In retrospect, I wonder if I knew deep down that this was the end. Sitting in Little Fox's dining room the evening of March 14, 2020, I think everyone in that packed house had the same inkling. The room had what must have been the feeling in the salons onboard the Titanic, where music played as the water flooded the steam room: We understood we were about to meet our doom, yet we hadn't fully come to terms with it.
That night, I'd gathered with three friends for what was to be a typical review dinner. We showed up for our reservation and settled into our seats, prepared to methodically approach the meal, as is usual for a restaurant review, and strategizing who would order what appetizer, salad, dinner and dessert. What wasn't typical was how we looked over our shoulders with suspicion at anyone who so much as cleared their throat. Deep down, we knew we shouldn't be dining out. Northern Italy was a hellscape; New York City wasn't far behind, and as the numbers of COVID-19 cases began to rise in St. Louis, we could feel that life as we knew it was about to change. So we drank. A lot. And ate. A lot. And as we stumbled out of the restaurant into our Lyfts, I looked over my shoulder at Little Fox's storefront, taking in its warm glow and absorbing the energy of the numerous patrons in various states of merriment, searing that moment in time into my memory because I knew I wouldn't be back anytime soon.
What I didn't fully grasp was what that meant for my job as a dining critic. For seven years, I'd been reviewing restaurants for the RFT, assuming that train would keep running indefinitely. However, while reviewing my notes the Monday following that visit to Little Fox, I felt the need to pull the emergency cord. After texting some colleagues about the issue I emailed my editor, informing her of my discomfort in filing a review and asking for her advice. When I didn't hear back from her right away, I was concerned, because she was always so prompt in her replies. The next morning, I found out what the issue was: She had been furloughed. And so had I.
Now, almost a year later, I'm again at my keyboard on a Wednesday morning, trying to lend some coherence to the scattered thoughts that somehow result in a restaurant review. Last week, I learned from my editor that we got the green light to start doing them again, part of a larger push to get our food coverage back near full capacity. Considering that only a year ago there were real questions as to whether or not the RFT would continue to exist, this was cause to celebrate.
However, it also raises serious questions about restaurant criticism during and (god willing) post-pandemic. Even if I hadn't been furloughed last March, there was no way I could have done a traditional review. For starters, I had (and still have) serious ethical questions about whether or not it is appropriate to encourage the dining public to head out and about when doing so is fraught with risk. It's a balance, for sure, that puts public health concerns at odds with the livelihoods of restaurant owners and employees. That restaurant employees have worked their tails off to figure out how to operate safely is the only way, in good conscience, I can encourage the public to enjoy their wares. For those who balk at safety protocols, it will be a very long time before I can comfortably recommend anyone patronizing their establishments.
The other question that arises is whether or not it is ethical — even moral — to write a critical review while restaurants fight for their lives. Though a critic has a responsibility to a reader to give an accurate assessment of a place, it's utterly tone-deaf to criticize someone for underseasoning their ratatouille when they wake up every morning wondering if their business is going to make it. These establishments have had to develop new business models on the fly and have been hemorrhaging money for the past year. Even as business picks up and the world starts to turn again, it's going to take a very long time to dig out of that hole. That's why, in my opinion, it's not the time to write traditional, critical reviews, and it won't be that time for the foreseeable future.
What does this mean for RFT restaurant reviews? Over the past year, I've been asked more times than I can count for my advice on where people should eat. More than the usual request to know what's good, people have been more interested in knowing who is doing what and how. Which dining rooms are safely open? Who has an inviting outdoor space? What are some great takeout options — especially out-of-the-box ones? Who has shown leadership and innovation during this crazy time, and who needs help? The fact that I am able to help find answers to those questions and add a little joy to the slog that is this horrendous "new normal" is an absolute privilege.
Finding that joy, when the restaurant experience has gone from being relational to transactional, has been difficult. I often think back to Little Fox, which I refer to as "the review that never happened," and reflect on the sheer enjoyment I felt that evening last March. Surrounded by friends, attended to by a service staff that knew their stuff in and out, and enjoying chef and co-owner Craig Rivard's magnificent food (oh how I long for those Italian fish sauce riblettes and garlicky pancetta crostini), the restaurant was the total package of amazing atmosphere, outstanding food and impeccable hospitality.
It was exactly the restaurant Craig and Mowgli Rivard had long dreamed of owning. After moving to St. Louis from Brooklyn in 2017, the husband and wife had only opened the doors to Little Fox for three months before all pandemic hell broke loose. They completely closed down the week of March 16, reopened in May for grocery pickup and some prepared foods, then set up a natural wines shop. They were fortunate that they had obtained an option from the city of St. Louis to use the vacant lot across the street from the restaurant, and turned the space into a covered outdoor dining area, which ran from July through November. To an outside observer, it looked like Little Fox was doing all right.
Mowgli is frank about how difficult it has been, which is why she and Craig have decided to pull back on their offerings. For now, they are keeping up their Wine Wednesdays, which consist of retail wine pickup and an accompanying food special, as well as Sunday morning breakfasts out of their carryout window. They are also getting ready to offer a limited carryout menu on Fridays, with dishes like clam chowder pot pie. However, outside of those offerings, they are taking a break. As Mowgli explains, even with the robust support of the neighborhood — something they are truly grateful for — they are losing money, and they can't continue to do so if they hope to have a restaurant on the other side of this pandemic.
It's been as emotionally draining as it has been financially. Mowgli's honesty is raw when she talks about how difficult it is to have poured your heart and soul into something, only to be prevented from actually doing it the way you want to. She notes the toll it has taken on Craig, a shockingly talented chef who has spent his life dreaming of the restaurant that Little Fox could be, then having that taken away by forces beyond anyone's control just as he was starting to feel like he had it. For these reasons, they need some time to figure out how they can be the restaurant they want to be when they feel like it is safe enough to do so.
The Rivards understand that, when they get to the point where they can reopen their dining room, they will have to figure out the balance of being responsible for taking care of their staff and guests while giving people a good time. There's an awkwardness in encouraging people to eat, drink and be merry when the world is — even if no longer completely engulfed in flames — still smoldering. However, Mowgli has noticed that she and Craig are talking more about menus lately, and Little Fox's staff meetings are filled with chatter about wine pairings. It's a far cry from where things were, but it gives her hope that they will get to the other side, where people can enjoy dinner and drinks and friends.
And restaurant critics can write reviews and go out to dinner without looking over their shoulders.
Correction: An earlier version of this story incorrectly reported the address and hours of Little Fox. We regret the error.
