The Food Critic

            He sat at a small, wooden table near the front window of the bistro. The sunlight reflected off the effervescence in his sparkling water, creating a prism of color cast along the white tablecloth as he scanned the menu items for l'appétit, a quaint French restaurant near the outskirts of town.

            Charles Heatherington was considered to be one of the most sought-after food critics in the region. His word was considered gospel to food aficionados. A once-popular restaurant several years ago had received one bad revue from Mr. Heatherington, and within six months, they were forced to shut the doors due to a lack of clientele.

            He decided on Coq Au Vin, a popular French dish which is basically chicken cooked in red wine. If prepared properly, his meal would be ready in just over an hour. That would give him plenty of time to sample their wine list and appetizers.

            When the waitress arrived, he could tell that she was nervous, but he overlooked it for the time being. Charles started off his meal with Charcuterie: an assortment of cold cuts, fruit, and cheeses served on a wooden tray. He also decided on a Pinot Noir to tempt his palate.

            He sat expressionless as he nibbled away on his appetizer. The waitress approached him again offering to refill his wine glass. He requested more sparkling water instead. One hour and fifteen minutes from the time the order was placed, his food had arrived. He was pleased with the aroma as the waitress approached, though he had yet to react in any way.

            As he took his first bite, Mr. Heatherington spotted the manager of the bistro peeking out through the door to the kitchen. He ignored the intrusion and continued to eat. After six bites, he removed the handkerchief from his lap, dabbed the corners of his mouth, then took out his notebook. The manager watched as the critic made several notes before standing up and walking out. He wasn’t sure if he left half the meal because he was displeased, or because he did not want to provide any clue as to what to expect from the review.

            Two days later, in the “FOOD” section of the regional newspaper, the manager found the review. It read,

            “l'appétit was a disappointing waste of time. The cheese on the Charcuterie board was dry and stale, the wine was bitter, and the Coq Au Vin was undercooked. The staff, although pleasant, were too young and inexperienced to be serving high-end clientele. It is my suggestion that the only French food they attempt in the future are French Fries.”

            The manager knew that he was ruined. A review like that would surely be devastating. He had a choice either to ignore the review and continue with his successful business, or he could take the critic’s opinion to heart and work to improve the quality of his food and staff. This was the effect that Charles Heatherington had on dozens of other local restaurant owners. The manager decided to make the changes and started off by firing his inexperienced staff and replacing them with older, more mature waiters and waitresses. The chef was asked to try and improve on his current recipes to make them irresistible, even to the likes of Mr. Heatherington.

            Meanwhile, the infamous food critic had already moved on to his next possible victim, a small, family-owned restaurant called, Aunt Martha’s Diner. They used recipes that had been passed down through generations within the family, and every staff member was related. Mr. Heatherington had been to similar restaurants in the past and had yet to find one that he considered to be worth proclaiming over.

        A woman named Mona showed him to his seat when he arrived. It was a booth near the side window of the restaurant. A miniature jukebox sat at the far end of the table with a selection of songs from 1950 to 2000. She told Mr. Heatherington that if he needed quarters for the juke box, that she would be happy to change some bills for him. He was taken aback by her nonchalant attitude. He thought that either she wasn’t aware of who he was, or perhaps she did not care.

            As he picked up the menu off the table, Mona grabbed it from his hands and said, “No need for that, darlin’, I can tell you what we have that’s good!”

            Before allowing him to respond, Mona began naming off all the items on the menu including the daily specials. Mr. Heatherington listened intently to this unusual woman before him. He had never been spoken to in this manor during his entire career as a food critic. He was debating whether he should leave at that moment, or carry through with his review, when Mona mentioned one item which captured his curiosity, Aunt Martha’s Chicken Cacciatore. He had not had a decent Cacciatore dish since he was a child when his mother used to make it.

            He asked to see the wine list and Mona began to laugh aloud.

            “Darlin’,” she said, “we ain’t got no wine list! I can recommend an ice-cold beer to go with your meal though.”

            He ordered the Chicken Cacciatore and a pint of Michelob Ultra to wash it down. Mona brought Mr. Heatherington a small loaf of garlic bread and a side salad as an appetizer and told him that there was plenty more if he finished that off. Less than an hour later, his food had arrived. Mona told him to watch the first bite because his meal was “still plenty hot.”

            After the first bite, Mr. Heatherington had to fight back the urge to react to the delectable taste that cascaded across his tongue and down his throat. It had been the best meal he had had in an exceptionally long time, but to keep up appearances, he held back his emotions, and after six bites, he dabbed his mouth with the paper napkin and took some notes before leaving. Mona called out behind him, “Thanks for coming darlin’. I hope to see you again!”

            As he sat down to write the review, Mr. Heatherington could still savour the delightful succulence of his meal at Aunt Martha’s Diner.

            “In all the years I have been a critic, I had never come across a restaurant that had no intention of putting on a false front for the sake of a complimentary review. As I entered Aunt Martha’s Diner, I was greeted by the most interesting woman named, Mona. She sat me down and treated me like we had known each other since childhood. Her love for life was expressed in her actions.

            I had ordered the Chicken Cacciatore expecting the same bland taste as I had in the past, but instead, my palate was taken back to my days growing up in Italy, when my mama, God rest her soul, would attract every person on the block with the aroma from her Chicken Cacciatore. I can honestly say that this is the first time in my life that I had tasted a Cacciatore dish better than my mama’s.

            If you are ever driving along Route 7, be sure to drop into Aunt Martha’s Diner for a delicious meal.”

            From that day forward, Aunt Martha’s Diner was fully booked for months in advance. Charles Heatherington stopped by to sample some of the other items on the menu, but this time, it was off the record. He also insisted that he be waited on by Mona. She had left a lasting impression on him.

            Charles soon became a regular at the diner and being in that atmosphere so often had also affected how he reviewed his future restaurants. He began to find the good qualities in each place he ate at, and it eventually caused him to lose his position as the paper’s food critic. They wanted someone willing to say what had to be said, but Mona and the staff at Aunt Martha’s Diner had changed him, and he didn’t care. He was enjoying life for a change; something he couldn’t express as a critic.