Hannah Goldfield

February 18, 2020

Hannah Goldfield writes restaurant reviews for The New Yorker. I wanted to learn more about that job, which seems epic and enviable, but my secret agenda for our conversation was to grill Hannah about a different role she had at the magazine straight out of college: fact checker. Over the years, New Yorker fact checkers have become mythic figures in my imagination, helped in large part by this John McPhee piece. They are soldiers who protect the integrity of journalism, omniscient beings who toil endlessly to bring order to our chaotic world. Plus the job seems really fun: an excuse to be nosy, to read more, to call strangers. There are obvious ways being a fact checker prepares you to be a good writer: having a front row seat to the behind-the-scenes process of turning an idea into an article is invaluable. For Hannah, it seems there are also subtle, essential parallels between the demands of her first job and the philosophical questions she grapples with as a critic.

Fact-checking can be about answering straightforward questions: What exactly did she say? Did this really happen that way? When? But a fact checker might also reckon with more metaphysical matters as they go about verifying quotes and corroborating accounts: How many versions of the truth are there? How does language distort reality? What are the limits of human knowledge? It occurred to me, once we got talking about criticism, that Hannah’s work, in dealing with the facts of food, also necessarily engages with more abstract ideas. Her weekly Tables for Two column is about concrete details: the taste and texture of a dish, the ambiance of a restaurant, the innovations of a kitchen. Her task is to construct a world that is legible and accessible to readers. She must deliver news about the contemporary dining experience in a particular place at this specific moment. At the same time, her writing transcends vivid description of the physical and invites the reader to think about the social, emotional, and political aspects of food. What do we, people who eat for survival and pleasure, have in common? Do restaurants bring us together or exacerbate our differences? How do we learn prejudice when it comes to the palate?

The least exciting restaurant criticism reads like a succession of humorless decrees shouted down from an ivory tower. Some food writing listlessly takes for granted what eating experiences and food values are held in common by its audience. Hannah’s writing feels so urgent and energetic because she refuses those assumptions and rejects the precedents of the form. Does a review need to make an argument or can it stand back and merely observe? What obligations does a critic, performing what could be understood as a kind of public service, have to the reader? How does one account for the idiosyncrasies of personal taste? The vulnerability, humility, and delight with which Hannah approaches her task each week impresses and thrills me. The way she represents the “truth” of her experience while offering enough context and history to allow for other potential realities feels radical in a small, delicious way.

Hannah wrote her first Tables for Two review in 2010 as a fact checker, when writing the column was a responsibility shared amongst multiple New Yorker staffers. She left the magazine in 2015 to work as an editor at T: The New York Times Style Magazine and then later wrote the “Absolute Best” series for New York Magazine. She returned to The New Yorker in 2018 to become the food critic.

This interview took place in two parts and has been edited and condensed.

Georgia Hilmer: To be honest, I have been anxious about doing and then editing this interview because of your background as a fact checker. I’ve been second-guessing myself, worrying that my standards won’t compare to that of the New Yorker’s. What was it like to have the power of a fact checker?

Hannah Goldfield: At The New Yorker holiday party I was very briefly talking to David Remnick about fact-checking and I told him that it was the best job I ever had. He was like, “Really?” I said it felt like just the right amount of power. I wasn’t totally exposed and on my own but I did have a lot of responsibility and power. I felt very useful. A thing I always think is that being a crossing guard is having just the right amount of power. That’s kind of what fact-checking is. He said something funny like, “That’s the kind of job I need.” 

What was it about fact-checking that was so appealing?

I’m a box checker, I love being right. Truth, obviously, is a moving target, but I loved the idea of polishing something to be as true as it possibly could be in a given moment. Fact-checking presents you with such a satisfying array of discreet tasks. Then also it was such a fascinating way to learn about reporting and editing. Getting to work with these amazing writers and editors and see just how the sausage was made.

How did you cultivate your sense of taste? I’ve been wondering lately which part of taste is innate and which is worked at. In your case specifically, how do you muster the confidence in this position of authority as a critic? Or have you felt confident naturally?

