Relax, Eat, Judge

When I started my food-writing career, I had no idea what I was getting into. On the one hand, the writer is always at the mercy of others, particularly the editor. But a sudden influx of press releases, press packets and invitations from doting public relations professionals raises the question: Is the writer important after all?

Not really. The writer just has something p.r. flacks want-empty space in a newspaper. As a result, she gets invited to swishy book parties, restaurant openings, specialty vodka launches and other open-bar events, sometimes walking away with goody bags full of things that she probably couldn't otherwise afford.

When I arrive at Wines of the Balkans, an Evening of Offal, or Flavors of Finland, what I find most perplexing is that I am required to do nothing. My presence is solicited simply because I write about food for a newspaper. These events are some of the few instances in life where all you have to do is show up. It's easy to become jaded in such environments. After a while, it also becomes easy to confuse PR gatherings with legitimate food-related events. The two do have a lot in common; at both you will be plied with alcohol and chow.

Case in point: I recently accepted an invitation to be on the jury for the final examinations of the French Culinary Institute's graduating class, many of whom go on to staff some of New York's best restaurants. Excited as I was, I knew there was no way to prepare for such an event, so I adopted a "come as you are" attitude similar to the one with which I arrive at p.r. fiestas. This may come off as arrogance, but it is more a product of experience. How does one prepare to taste a series of painstakingly prepared meals? When you're a food critic, either you are semper paratus, or you're not.

On a Friday afternoon in Soho, I arrived at École, FCI's restaurant, which had specially closed for the examinations. Upon entry, I was surprised to see who my fellow jurors were: a genteel group of men sipping champagne, some in tweeds, most speaking French, quite unlike the shifty-eyed schmoozers I had grown accustomed to. It turned out I was in the company of several former staff members of Lutece, the executive chef from the French Embassy-in other words, restaurant royalty.

Their lax postures changed noticeably when an older man in chef's whites walked into the room. The clusters of conversations broke up, the jurors' casual expressions opened to reverential grins, and all eyes followed the man as they greeted him, one by one. It was clear that Top Dog had entered the building.

Top Dog was Andre Soltner, FCI's Dean of Classic Studies, and a man whom many would call the world's top living chef. Soltner's accomplishments include his role as chef-owner of the legendary, now defunct four-star restaurant Lutece (I have never eaten there), receiving a James Beard Lifetime Achievement Award, and receiving the Legion d'Honneur from the French government. When it came my turn to meet Soltner, referred to mostly as Chef Andre, I was introduced to him as a restaurant critic.

"Ah, we are not on the same side! You are the enemy!" pointed out Chef Andre, a man of moderate height with fluffy white hair and a prominent jowl which that day bore a small frostbite wound.

"Well, for today we can pretend," I replied, grasping for a lighthearted retort, not quite sure if he was joking. Then I delivered to Chef Andre what is sometimes a young woman's best defense: a toothy, wide smile.

The lower level of the dining room had been cleared out with the exception of a few tables, arranged in pairs against the banquettes. They were set up in such a way that anything brought to them would take on the appearance of "seeking audience" with those seated.

I was placed next to Chef Andre. There we would remain, shoulder to shoulder, tasting sixteen courses prepared by the students of FCI's graduating class. I was terrified. The status of the man, my comparative inexperience, our role as judges of very nervous students, all of these factors shrank my ego to the size of a cocktail fork.

Seated at the next tables were the jovial Jacques Coustar, who spent 21 years with Soltner at Lutece, and Bill Peet, also from Lutece and now the Executive Chef at Café Des Artistes. Chef Andre introduced me.

"This is Mimi Sheraton," he said with a snigger, referring to one of the New York Times' most demanding restaurant critics.

I was not sure if it was a compliment, but I decided to treat it as one.

Andre and I readied the score sheets provided by the Institute as our wine glasses were filled. "This is my ultimate test as a food critic," I thought, "staying true to my opinions in the company of one of history's most accomplished chefs."

The FCI also furnished each juror with a list of the items being served, all written in French (only partially understood by me), as well as guidelines for judging. Many of them (e.g., "Jurors should address students in a polite and friendly manner") were intuitive, but others-"Jurors should be honest, but should remember that this is not a professional competition and students have received only 600 hours of training," "For the final examination, each student makes two plates chosen by lottery: A fish and a dessert, or an appetizer and a meat or poultry course"-would have answered many of the questions bouncing around my head. In my state of agitated excitement, I had overlooked the guidelines altogether. And I became increasingly dependent on Chef Andre.

I decided it would be best to remain poised while subtly appealing to M. Soltner for guidance. After we had eaten a few spoons of our first dish, the consommé de volaille a la royale de panais (poultry broth with vegetables and parsnip custard), I peered over his shoulder to see what score he had given the soup. I decided that I agreed with him, and copied the same score onto my sheet.

After the flavorful tarte feuilletee aux escargots, cepes, et epinards, the dramatic Coquilles St. Jacques sur un risotto a l'encre, and the somewhat greasy rissoles de crevettes aux poireaux et gingembre, I noticed a certain consistency in Chef Andre's judging style. No matter how much he enjoyed a dish, he never gave it the highest score, and no matter how little he liked one, Chef Andre's rating never dipped below a six for taste (out of a possible eight) or a 10 for presentation (out of 12). I approved his prudent strategy, and adopted a similar one. By the time we reached the fifth plate, the Coquilles St. Jacques au coriander et choux de Bruxelles, I had more or less found my sea legs.

As the plates kept coming, Chef Andre had warmed into a natural mentoring role.

"See, the sauce is much too thick," Andre told me, jabbing at a glistening brown pool with his knife. "It's like a puree."

Later, tasting a different sauce with his finger, he encountered the same problem. "Young chefs think they have to reduce, reduce, reduce. It's too much."

Singling out a cooked carrot, Andre instructed, "It should not be overcooked, it should not be al dente. It should be à point, just to the point."

Upon receiving yet another lukewarm dish: "I always tell my chefs the number-one thing is not presentation, it's not taste-it's temperature."

Finally, the students came out of the kitchen to receive their criticism. My main problem with the food was that most of it was incredibly good. Since both are sides of the same coin, I easily went from critic to cheerleader.

After we and the graduating class posed for professional photos, the jurors were led upstairs by Chef Andre and Alain Sailhac, FCI's Senior Dean of Studies and the first chef to have achieved four stars from the New York Times. I followed them as we filed, without explanation, through an unmarked door. When I hesitated, Andre shot me an effectively impatient look that sent me on my way.

The innocuous door opened up to the front of a small lecture hall where relatives, friends, and the graduating class were seated, waiting for the ceremony to begin. As I scanned the expectant faces all I could think was, "Wow. Nobody said anything about this."

As the program got underway, M. Sailhac introduced the jurors one at a time. Starting with the first in line, a lanky gentleman standing beside me, Sailhac invited him to say a few words to the audience. My powers of deductive logic discerned that if this juror had to address the group, I would too. I took the few moments I had to mull over some choice words and to thank G-d that I am not one who fears public speaking.

After M. Sailhac stumbled over my last name, I took his place, front and center.

"Hello. When I got here today, my fellow jurors told me that I am the enemy, because I am a food critic. I am honored to be on the jury for your graduating class, and take on this role with great humility. I have eaten at many restaurants, and I can honestly say that the meals I ate here today were just as good, if not better, than those from most professional kitchens. Good luck in your careers, and I look forward to seeing your names in lights."

Cheesy, I thought, but I meant every word. When I turned away from the audience, M. Sailhac caught me gaze. He gave me a look that I am fairly certain should be interpreted as pride.