Restaurant Critic Confidential

New York Times

14-05-2025

Consider the food critic's memoir. An author inevitably faces the threat of proportional imbalance: a glut of one (the tantalizing range of delicacies eaten) and want of the other (the nonprofessional life lived). And in this age of publicly documenting one's every bite, it's easier than ever to forget that to simply have dined, no matter how extravagantly, is not enough to make one interesting, or a story worth telling.
Fortunately, the life of Beshaleba River Puffin Rodell has been as unusual as her name. In fact, as she relays in the author's note that opens 'Hunger Like a Thirst,' a high school boyfriend believed she'd 'made up her entire life story,' starting with her elaborate moniker.
Born in Australia on a farm called Narnia, she is the daughter of hippies. Her father, 'a man of many lives and vocations,' was in his religious scholar phase, whence Beshaleba, an amalgamation of two Bible names, cometh.
Rodell's mother returned to her native United States, with her children and new husband, when Besha was 14. Within the first 20-plus years of her life, she had bounced back and forth repeatedly between the two continents and, within the U.S., between multiple states. ''I'm not from here' is at the core of who I am,' she writes.
It's also at the core of her work as a restaurant critic, and what, she convincingly argues, distinguishes her writing from that of many contemporaries. She has the distanced perspective of a foreigner, but also lacks the privilege of her counterparts, who are often male and frequently moneyed. 'For better or for worse, this is the life that I have,' she writes. 'The one in which a lady who can't pay her utility bills can nonetheless go eat a big steak and drink martinis.' This, she believes, is her advantage: 'Dining out was never something I took for granted.'
It started back in Narnia on the ninth birthday of her childhood best friend, who invited Rodell to tag along at a celebratory dinner at the town's fanciest restaurant. Rodell was struck, not by the food, but by 'the mesmerizing, intense luxury of it all.' From then on, despite or perhaps because of the financial stress that remains a constant in her life, she became committed to chasing that particular brand of enchantment, 'the specific opulence of a very good restaurant. I never connected this longing to the goal of attaining wealth; in fact, it was the pantomiming that appealed.'
To become a writer who gets poorly compensated to dine at those very good restaurants required working multiple jobs, including, in her early days, at restaurants, while simultaneously taking on unpaid labor as an intern and attending classes.
Things didn't get much easier once Rodell became a full-time critic and she achieved the milestones associated with industry success. She took over for Atlanta's most-read restaurant reviewer, then for the Pulitzer-winning Jonathan Gold at L.A. Weekly. She was nominated for multiple James Beard Awards and won one for an article on the legacy of the 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor.
After moving back to Australia with her husband and son, she was hired to review restaurants for The New York Times's Australia bureau, before becoming the global dining critic for both Food & Wine and Travel & Leisure. Juxtaposed against the jet-setting and meals taken at the world's most rarefied restaurants is her 'real' life, the one where she can barely make rent or afford groceries.
It turns out her outsider status has also left her well positioned to excavate the history of restaurant criticism and the role of those who have practiced it. She relays this with remarkable clarity and explains how it's shaped her own work. (To illustrate how she's put her own philosophy into practice, she includes examples of her writing.) It's this analysis that renders Rodell's book an essential read for anyone who's interested in cultural criticism.
Packing all of the above into one book is a tall order, and if Rodell's has a flaw, it's in its structure. The moving parts can seem disjointed and, although the intention behind the structure is a meaningful one, the execution feels forced.
As she explains in her epilogue, she used the table of contents from Anthony Bourdain's 'Kitchen Confidential' as inspiration for her own. Titled 'Tony,' the section is dedicated to him. But, however genuine the sentiment, to end on a man whose shadow looms so large detracts from her own story. (If anything, Rodell's approach feels more aligned with the work of the Gen X feminist Liz Phair, whose lyric the book's title borrows.)
It certainly shouldn't deter anyone from reading it. Rodell's memoir is a singular accomplishment. And if this publication were to hire her as a dining critic in New York, there would be no complaints from this reader.