My dad has always been really into cooking and eating; he was an adventurous eater. I went to a cooperative daycare in New Haven. There was a woman that was in charge but there weren’t any employees; the parents just took turns taking care of the kids. One of the duties was to make lunch for thirty babies. A lot of the parents were young grad students at Yale from all over the world. I think I probably had the proclivity and then I was exposed to a really wide variety of food from a young age. 

In terms of taste, I’ve always just been really opinionated. I think I get that from my dad too. I’ve always been sure of my feelings and judgments. I definitely am racked with self-doubt about a lot of things but the confidence required to share my opinions has always come naturally to me. When I write a review, I feel secure in whether I like something or not, which is maybe obvious, but then I try to do enough research and contextualizing to understand if I’m liking or not liking something because it was good or bad or because I just don’t like it. I feel like I have a pretty good radar for that, like: this is not a flavor or a flavor combination that does it for me but I can understand why it works for some people. I hate the expression “Don’t yuck someone else’s yum,” but for lack of a better phrase, I would never yuck someone else’s yum. I’m fascinated by what people like. 

When you were a fact checker and you got those first Tables for Two assignments, did the job come naturally to you or did you feel self-doubt? 

I had wanted to do it for so long. It’s so cheesy but it felt like my calling in a way. I had been more scared that I wouldn’t ever do it than that I would do it badly. I felt so familiar with the column. That gave me some confidence right out of the gate: I know what this looks like, I’m familiar with the form. I’m a person who works really well within a structure. I wrote a lot of poetry in high school and college. I loved writing form poetry, I loved writing sonnets. “Creativity comes from constraints,” whatever the saying is, was always really true for me. While the schedule is hard, turning out a column every week, in the same way that I was drawn to fact-checking, I liked having my goal be very clear. Whereas writing anything else, every time I’m like, “How do I do this!?” and I drive myself insane. I love having a formula.

I get nervous now, even still, that someone is going to really feel let down by me. Obviously everyone’s taste is different. Although I’m often sharing my opinion, I really try to contextualize it and to make clear where my tastes lie as much as possible. I’m trying to give as much information as I can so the reader can make the decision on their own of whether or not they’re interested or they’re going to like a place.

You’re talking about hoping you perform the service of helping people choose a restaurant well. You also have the opportunity to make pronouncements about more subjective aesthetic values in a piece of criticism — those are two different things to be confident about. How do you make choices when you are in a position of authority where you can tell people who aren’t as confident in their own taste what you think or what the standards are?

Mostly what I’m doing is instinctual. I kind of just do it. 

It has been funny to talk to people for this interview project who, like you, are tastemakers to some degree and really try to break down the mechanics of how one forms an opinion about something and to hear, essentially, “No, you just have an opinion about something.” 

One instance in which I thought a lot about the confidence required to do your job is when we talked, before it was published, about the negative-leaning review you wrote of Gotham Bar and Grill. You didn’t like the restaurant and maybe weren’t going to write about it but when other critics praised it highly, you decided you had to weigh in. 

It’s interesting to talk about that now, after the fact. I had that impulse, I think, because I often feel like I am the only woman and young person writing restaurant reviews in a major publication in New York. I’m writing about the same kinds of restaurants as Pete Wells or Adam Platt but I often feel really differently about them in a pretty obvious way. I’ll say, “This place is so fusty and old-fashioned,” and they are waxing nostalgic about it. We’re of different generations. They’ll sometimes complain about how everyone used to have their own appetizer and entree and now everything is shared. I do remember when everyone had their own appetizers and entrees but I was a child. Do I miss that? Not really. I don’t care. 

I really felt like I had a different perspective on Gotham Bar and Grill because I’m younger and I’m a woman and therefore my opinion could help create a more interesting, holistic perspective on this restaurant. But then when I went to write it, I felt less confident. I couldn’t really figure out why I didn’t like it and in the end I felt like my argument was kind of muddled. This is something I’ve been struggling with basically every week. My editor, at one point, called me out on this: I don’t like fancy restaurants, I’ve realized. They’re not that interesting. They represent something bad, in a way. They represent inequality. There’s a really pointed message being sent by a really fancy restaurant: this is about money, you have to have so much money to eat here. Everything is very coded: luxury ingredients, formality, a level of theater that is, on the one hand, kind of alluring and exciting, but also just feels kind of fucked up in the current state of the world. 

