Who gets to define "delicious"? The diverse landscape of food criticism
ft. Liz Kao, Jia-Ping Wang

Can you really trust someone when they say a meal is "delicious"?

Despite an unprecedented wealth of food information, deciding what to eat hasn't necessarily become any easier. A friend’s rave review might leave you underwhelmed, and even the glittering, star-studded restaurants in guidebooks can occasionally feel overhyped. Consequently, many people now cross-reference trusted reviews, personal recommendations, and recent feedback with menus and restaurant backgrounds before making a choice. Rather than relying on a single recommendation, a judgment formed through multiple sources and contexts seems far more reliable.

Differences in taste are natural. These discrepancies don't necessarily prove who is right or wrong, but they do raise a more important question: How is the label of "delicious" established? What content can serve as a basis for judgment?

Reviews can influence a restaurant's survival and shape a generation's imagination of what constitutes great food. In the third episode of T/ABLE TALK, we invite two guests from opposite sides of the dining table to deconstruct how deliciousness is created, evaluated, and disseminated.

One guest is Chef Jia-Ping Wang of Solo Pasta, representing the supply side. Raised on Taiwanese street food, he has dedicated most of his life to traditional Italian cuisine. While he is meticulous when discussing culinary techniques and regional traditions, he maintains a relatively relaxed attitude toward awards and rankings. He acknowledges the power of reviews, but believes that the true value of a dish cannot rely solely on a list.

The other guest is Liz Kao, a food critic and founder of Taster, representing the evaluation side. Moving from blogging and publishing to video and social media, she once challenged traditional culinary authorities with new media. After years of building her professional expertise and personal brand, she has now become a subject of scrutiny for the social media generation. She excels at translating private sensory experiences into writing, establishing a language for flavor that can be read, compared, and discussed.

Their different roles represent two ways of understanding fine dining. Why does the same word, "delicious," carry different weight depending on who says it?

The invisible barrier behind being a "foodie"

Liz Kao breaks down the development of a food critic into three conditions: extensive dining experience, broad knowledge, and "social capital." The first two, based on the accumulation of senses and knowledge, are easy to understand—identifying terroir, mastering heat and technique, or being familiar with the historical context of a dish all require time and repeated comparison. Without a point of reference, a single instance of liking or disliking something is rarely enough to piece together a complete map of flavor.

In contrast, "social capital" is more subtle. Whether one can secure a reservation at an exclusive private kitchen or secure a seat at a specific table often depends on the trust and interpersonal networks one has built within the culinary world. These experiences, gained through specific opportunities, provide a dimension of observation that is difficult for others to access.

This is an honest assessment that points to the real-world barriers in the world of taste. Interpersonal networks do not form out of thin air; to "eat widely and often" usually requires the support of money, time, and the freedom to travel, and often relies on a shared understanding of culinary aesthetics and insider conventions. As economic conditions, social networks, and dining experiences accumulate over time, an individual gradually forms a refined standard of flavor and a system of discourse.

Liz Kao’s writing is known for being precise and well-structured, and she is well-versed in Western dining and the aesthetics of star-rated restaurants. However, when the rules and language of fine dining become the implicit premise of an article, readers who haven't shared those same experiences may feel a sense of distance. This isn't necessarily a deliberate exclusion by the critic, but rather a natural perspective formed after long immersion in a specific culinary world. When star-rated restaurants, international travel, and chef exchanges become the norm, experiences that were once exclusive to a few can inadvertently become a barrier to understanding the writing.

Liz also believes that critics should maintain a relatively neutral position and try to see the full picture of a meal. But when this stance is placed alongside the reality of social capital, an unavoidable question arises: If what a person eats, who they know, and which culinary system they are familiar with are already influenced by resources and life experience, how can a critic remain truly impartial?

Perhaps neutrality isn't about having no stance, but about being transparent about one's own position and not presenting personal standards as the only ones. It is precisely because some people spend years tasting and documenting that the public has the opportunity to understand distant cuisines, culinary trends, and the evolution of cooking; this focused accumulation has an irreplaceable value of its own.

What is more worth asking is whether the average reader can follow the writing into the world of flavor. When developing taste requires overcoming barriers of money, connections, and experience, how can critics translate the precious experiences of the few into a language that more people can understand, without inadvertently drawing a line between those who "get it" and those who don't?

