The impartiality of the food critic is more of a pose than a virtue
Traditionally, the ideal critic has been a judge who analyzes with surgical precision and detaches himself from his emotions, capable of condemning a restaurant with a simple gesture.
That type of criticism is practically obsolete in the specialized press. Some lament this and even see a threat in the new ways of describing food.
It's worth asking to what extent someone can be an impartial analyst. Every text involves a choice: from the moment the reservation is made until the moment one leaves, the observer decides where to direct their gaze. To claim that this gaze is neutral is not only a fallacy, but also masks a certain intellectual arrogance. Ultimately, it's a sophisticated way of belittling others.
It is possible to write without being swayed by emotion. The archives are full of supposedly clinical texts, with detailed enumerations of dishes and preparations that culminate in a final verdict. These are judgments issued from a privileged position, often without the slightest curiosity about those who cook and serve. They are more concerned with expressing their opinion than with providing context. When criticism becomes too self-centered, the restaurant often disappears from the narrative.
Instead of clinging to that aristocratic pose of yesteryear, food criticism should perhaps abandon its role as a tribunal. What is still considered a flaw, involvement and empathy, might well be its greatest strength. Its function is not so much to judge as to tell valuable stories to an increasingly food-interested public.
Criticism that prides itself on objectivity can be rigorous, even brilliant, but it rarely succeeds in creating a memorable image. It resembles a tasting note that describes the wine but fails to capture the experience, or worse, an autopsy: precise, cold, and frankly, boring.