This issue seems connected to what you said earlier about not yucking someone’s yum, about being able to discern what something is supposed to taste like in its own context before calling it good or bad. Are all restaurants created equal? You could argue that all flavors are created equal and a hierarchy is imposed on them by aesthetic norms or cultural assholery. But I don’t know, are expensive restaurants inherently valid? 

I guess I sort of feel more and more that they’re not, somehow. But that feels like bringing too much of my subjectivity into it. When I do review a fancy place, I try to contextualize in the same way: You’ll like this restaurant if you have an expense account or if this is already where you like to go.

Maybe the bar used to be lower for fancier restaurants because having expensive or rarified food was itself a marker and established some credibility? But now if you’re going to sell very expensive food you have to really make it worth everyone’s while?

I can appreciate when that is happening, when restaurants are sort of justifying their prices, but it still feels kind of immoral to me. I don’t think that’s quite fair, though. Something about that position feels like it’s based too much on my own politics. Maybe criticism isn’t supposed to be totally divorced from politics. 

I think that if taking the position that you’re sort of skirting is political then the opposite idea (of not questioning a fancy restaurant’s existence or not considering how expensive things are) must be political too. It’s just the accepted default, or has been. I feel an analogous way about the very expensive movies about white men that keep getting made. Do I think there is something about these movies that is inherently bad or just not worth my time? 

Or do they feel, just by existing, that they are not acknowledging the way times are changing? 

Has your editor said, “You need to go spend more money at expensive restaurants?”

No! I think she would sooner just have me not write about them. I can’t really do that because people want to know about them. 

It sounds like you’re wrestling with the fact that the form demands an argument and there isn’t always one there to be made. You have described your task in the past as building a record or an archive, painting a portrait of what the culinary landscape looks like right now. That doesn’t necessarily involving having a take. 

I’m happiest when there is enough of a scene [at a restaurant] that I can just capture it and not make a claim or an argument. Occasionally I’ll publish a review and people will ask, “Did you like that restaurant or not?” and I’ll reply, “Did you read it?? Can’t you tell?” I feel like I’ve failed a little bit if you can’t tell whether I liked it or not, but also, I’ve succeeded because the piece is more of a snapshot of the place rather than a referendum on whether I liked it. It’s a tricky line to walk because it is service journalism in one sense but it’s also sort of reported and trying to teach people something. I feel confident in my powers of observation. I feel less confident in my powers of argument. 

Do you have a note on your phone that lists every restaurant you’re thinking of writing about?

Yes. Any time I hear anything that seems potentially interesting I’ll add it to this Google Sheets document that I have. There are seemingly a lot of restaurants in New York opening all the time but not that many that are a) interesting and b) interesting in different ways. It’s hard and I feel like there’s a lot of room for improvement in my own work in keeping the fabric feeling really textured and varied. I try and often fail not to do two Manhattan restaurants in a row or have the type of food featured be different week to week, both in terms of what kind of food and prices. It has gotten harder, I will be honest, now that I have a baby because as long as he wakes up at 4 AM, I really try to be in bed by 10 PM. Whereas before he was born, sometimes on a Tuesday I would drive to Jackson Heights or Elmhurst and now I don’t feel like I can do that and maintain my sanity. 

Does that sort of strategic maneuvering take anything away from the sensual aspect of eating? Is the experience still about pleasure or do you feel like an analyst or a scientist when you enter a restaurant? I imagine the logistical part of your job could make walking into a restaurant slightly less romantic and having to look at a plate and analyze it could be more laborious than fun. 

