Andrew Finkel Photo by Monica Fritz

    Buried somewhere in my subconscious is a reader's letter that appeared in The Times magazine, the glossy Saturday supplement of the early 1990s, when I was working as the paper's Istanbul correspondent. It was prompted by a Jonathan Meades restaurant review that was brutal even by his standards. The correspondent asked, with disarming candour, whether he was alone in flicking through months of glowing write-ups without any urge to book a table, yet unable to resist reserving at the very establishment that had provoked such scathing criticism.

This admission provided proverbial food for thought just as I was setting out my own stall as the Cornucopia restaurant critic. De gustibus non est disputandum and all that, but what food writer doesn’t recommend food he thinks people will enjoy? That there could be a more complex psychology to an evening out didn’t surprise me, but it was a useful warning. Back in those days when “foodie-ism” was in its infancy and we were being urged to take our victuals oh so seriously, it reminded me that there was more to judging a restaurant than rolling the aubergine salad around your palate like vintage Meursault in a glass.

And even then, I recall the advice of one very posh sommelier who pooh-poohed the notion that drinking wine was a skill or needed the vocabulary of ‘good tannins’, ‘notes of Ecuadorian chocolate’ or ‘hints of blackberry’. All you needed to know, he said, was whether you wanted another glass. This wisdom might apply equally to food: the true measure of a restaurant is whether you want to come back again. But then what about meals that impress you deeply but, like some films, whose memory would be too fragile—or too vivid—to risk with a second visit?

This never used to be the case. Once upon a time, you wouldn’t dream of going to an Istanbul restaurant to try something out of the ordinary. You had your favourite meat restaurant, fish restaurant, lunch counter, baklava joint. The owner knew you. And you knew what to expect. “A döner kebab is a döner kebab, is a döner kebab,” as the poet might have said—although some döner kebabs are unquestionably better than others. The truism was that elsewhere, restaurants changed menus; in Istanbul, customers changed restaurants.

All that is changing. Turkey has more than caught up with the Instagram world, and dining out has become an event—even a photo opportunity—rather than just a trip to the favourite local. I still struggle to understand why you would want to take a picture of your dinner rather than eat it. But this hasn’t stopped restaurants from becoming “Michelin-ated.” They aspire to theatre and boast celebrity. Critics weigh not only taste and technique but also ambition, creativity, and increasingly cultural authenticity. Chefs are meant to surprise and challenge as much as satisfy. But can you still surprise on a second visit—or a third?

Also embossed in memory is a chapter in Ruth Reichl’s memoir Garlic and Sapphires. She recounts the night-and-day experience of eating twice in the same Manhattan restaurant—once treated royally when recognised as the New York Times critic, and once, in disguise, consigned to a table near the kitchen doors. Most of us will never encounter such extremes of treatment, but many have experienced the more ordinary truth: that you can eat in the same restaurant twice and come away with two entirely different impressions.

Which in part explains why, though I wrote my first article about Turkish restaurants some forty years ago, I still erupt into a paroxysm of indecision when someone asks me to recommend somewhere nice for dinner. Even if they order the same food, will it be the same meal? I try to communicate enjoyment but sometimes fall into self-doubt.

All this is a clearing of the throat before I quote from a letter I myself received, in response to my recent review in the magazine of Skewd, an Anatolian-themed restaurant in North London that I thought could hold its own in Istanbul, let alone in far-off Enfield. It was a place I liked, where traditional dishes were being reinterpreted in a confident way by a kitchen that understood what it was doing. I did mention that there was a DJ by the door, which meant it wasn’t quiet (“more Strictly than oak-lined chop house,” I wrote), so I was crestfallen to hear second-hand that someone who had taken up my recommendation complained the music was loud.

Then this letter arrived, which (blushingly) I quote: “We were so impressed by your food piece that we managed dinner at Skewd last week before returning to Devon—the scallops were first rate, as were the ‘buffalo’ prawns; the kuzu kebab was ‘scrumptious.’ I had the excellent Adana, which was cooked perfectly, though less spicy than it might have been. What amazed me was the bill—about the same as we would pay down the road at a local place for decent grub, but not at the same standard. Though I had booked late, they were very eager to please.”

All I can do is sigh with relief.

click here to buy Finkel's newest novel 'The Adventure of the Second Wife'.