Perhaps the key isn't to bridge the gap in our respective experiences, but to clearly articulate our perspectives and the basis for our judgments. In this way, even if readers haven't sat at the same table, they can understand where a simple "this is delicious" comes from.

Critics use words to explain the origins of their judgments, while chefs on the other side of the table subject their work to a different kind of professional scrutiny.

Pragmatism at the Stove: Resisting the Daily Grind of Standardization

For years, Jia-Ping Wang has traveled back and forth to Italy, stepping into local kitchens to learn. He once described himself as a "musician": rather than rushing to claim originality, it is more important to first understand the original score. Only by being familiar with the context and techniques of a dish can one know what can be changed, and what would lose its essential character if altered.

Once this knowledge enters the kitchen, it is no longer just about naming origins or history. It must manifest in the texture of the pasta, the consistency of the sauce, and the relationship between ingredients, all while standing up to the repetition of a busy service. Making a dish well once is a different matter from being able to make it well every single day.

This does not mean that a chef's judgment is necessarily more reliable than a critic's, but rather that the kitchen has its own method of professional verification: Is today's pasta as precise as yesterday's? Can the flavor be maintained when the head chef is not present? If a guest returns after some time, can they still taste the flavors they remember? Jia-Ping Wang 's dedication to tradition and technique makes the act of "cooking well" a stance in itself.

Liz Kao's expertise comes from extensive tasting and comparison, while Jia-Ping Wang's is built on his travels to Italy and repeated practice; both rely on time, resources, and rare opportunities, though they are subject to different forms of scrutiny.

However, before walking into a restaurant, most diners cannot see the years of hard work in the kitchen. They can only judge whether a door is worth opening based on rankings, reviews, and the experiences of others. Whether a dish succeeds must be tested at the table; which reviews lead people to that table involves the power of discourse held by evaluation mechanisms.

Authority Has Not Vanished, It Has Simply Been Reshuffled Amidst the Fragments

"There is no single authority in the world; authority is constantly being challenged, it has just become highly fragmented in this era," says Liz, describing the current state of food criticism.

In the past, the space for food criticism was largely controlled by newspaper supplements, magazine columns, and professional guides. Kao recalls that before the Michelin Guide entered Taiwan, if a chef wanted to prove their skill, they often had to list the famous restaurants they had worked at and the chefs they had followed on their resume. When Michelin entered Taiwan, backed by its long-standing international reputation, a single star was enough to replace a lengthy self-justification. The public did not know who the judges were, nor could they see the full selection process, yet they still believed in a reliable standard behind that red star.

The pedestal is not eternal. Later, "The World’s 50 Best Restaurants" established another form of prestige through an industry voting mechanism; in Taiwan, the "500 Dishes" emerged, combining cross-disciplinary judges with local perspectives. New evaluations have appeared one after another, and blogs and social media have lowered the barrier to entry for commentary. On the surface, the absolute nature of a single authority has been weakened; in reality, authority has not disappeared, it has simply provided more benchmarks for "deliciousness." The spots on the pedestal have never truly been empty; the faces on them are just changing faster than ever before.

Taste Anxiety in the Age of the "Outrage Algorithm"

"Current algorithms have evolved into 'outrage algorithms'—you need to stir up controversy to get traffic," Liz points out regarding the contradictions of contemporary content platforms. Social media has made food discussions more open, but when algorithms encourage more provocative and emotional content, traffic can override quality, and food criticism is easily compressed into extreme emotional statements.

However, she also believes that the more cluttered the information, the more people crave credible guidance. New authority is no longer monopolized by a single institution, but can be built upon the knowledge, experience, and judgment that creators accumulate over time.

Yet, when the focus shifts from online debates back to the stove, the impact of criticism on a restaurant is never just abstract prestige. A single recommendation on social media can instantly flood a reservation system with new guests; a casual remark about a place being "overrated" can discourage those who were planning to visit. Whether a review is fair can be debated endlessly in articles and forums, but the foot traffic and revenue it brings are the realities a restaurant must face every day.

It is precisely for this reason that Jia-Ping Wang's attitude toward rankings—neither resisting nor relying on them—is particularly worth discussing.

