Who appoints the critic God?

There’s a moment — somewhere between the clink of the last wine glass and the closing remarks of a review — when the critic must pause and ask: who gave me this voice? And more importantly, what makes it worth listening to?

We, the critics, often speak with the finality of a gavel striking oak. A dish is pronounced overambitious. A concept is deemed derivative. A new brand or project is quietly suffocated under the weight of our disappointment. And yet, the more I watch the ebb and flow of this industry, the more I find myself wondering: when did criticism stop being a conversation and start being a coronation?

Lately, a troubling pattern has emerged. Independent, bold culinary ventures — often lacking the PR machinery or the social currency of the establishment — are met not with curiosity, but with condescension. Reviews read like reprimands. The critic's tone, less guide and more gatekeeper. The food? Often beside the point. And I’ll admit — I’ve begun to ask myself uncomfortable questions about us, the critics. There’s that quiet voice that surfaces from time to time, reading another scathing review: Was this really about the food, or something else? Was the critic genuinely disappointed — or did they simply feel left out? Uninvited? Unacknowledged?

It’s hard to shake the suspicion that some of our words are written less from a place of discernment, and more from a bruised sense of entitlement. That maybe the offense isn't culinary at all — it’s personal. And when that happens, when ego starts to guide the hand, what’s produced isn’t critique. It’s retaliation in the guise of relevance.

This isn't to say bad meals deserve protection, or that critique must be polite. But we must interrogate our own role — not just what we write, but why we write it. Are we illuminating the path for the diner, or simply marking territory? Are we defenders of quality, or just offended that someone dared to create without our blessing?

Criticism, at its best, is rooted in humility — the acknowledgment that taste is personal, context matters, and no critic, however seasoned, is above bias. It should be a lens, not a verdict. A provocation, not a punishment.

So I ask my peers — and myself — to step back. To feel again the wonder of walking into an unknown kitchen. To taste first, and judge later. To replace entitlement with empathy. Because perhaps the real measure of a critic isn't how sharp their pen is, but how open their mind remains.

And maybe, just maybe, the truth about food doesn't belong to any one of us — but lives in the conversation we create around it.