“Confessions of a Skinny Bitch”

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I almost always ask one to three people to eat with me, occasionally more. And I always eat off their plates (or have them pass me samples). My favorite eaters are the ones who’ll deconstruct the details with me—“Do you think that’s anise or tarragon?”—and offer their own insights. The ones who drive me crazy never go beyond “That’s fabulous” or “That sucks” and yammer nonstop about their daughter’s trailer-trash boyfriend or their mother’s bile duct operation while I’m trying to take notes, not to mention enjoy the food.

How do you decide what to order?

If I’m doing a review of a familiar restaurant, I might sample as few as two entrées, with sides, plus an appetizer or a dessert. If the place is new to me and has a complex menu, I go several times and try at least five entrées. The first thing I turn to is the list of specialties of the house; I want to see what the chef considers his signature dishes and strong points. After that, I look for anything creative or slightly unusual, say, duck breast with truffled pears and a juniper-port reduction. Sirloin with Roquefort butter may be delicious, but it’s hardly the latest thing. On the other hand, a dish doesn’t have to be creative to impress me, especially at places serving a traditional and moderately priced cuisine, like Mexican or Middle Eastern. But the higher the prices, the more I want something that sends me somewhere I’ve never been before.

Who pays for the food?

The magazine pays for the food, of course. That’s the way all legitimate publications operate; no freebies allowed.

Do you wear disguises?

Sorry to disappoint you, but I have no Carol Channing wigs, Grand Ole Opry hats, or Anna Wintour sunglasses in my closet. I don’t wear a disguise, nor do any of the dozen restaurant reviewers I know at other publications. Disguises are mainly a New York Times and Washington Post phenomenon, because mug shots of those singularly powerful critics are tacked up in restaurant kitchens all over the two cities. On the other hand, I (and all professional reviewers) prefer to be anonymous, so I generally make reservations under an assumed name to keep the staff from making a fuss over me. (Occasionally I forget which nom de cuisine I used, which elicits some peculiar stares as I flounder around: “Um, see if you have a ‘Swartz.’ No? Well, what about ‘Smulyan’?”)

Of course, sometimes I’m recognized, and that can be tricky. Once, Tony’s, in Houston, sent out a bottle of very expensive wine. We solved that problem by not drinking any. But the worst episode was the time, many years ago, when the owner of a Chinese restaurant in Austin appeared with a fine teapot and announced that he wanted to give it to me. I tried to explain that I couldn’t accept gifts. He cajoled. I insisted. He kept handing me the teapot. I kept handing it back. Finally, at the end of the meal, I left it on the table and my guest and I sneaked out the door. Just as we drove away, he came running out with the teapot, looking baffled and hurt. We could never bear to go back.

Do you have to train to become a restaurant critic?

No. It’s just like being a movie, theater, or book reviewer; anybody can do it if she (or he) can persuade somebody to hire her. Predictably, this drives chefs and restaurateurs up the wall; they rant about unqualified reviewers—but only when they get bad reviews. To them I say, with all due respect, “Fine. The day you decide that someone should pass a culinary exam before he can open a restaurant and charge money, then we’ll discuss qualifying tests for reviewers.” My own feeling is that in the end, journalistic Darwinism sorts it all out. On-target reviewers last and off-base ones don’t, just as good restaurants thrive and bad ones close. The public is the final arbiter of taste.

Do you write the reviews in Texas Monthly’S Dining Guide every month?

Yes, and at Christmas, eight tiny reindeer and I deliver presents to all the good little boys and girls in the entire world. Wait, I think I blacked out for a minute. In fact, the magazine has twenty freelance reviewers around the state, plus four staff people in Austin, who do the visits and write the copy. We stay busy: More than two hundred reviews a month are written, edited, and fact-checked for the eleven cities and six regions covered in the Dining Guide. I write at least a couple of reviews a month, and of course, when I do a feature story like last month’s “Where to Eat Now 2005,” I visit all those restaurants myself.

