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Hi, I'm Adam Platt, Your Restaurant Critic

Why am I abandoning my disguise?


Years ago, at the dawn of my accidental career as a professional glutton, this magazine’s prominent, long-serving restaurant critic, Gael Greene, invited me to lunch at Alain Ducasse’s much-hyped (and, it would turn out, doomed) new restaurant in the Essex House. “The reservation will be under Ms. Rebecca Lemos,” said Gael over the ancient landline telephone wire in a deep, hushed voice, which managed to sound both commanding and conspiratorial at the same time. Gael didn’t go in for outright disguises, like many of her contemporaries claimed to do, but she did (and still does) have a fondness for hats. I expected to find her dressed in one of her wide-brimmed Derby Day numbers when I arrived for our lunch promptly at the appointed hour. But Ms. Lemos was sitting hatless and alone in the restaurant’s baroque, ridiculously pompous bar area.

“Ms. Lemos, I presume,” I said with a mock flourish.

“Just call me Gael,” she said with a weary smile.

This weary smile will be familiar to anyone who has dined with a practicing restaurant critic and quizzed him or her on the strange, time-honored Kabuki dance that takes place between chefs and restaurateurs and the people whose job it is to cover them.

Do they know who you are? (Of course they do.) So why do you register under an assumed name? (Because chefs would otherwise prepare for my arrival.) Will they come up and say hello? (Probably not.) Why not? (Because they’re pretending I’m not here.) Why are they doing that? (Because they want to pretend I’m having a “normal” dining experience.) So ordering the entire menu in one sitting is a “normal” dining experience? (Umm, maybe not for you …)

Well, after dutifully playing my part in this dated charade, I have an announcement to make. Starting with this issue, I would like readers to know what restaurateurs around town have known for years. Adam Platt is a tall, top-heavy, round-faced gentleman who often dresses for dinner in the same dark, boxy, sauce-stained coat he bought off the rack at Rochester Big & Tall thirteen years ago. My favorite time to dine is 6:30 in the evening, or even earlier when a new restaurant is popular and it’s difficult to get a table. I can sometimes look dyspeptic while on the job, but friends will attest that I’m courtly when approached in person. And I have a well-known fondness for robust, ­hungry-man foods (ribs and pork chops, roast chickens), which cooks around town sometimes refer to as “Platt-nip.”

Why do I (with the prodding and endorsement of my editors) choose this particular moment to come lumbering into public view? A better question might be “What took you so goddamned long?” Dining critics in London began running their photos above their columns some time ago, and several of New York City’s most reputable critics have been out of the proverbial closet for years. Craig Claiborne, who helped invent the myth of the discreetly “anonymous” critic at the Times, used to have promising chefs, like Daniel Boulud, come and cook for him outside of their restaurants. During my lunch with Gael, Alain Ducasse emerged from his kitchen to give her a warm greeting, a dramatic gesture that did not prevent her from gleefully slamming his restaurant in a blistering cover-story review.

Over the years, this myth of anonymity has served many useful purposes. It’s worked, in practice, for the mysterious Michelin inspectors, who return to dining establishments year after year to take away or bestow their stars. It can work, also, for local critics whose publications attempt to cultivate a similar illusion of omniscience, although it’s been my experience that the handful of grand restaurants that actually have stars to lose will make it their business to spot you. Mostly, though, anonymity has been a powerful marketing tool. It’s lent a sense of impartiality and Oz-like mystery to the dark art of restaurant criticism, and if members of the clubby fine-dining world didn’t always believe it, then at least the public sometimes did.

These days, of course, much of this old magic is gone. The mannered world of Eurocentric restaurateurs that Gael and Craig grew up in has been replaced by a riotous democracy of chattering TV judges, glorified restaurant bars, and tattooed comfort-food cooks. In the old days, critics would wait months to anoint the latest hot restaurant, and now the food blogs will have that news for you in 24 seconds. In this crowdsourced age, no one’s really anonymous anymore (although if you’ve tried Googling “Adam Platt images” before today, you know that it’s possible to do a pretty good job), and thanks to Instagram and Yelp, anyone can be a member of the critic’s formerly exclusive dining club.

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