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What a couple of perfectly beastly years dear Ann has endured as a food critic. A talented writer, rising above her station, to turn a buck as a high kitchen Klute. In her workplace, all the poor lass wanted was a warm, fuzzy zaftig. She wound a hostage to a posse of poseurs, her jaded palate and silken prose ultimately yielding to the economic imperatives of her magazine.
I did, however, enjoy Ann Bauer's essay, registering many smiles and the odd chuckle. A one-time Parisian plongeur, George Orwell, provided contrasting insights into the world of the dining experience. And he managed it all without wearing a wrist watch to work.