Rankings Can Bring Guests In, But It Is the Food That Keeps Them

When discussing awards and restaurant management, Jia-Ping laughs and says he doesn't turn down any awards, even joking that if he ever received a Michelin star, he would hang a red banner in front of his shop. At his core, however, he remains a pragmatist.

"If a restaurant isn't making money today and the customers are gone, all the talk about philosophy and creativity is just nonsense." His words are direct, yet they highlight the most practical situation for a restaurant operator. Awards can attract new guests, but whether they stay depends on the kitchen's stable output, day after day. For a well-run restaurant, awards are just the icing on the cake; whether a diner leaves satisfied after a meal is the true test.

Liz also believes that reviews do more than just bring business to restaurants; when culinary skills and techniques are recognized, they can further influence the direction of the industry. For individual reviews to serve a similar public function, they cannot simply stop at "I think so." In-depth food criticism can not only promote industry progress but also provide an important bridge for the public to discuss taste.

Articulating "Sensations": Finding Public Coordinates for Deliciousness

What should a good food review contain? Liz believes that food, service, and space together constitute the experience of a meal.

When discussing "food," one can start with the use of ingredients and the logic of seasoning to understand the relationship between a dish and its local terroir, history, culture, and even the chef's life experience. "Service" is not just about friendliness; it also includes the pacing of the meal, professional conduct, and the overall flow of the dining experience. "Space" involves the physical sensations created by colors, table arrangements, and even background music.

These aspects provide a basis for explaining abstract tastes. When diners and critics disagree, these clues help distinguish which sensations stem from culinary technique and execution, and which arise from personal preferences and habits. There is no need to dismiss a dish's professionalism just because you don't like it, nor should you force yourself to be impressed just because authorities unanimously praise it.

Understanding why a dish is good while also recognizing whether it suits your personal taste—these two judgments can coexist.

Reading reviews, asking friends, checking recent feedback, and comparing menus and backgrounds is not just about avoiding bad experiences; it is about identifying where every "delicious" comes from. Diners do not need to accept everything, nor should they refuse to listen out of fear of being influenced.

So, with everyone talking about food, who should you believe when they say something is "delicious"? The answer perhaps lies somewhere between the "public" and "professional authorities." Chefs explain techniques and realities, critics offer knowledge and comparisons, and diners retain memories and feelings. The value of expertise lies in providing a fuller, more grounded judgment for every tasting experience.

In fine dining, the chef's delicate arrangement of flavors is worth appreciating; a simple, warm bowl of rice noodle soup on a street corner can also bring genuine satisfaction. These two types of beauty do not need to prove themselves to each other, nor do they need to be measured by the same yardstick. Expertise opens up more perspectives for people to understand food, but ultimately, everyone can still maintain their own authentic preferences.

When the criteria from different perspectives can be explained, compared, and questioned, "Taiwanese flavor" does not need to wait for a dogmatic consensus on what is "delicious." Its most charming aspect is that it allows different positions to speak simultaneously and even debate one another. Public taste does not require an unshakeable standard, but rather a capacity for discussion characterized by clear articulation, rational exchange, and a willingness to return to real-world experience for verification.

When people have the ability to explain in detail why they like something and can also understand why others disagree, "delicious" is no longer just a term controlled by authority, but a catalyst for opening up public dialogue about food in Taiwan.

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Your Keywords for Taiwanese Flavor? — Liz Kao

"3D: Diverse, Dynamic, Democratic"

"I believe the beauty of Taiwanese flavor lies in its '3D' characteristics: Diverse, Dynamic, and Democratic. It is an inclusive and constantly evolving process; we freely gather influences from multiple cultures, continuously embrace new things, and at the same time, maintain our own unique perspectives and features amidst the collision."

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Your Keywords for Taiwanese Flavor? — Jia-Ping Wang

"Effortless Ease"

"For me, the keyword for Taiwanese flavor is 'effortless ease.' It is not an experience that requires sitting up straight or pursuing something deliberately; it is a relaxed, everyday state that blends various atmospheres. You can find it just a few blocks away, and enjoying it doesn't require any stuffy formality. This sense of ease is the most beautiful aspect of Taiwanese flavor."