Star Tribune restaurant critic Jon Cheng steps down

“Good food or good company. Which do you choose?” a friend once asked.

“Food,” I replied.

My dining companion grimaced, then we both laughed because we knew it was true.

I’ve been writing about food for more than a decade — two, if you count my adolescent rants on TripAdvisor, where I’d alternate between slamming restaurants for being “too safe” and praising them as “prom worthy.”

Even before my first proper byline, barring a few unkind words about soggy cafeteria fries in my high school newspaper, I’d eat like a critic. Every plate I encountered was an exercise in improvement. What could’ve been better? What was missing? These compulsions were both a blessing and a curse.

At the Minnesota Star Tribune, I fulfilled a lifelong dream of eating widely and documenting my thoughts as a full-fledged restaurant critic. To the outside world, the job may seem indulgent and satisfyingly simple: visit restaurants near and far, spotlight dishes high and humble, and then explain why a restaurant would deserve attention.

But that duty would often take me out of the moment.

Casual meals that should’ve gone unrecorded became sticky mental drafts. I had lost, in some regards, the ability to taste. And I don’t mean literally, but as a real diner who could find pleasure in the little things. I found myself always looking to be “wowed.”

On a recent sabbatical, I traveled to “find myself” and willfully disengage, hoping to restore some of the joy that led to the profession in the first place. For nearly two months, I documented nothing I ate. At first, I felt free. Then I felt hungry — hungry for a finish that could only be satiated by a reflective piece of writing.

And this was the article I told myself I’d write: How I’m stepping away.

The truth is, I miss being anonymous and without the pressure to overly dissect — I was letting a job define who I was. This time away should give me the chance to embrace the Twin Cities as a food-obsessed ex-critic who will visit restaurants no less frequently, but give them their due in a way that works for me.

During my tenure, I had the privilege of experiencing a life full of color: multiple threats, a chef chasing me out of his restaurant and, in one instance, being accused (prolifically) by an online reader who said my review of a Midwestern supper club reminded them of a “Swedish lumberjack reviewing a sushi joint.”

It was all part of the charm. And a ruse to fall even harder for this thriving food scene: for double-cut, buttery pork chops, for tacos made with beautifully nixtamalized corn tortillas, and for a judiciously executed tasting menu worthy of Michelin’s attention.

I’ve been stopped in dining rooms by readers with mostly fond things to say; and welcomed by chefs who trusted me enough to share their stories. They remind me why this job is important.

In return, I’m leaving you with five things I’ve learned as I say goodbye.

The Twin Cities deserves a Michelin guide, something I have publicly endorsed. Many chefs here hesitate to claim that spotlight, though.

This city is where I learned the quiet power of Hmong cuisine. It’s where Midwestern comforts can meet classical French precision and hit it off; where I’ve seen chefs produce wholly unique dishes when given the directive to cook without boundaries.

The talent is here. The world should know it.

I used to turn up my nose at cheese curds. I was wrong. The hot and squeaky ones from Mouth Trap, at the State Fair, are excellent. I still don’t like walleye, though. Sorry.

I’ve embarked on a two-week steakhouse binge, covering eight establishments, for a ranking project that left my LDL levels in (reverse) free fall. I followed that up by eating four different Juicy Lucy burgers in one afternoon. My editor was thrilled, my body wasn’t. These days, I try to scale back. To earn permission to indulge, I skip a lunch here and there. Or settle for a boring plate of grilled chicken and arugula.

It isn’t easy making friends in your 30s. But over time, I’ve managed to cultivate a ragtag crew of food and wine enthusiasts who’ve weathered my rants and strange rituals.

Still, I learned to love dining solo — and encourage more diners to do the same. These are golden opportunities to reflect and engage, as I have during the nearly 100 times I dined alone at one of my favorite restaurants in the Twin Cities.

“Do you side with diners,” a friend asked. “Or chefs?” I would agonize over taking a side. Now, I see it as a balancing act. Fact-checking, revisits and conversations with colleagues exposed me to the invisible labor behind every plate. Beyond reporting my experience as any diner might — even if I was rarely anonymous — my job was also to add context where it mattered. It was a tightrope, and I don’t pretend to have always gotten it right. I tried.

I’m not one for sappy farewells, but I owe a great thanks to my editors. They handed me the keys to this beat and helped me find my voice. One that I began honing ever since reading Ruth Reichl’s “Garlic and Sapphires” as a curious, culturally hungry 13-year-old growing up in a city nearly 9,000 miles from Minnesota, who somehow already knew what he wanted to be someday.

Thank you for the meals, memories and the Midwestern hospitality.

Until we eat again,

Jon