Besha rodell critical analysis
This restaurant critic has kept her identity secret from restaurant staff for more than a decade.!
In the summer of 1992, exactly one year after I moved to Hartford, Connecticut, with my American mother, I returned to my hometown of Melbourne, Australia, to visit my father and friends.
In the year I’d been gone, I had changed immeasurably—or so I imagined. I scoffed at my Australian friends as they danced in exaggerated sexual gyrations to Prince.
Our Australia critic went on a whirlwind dining tour for two magazines.
None of them had even had sex yet! I rolled my eyes as they sang along to Public Enemy. They didn’t even know any Black people! I was so much more worldly, so much badder/bolder/better. I was 16 and insufferable.
The New York Times Australia critic, Besha Rodell, looks ahead to a year of eating and exploring in WA.
Is there any other way to be 16?
But the complaint I made the loudest, to anyone who would listen—even my poor father, who had brought me up to recognize a classical composer by a few bars of music and wine grape variety by scent—was that Australia had no 40-ounce bottles of malt liquor.
What a bore, to have to drink beer after beer to achieve intoxication. How irksome to not have your own personal vehicle to that intoxication