Ever since the suicide of chef Bernard Loiseau following a sub-optimal review I've wondered how much economic and emotional power old media restaurant reviews have. Not only over restaurant owners and cooks, but us oi polloi too.
When you read what sounds like the edible equivalent of many screeching nails down many tall blackboards in your Sunday rag is your curiosity not piqued? And piqued in the opposite direction the reviewer intended.
I get a similar sensation watching Scotland play football. The reviews are terrrible, the logic supporting the reviews is impressive, but you urge them on blindly all the same. It's a classic underdog syndrome. So, when Jay unleashes an attack dog mauling on a Ukranian slophouse in south London I'm half of a mind to pop along. After all, France popped along to Hampden Park last month and see what happened to them. The mauled becomes the mauler.
We've discussed the relative merits of food critics, bloggers, internet forums and restaurant rating sites before. But, what goes through your mind when a food critic doesn't just slam a restaurant but brings in the wrecking ball and wipes it off the face of the earth?