That’s a good question. I don’t think those two things are at odds, and I don’t think the work part of it detracts from the experience at all. I think it enhances the pleasure, in fact, because the experience becomes so much more interesting. I’m noticing more and having a very rich and varied experience, whereas I think it can get very boring just thinking about pleasure. I think what makes it exciting and keeps me doing it is realizing where the boundaries between pleasure and pain are when it comes to eating, whether that’s spicy food or things that are really unappealing to me but have a history or a real place in a culture that is not mine. It would get really stagnant and boring if I was only thinking about whether something is delicious or not. I feel like I’ve become pretty good at being able to distinguish between me not liking something and something actually not being good. I eat a lot of things and think, “I don’t really like this,” but I understand that this is how it is meant to be and other people like it and I can see why.

Who are you eating out with the most? Are you a lone wolf?

No. I really like eating alone, a lot, but to do this job and not bring people with you is just foolish. You can’t order as much or eat as much.

Without drawing attention to yourself?

Without drawing attention to yourself but also it just gets kind of gross. My husband was coming with me to basically every dinner before [our son] Otto was born. Our arrangement now, which works really well except that we never see each other, is that he’ll come home from work around 5:30 PM, put the baby to bed around 6:30 PM, and then he’ll go back to work at home. Then I’ll go out. I’m now on a slightly earlier schedule so the people I go out to eat with are basically anyone who can eat dinner at 6:30 PM. I have been going to more lunches too. I’ve learned who among my friends gets what I’m doing and understands that the situation isn’t just an excuse to socialize. I have to pay attention to the food, we can’t both get the same thing, we can talk about other stuff but I also have to take pictures of things for my own reference later. I don’t “have to,” but I do. I personally take notes on my phone. Jonathan Gold once said that taking notes during a meal is like taking notes during sex and I was like, well, whatever. If something occurs to me in the moment and I don’t write it down, often I’ll forget it.

Not everyone is Jonathan Gold!

Yes. So when I’m taking notes it just looks like I’m rudely texting. I often ask the servers tons of questions. I’m always trying to be subtle but I’m sure they’re onto me.

How has it felt to re-enter the work force as someone with a kid?

It has felt, in some ways, very clarifying and it has lowered the stakes in a way that I like. He is the most important thing and everything else feels a little bit like play time, which makes me feel less stressed out about it. Sometimes I feel the opposite, like I don’t have enough time to give myself to the job in the way that I want to. I don’t feel like I am doing it as well as I could be. It falls more on the side of focusing me. I’m definitely more efficient in a way that I’d heard people talk about but that I didn’t think would be true for me. I’ve been pleasantly surprised that when I have less time to do something I’ll just do it, instead of spending entire days fucking around. We have a nanny who comes three days a week and most nights Josh [my husband] watches the baby so I can go out. That adds up to roughly 40 hours a week. It has been really interesting to learn that I can do all the writing in three days. I used to have five days. The fact that this whole time I could have been doing this in three days feels really crazy. On the other hand, I have some anxiety about how my life will work when he gets older. My job feels like the perfect job to have with a baby of this age but maybe not the perfect job with an older child. Although I don’t know, we’ll see what happens. I’m really lucky. I am insanely privileged to have this job at all, to be able to do it, to be able to do it with the baby, to be able to afford childcare. It has mostly been better than I feared it might be. 

The column doesn’t include them now but is assigning a star-rating to restaurants something you’d be interested in?

No, I don’t think so. I’ve described the column, and I think other people at The New Yorker describe it, as a Talk of the Town story about a restaurant as opposed to a review. I think I’ve made it into more of a review than it was before. It didn’t ever used to be written in the first person at all and I’ve definitely changed that because I feel like I sound a little more authoritative. People have responded well to that. For me, one of the most fun things to do, and I don’t do this every time, is to include scenes and quotes, and have the piece capture a moment rather than be a straightforward review. 

Do you and your editors talk about grand vision for the project or is it constantly being finessed?

I think that ultimately, for me, it is an anthropological endeavor. I am capturing what it is like to eat at New York City restaurants in this moment in time. That’s the goal I come back to — and also to help people figure out where to eat. The most gratifying thing to me, I think, is getting notes from people who don’t live in New York who say, “I don’t live in New York, I’ve never been to New York, I’ll probably never go to any of these restaurants, but I love reading your column.” That’s what I want, to create these little vignettes that are fun to read in and of themselves.