Have you or your reviewers had any run-ins with chefs or restaurateurs?

I’ve never been tossed out of a restaurant, but in the eighties our Austin reviewer (let’s call the poor dear Jane Doe) came close. She was standing in the vestibule of a very nice restaurant when she was spotted by the owner, who had somehow found out who she was. In a voice so loud that the wineglasses rattled, he said, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Mrs. Doe. Are you the person who reviews for Texas Monthly?” She stammered that she wasn’t, but he had made his point. “I’m so glad you aren’t,” he said, “because if you were, I would ask you to leave.” She was a wreck the rest of the evening. The funniest incident happened in the seventies, when Emil Vogely, then the chef at Jeffrey’s, in Austin, wrote me a scathing letter in which he demanded to know “whose ass you have to kiss or kick” to get a star from Texas Monthly. My reply, which I no longer remember, just fanned the flames, because he then stormed up to the office, where we proceeded to harangue each other for thirty minutes. When he said the magazine was being disrespectful by referring to him as Emil, not Chef Emil, I told him I would gladly call him Chef Emil if he addressed me as Editor Pat. (Afterward, everybody in the office took to calling me Editor Pat.) Later, Emil and I became friends, and we have laughed about that incident more than once. Thank God most chefs these days have PR agents, who trip them when they charge out the door to do battle with restaurant critics.

What is the best thing you’ve ever eaten?

Fraises des bois (“strawberries of the woods”). The first—and, sadly, only—time I had them was about twenty years ago, at Alain Chapel, a Michelin three-star restaurant near Lyon. My friend Chris Durden and I had eaten the most amazing meal, accompanied by many different wines, and when we finished, the waiter brought out a plate of fraises des bois as an after-dinner treat. They were bright red, fragrant, and so small I popped three in my mouth at once. Omigod. The flavor was like all of summer concentrated in one bite—strawberries from heaven. I’m sure my cheeks flushed; I think my brain waves changed. During those weeks in France, fraises des bois were one of many epiphanies about the sensual pleasures and possibilities of eating. I’m not sure that food is ever better than sex, but it can be pretty darn close.

What is the worst thing you’ve ever eaten?

Ant eggs with a pulque chaser. Actually, the ant eggs weren’t bad. I had them at a charming, rustic hotel in the Mexican countryside near Puebla, where my friend Gini Garcia and I had gone to forage for mushrooms with two eccentric Canadians. At lunch, ant eggs were on the menu, an indigenous dish that has achieved some notoriety as part of the so-called Aztec cuisine. They looked like small grains of rice and were just about as bland. With enough pico de gallo, you could hardly taste them. The pulque, which is the viscous fermented sap of agave plants, was a different story. Our Canadian guides tested it first and pronounced it “the best we’ve ever had.” All I can say is this: If you can imagine curdled milk that has been boiled for hours with old gym socks and stink bugs, you can imagine pulque. The texture was a cross between saliva and mucus. And this pulque, mind you, was the good stuff.

What’s the worst service you’ve ever had?

In “the customer is always wrong” category, the worst was at the dining room of the long-gone Hotel Meridien, in Houston. Our meal had been fantastic, and I ordered gâteau au chocolat for dessert. On a whim, I decided I wanted raspberry purée with it instead of the listed vanilla-bean crème anglaise. I had seen raspberry sauce on the menu, so I knew it was available. Our waiter, a gray-haired Frenchman who obviously considered being in Texas equivalent to being in the Australian outback, did not approve. “No, madame,” he said, “raspberry sauce is not correct.” I told him, “But I like raspberry sauce and chocolate.” He looked at me like I had been raised by wolves, so I added, “I’ve had chocolate and raspberry at other places.” He shook his finger at me like I was a naughty schoolgirl and said, “No, no, no!” And that was that. I ate crème anglaise, and he got a 5 percent tip.