresh every five seconds over the last hour.

These are the moments of our lives… At least our restaurant lives.

From the moment a restaurant opens it’s doors, we know it’s coming. The review. That stretch of a few fortnights that will undoubtedly turn a year’s hard work into a dream or a nightmare. It can end in champagne toasts or tears. It can secure people’s jobs. Or it can get people terminated…quickly.

Refresh.

Hopefully, they will give us a few weeks to get going. Perhaps? Will we be able to identify them when they do arrive?

We know one of them has a French accent, so we alert all of our staff. The byproduct; every French speaking guest is royalty. One critic looks kind of like Jerry Springer or so we’re told. So there’s now a picture of Jerry Springer on the wait station. One uses a credit card with an alias of one of Elizabeth Taylor’s ex-husbands. Our service staff doesn’t know who Elizabeth Taylor is, but we will be looking for any Amex card in the name Burton or Hilton. The guy who goes to print first always dines with his boyfriend and uses the word waitron. All gay men are now PPX (restaurant terminology for VIP). There’s a new critic who we know little about, except she’s a New Yorker with a British accent, and may be African American. She may be married to a chef too, so we’ll identify every industry person in the restaurant. Of course, many of them have kids of varying ages, so we’re on the lookout for children with high dining IQs. If they carry cameras. If they’re writing in discreet moleskins. Please alert us. But don’t freak out!

Refresh.

Of course, it’s silly. So we strategize that it would be best to just treat everyone well. We use the cliché, “everyone’s a critic”. And of course that’s true. Until we actually catch a live one.

And often we do. This shakes the restaurant up. The best server is pulled from his or her station. The sous chef is going behind the line, if he wasn’t there already. Interns get kicked out, brutally. Where’s that reserve wine list? Someone call the executive chef in. It’s Monday night, his only night off and he’s watching his Mets at the Ted, but he needs to know. Owners get text messages. The world is ending. Or so it seems.

Refresh.

This happens every day in the early days of a restaurant’s life. Sometimes there are false alarms. That actually was Jerry Springer! And as we total the visits we think we’ve captured, we realize we’ve missed a few. No critic would write based on one experience, right?. How could we possibly miss noticing a gay couple on a Saturday night in Midtown Atlanta? I really, really hope that our one server who IS an actual idiot didn’t wait on her. Was it the day Manuel was on the fry station? Was it last Tuesday when we had to 86 three items? Most likely, as it always is, yes to all of the above.

Refresh.

Then there’s the phone call. The official one. The one where you just pray that the new girl answering the phone actually remembers the name of the chef. The one, where the kitchen prays that the GM doesn’t take the call and spiel about us being “just a simple neighborhood restaurant”. The call means it’s done. The critic now just wants to clarify a few things. Ask some questions. It’s an important call. If you can articulate the vision, there’s even the chance to win back a star. Sound unsure and there’s a good chance of losing one.

Then the photographer visits. You’ll try to pry information, but he doesn’t know the content of the piece. You rationalize that more photos means a better review. You don’t see too many pictures with the caption. “Hey! Don’t order this, it blows.”

Refresh!!

There is no more kitchen conversation about baseball, or music, or current events. No one cares about what happened at MJQ on Wednesday. Every cook’s home life is a stressful mess. Could we get four? Probably three. Two? No way. I’m moving if it’s two!

Refresh!!

The restaurant reviewed the week prior gets three stars. Everyone debates that we have to get four then, because we all agree that place sucks. Half the cooks have decided not to shave until we get four stars. The sous chef and chef de cuisine spend hours in the walk-in deliberating the possibility. The exec is worried if it’s bad he will lose some of his staff. If it’s great he’ll lose some of his staff. Everyone prepares for the worst, and the typical Atlanta industry rallying cry finally emerges. “Well, I hope it’s not four stars, because this town doesn’t support four stars. It’s bad for business”. Whatever, even if it’s true. Whatever.

Refresh!!

And it is revealed. And now we all have tattoos. Virtual ones.

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Tags: food story, Knife's Edge, restaurant critics, restaurant reviews.