Zagat, as we know, matches restaurant features to diners' needs by way of scores for food, décor, service, and cost. Never does it mention the count of cockroaches in a dimly-lit kitchen, or the fact that the bathroom tiles have never known the feel of a mop. Instead we read of a dinner spot "nestled amid the brownstones" that is either "edgy," "cozy" or "filled with hipsters." Oh, for "the best Peking Duck in town," or an "ambience à la Paris"! But as to the cleanliness of those hands around the throat of our Peking duck, Zagat is mute.
Since last July, the Health Department's placement of letter grades in New York restaurants served to make possible a different sort of choosing, one based not in the crispness of the table linens, or the perfect glaze of orange sauce. Finally the hungry neurotic can seek out specifics as to the sordid ecosystem of the urban kitchen.
Any man or woman who has ever held a spatula understands the filth a city kitchen can attract -- as does anyone who has ever gripped the pole on a subway train, held a door open at Macy's, touched a mailbox, a stranger's dog, a garbage chute, a taxi cab, swiped their finger across their nose, dropped a quarter in the cup of a homeless man, worn shoes inside their apartment, climbed into bed, turned off the light or taken several deep and wholesome breaths. As it is perhaps best not to read about bedbugs after 8 p.m., it may be best to avoid the specifics of a charming, four-month-old Department of Health document entitled, "What To Expect When You're Inspected."
For those curious about the backstage area for the brand-new letter grades, and what makes the difference between clear blue "A" and filthy "C," diners can have a grand time with the Inspection Scoring Parameters Table. This describes, for restaurant owners, a description of each "Violation" and provides examples of their progressive severity. These include cleanliness of surfaces, bathrooms and presence of lighting: "Food worker prepares food or handles utensil when ill with a disease transmissible by food or has exposed infected cut or burn on hand," "Cans of food products swollen, leaking or rusted and not segregated from consumable food," and, like a recipe for Shakespeare's witches, "... house flies, little house flies, blow flies, bottle flies and flesh flies. Food/refuse/sewage-associated flies in clued fruit flies, drain flies and Phorid flies."
In order to determine the severity of conditions and assign a grade, inspectors assess each offense in detail: counting cans of spoiled food, the number of dirty or broken eggs, counting live mice, flies or any equivalent evidence. A certain number of fresh mouse droppings, for instance, equal the presence of one mouse. And 31-70 fresh mice droppings in a food preparation area (or 11-30 in two areas or 1-10 in three areas), represents a violation level III, whereas "71-100 fresh mice droppings in one area; 31-70 in two areas, 11-30 in three areas; or 1-10 in four areas," means a violation level IV. A level V must be where the mice are actually serving the food.
If any one mouse ever questioned whether his vote counted, he should rest assured: A single mouse turd can make all the difference.
Zagat provides an impressive capacity for searching, as do Yelp, Chowhound and New York Magazine. But once the hungry neurotic discovers the New York City Department of Health's website, it becomes the indispensable diner's guide.
Equipped with a map, searchable by zip code, sortable and filterable by restaurant's name, borough, score or cuisine, the guide can, with a click, turn one's long-time favorite into the culinary equivalent of a cheating spouse.
(Let us say, an uptown noodle house, a favorite, perhaps, of students out for a quick, hot meal. This noodle house may do passably well in Zagat -- which tells it as it is: a dive-y place for a frenzied feed. They maybe be rude, but in an authentic way, in a way that says, "This is the city, kid. Here's your food, now eat it and get out." And so one might on occasion have found a cube of something veiny floating around in vegetarian soup. A tuber of some sort? A beetroot? Alas not, but beef. Oh well, let he who is without sin cast the first stone. But finally, horrifically, governmental vindication for the pathologically ill at ease. Words like "contamination" and "vermin" sing much louder than the menu's savory adjectives. The romance is dead at the plate.)
When out-of-towners talk about New York, they say quite often that eye contact with strangers should be at all costs avoided. But rarely do they mention avoiding eye contact with one's lunch.