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盛夏初逢前尘梦，隆冬便与寒塘冻。常忆千里路，悠然烟雨中。
薄幸两樽同，风絮今无踪。迟日待春风，为君锦花红。

几十里京塘路远，晨风驱驰心冰冻。仓皇十九阶，细细数楼格。
红花旧泪痕，涔涔青竹影。空步寻香迹，衣在人不还。

移目轩窗外，
灯火千千万。
今夕更比往日浓，
盏盏照人还。

举步欲摘星，
细看已携风。
万盏千只难相伴，
独爱为我燃。

In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and to read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that in the grand scheme of things the average piece of junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. The world is often unkind to new talent, new creations. The new needs friends.

Last night, I experienced something new, an extraordinary meal from a singularly unexpected source. To say that both the meal and its maker have challenged my preconceptions about fine cooking is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core. In the past, I have made no secret of my disdain for Chef Gusteau’s famous motto, “Anyone can cook.” But I realize only now do I truly understand what he meant.

Not everyone can become a great artist,but a great artist can come from anywhere. It is difficult to imagine more humble origins than those of the genius now cooking at Gusteau’s, who is, in this critic’s opinion, nothing less than the finest chef in France. I will be returning to Gusteau’s soon, hungry for more.

土是一种微妙的至高境界。