OVER THE YEARS, I’ve seen diners register displeasure with a meal, or a certain dish, in all sorts of ways. There’s the standard huffy call to the server when a steak is too bloody or a delicate piece of fish is overcooked, of course. There’s the subtle pushaway favored by professional eaters like me, which tends to be quieter and more discreet the more reputable the establishment and the chef. There are the time-honored facial expressions telegraphing various levels of distress—the archly cocked eyebrow, the rolling of the eyes, the sour-lemon look of distaste. At the polite review dinners that I convene, these outbursts tend to be rare, especially during the covid era, and usually involve one or two dyspeptic souls (hint: Usually that’s me), though every once in a long while you’ll get a dish or two where the frowns and subtle eye-rolling and sour-faced looks occur all at once.
Esta historia es de la edición April 25-May 8, 2022 de New York magazine.
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Esta historia es de la edición April 25-May 8, 2022 de New York magazine.
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