A new restaurant critic, a new meaning for star ratings

For the past two months, I’ve been eating out nearly every night, including a stretch when I basically ate a cheeseburger a day. That probably wasn’t great for my cholesterol, but hopefully it was all counterbalanced with the big salads I’ve also been eating.

Between cheeseburgers, I’ve been exploring the Twin Cities, suburbs and beyond ahead of my first restaurant reviews for the Star Tribune, which start next week. Before that, I wanted to shed some light on my approach.

More of an art and less of a science, restaurant reviews are inherently personal judgments shaped by individuals with their own tastes, flaws, quirks, likes and dislikes. Aside from big picture cultural criticism around food and dining, I believe the core purpose of restaurant reviews is service journalism, to help readers decide where to spend their time and money.

Eating out can be expensive, even while the margins for restaurant owners have only gotten tighter (just look at how many places closed in 2025). Rigorous, trustworthy restaurant reviews are more important than ever. There aren’t many publications doing them consistently, and I plan to apply my professional experience — both cooking and eating — to help guide readers on where they should be dining.

Through my reviews, you’ll get to know me and my idiosyncrasies (I like my fries crispy and with mayonnaise; I’m no fan of mint chocolate, especially mint chocolate chip ice cream, sorry). My reviews will include star ratings, which will probably be just as opinionated.

The most famous international rating system comes from Michelin, the French tire company. In the 1930s, Michelin formalized its now-canonical three-tier system: one for “a very good restaurant in its category,” two for “excellent cooking, worth a detour,” and three stars for “exceptional cuisine, worth a special journey.”

Over the past century, restaurant ratings have been all over the place: Zagat used a screwy 30-point scale. The Infatuation and Beli employ a 10-point rating scale with decimals. Yelp, Google, and OpenTable rely on five stars, often refined to the tenth of a point.

Historically, star ratings systems skewed toward fine dining. They can be reductive, one-dimensional and deeply Euro-centric — anachronistic systems that reward certain cuisines while marginalizing others.

Michelin insists that decor and service play no role on its ratings, that stars are only awarded “for the food on the plate — nothing more.” In theory, that sounds noble. But in practice, that’s not how it plays out. Most two- and three-star restaurants around the world conform to a specific style: pressed tablecloths, hushed dining rooms, luxury ingredients like truffles and caviar, and a procession of very small plates arriving alongside very long explanations and very large checks.

This style of fine dining has its place, don’t get me wrong. But Michelin stars have produced a tedious global aesthetic, one that chefs dutifully emulate at the expense of creativity, personality, and dare I say, joy. Stars have consequences, not just reputationally but economically.

Some publications opted out of starred reviews entirely. In 2012, when the Los Angeles Times hired Jonathan Gold as their restaurant critic, the paper dropped star ratings. Food editor Russ Parsons argued that stars “reduce a thoughtful and nuanced critique to a simple score” and no longer reflected the reality of dining in Southern California. The L.A. Times has not used stars since.

During the pandemic, many publications, including the Star Tribune, paused ratings or reviews altogether. “Especially now, given all the industry’s challenges, restaurants merit more than a symbol to sum them up,” Tom Sietsema at the Washington Post wrote in 2022. His successor, Elazar Sontag, recently brought stars back, noting that they “cut through the noise.” The New York Times reinstated stars in 2022, as did the Boston Globe, signaling a broader shift from crisis coverage back to consumer guidance.

As a quantitative shorthand, stars allow busy readers to quickly get a sense of a restaurant’s caliber. In a world driven by apps, algorithms and rankings, stars are a universally understood snapshot. Stars don’t replace thoughtful criticism; they coexist with it.

Can we rethink how stars are used? Can reviews be more equitable, empathetic and contextual? Can we recognize care, intention and ambition alongside technical excellence? Can we judge restaurants not against a single global luxury ideal, but instead by how well they execute what they set out to do?

We’re about to find out.

There is no rigid checklist or secret rubric. No formal criteria. No secret spreadsheet. All restaurants are fair game: modest and extravagant; new and old; urban, suburban and rural. Tasting menus and taco trucks. Steakhouses, pho shops, food hall stands and neighborhood restaurants.

The goal is always to find great food. Other things we’re looking for are attention to detail, clarity of vision and consistency. Reviews will consider the full dining experience: hospitality, service, ambience, joy, comfort, value. Does the restaurant surprise and delight? Would we recommend it to friends, family or strangers? Would we spend our own money there?

Four stars: Extraordinary. Restaurants operating at a nearly impossible level: ambitious, precise, and deserving of local, national and global attention.

Three stars: Excellent. Highly recommended. Worth going out of your way for.

Two stars: Remarkable. A solid, dependable experience that delivers on its promise.

One star: Very Good. Worth a visit, but inconsistent at times.

Zero stars: Not Good. Best to avoid.

In the interest of transparency, it’s worth explaining how reviews are conducted. Restaurant criticism only works if readers trust that evaluations are independent, fair and based on repeat, real-world experiences, and not special access, perks, or one unusually good night.

These ground rules exist to protect the integrity of the review, to minimize variables, and to ensure that the experience being evaluated is as close as possible to what readers might encounter when they walk through the door, open the menu and pay for the check. With that in mind, here’s how reviews at the Star Tribune will work:

No freebies. The Star Tribune pays for everything we review. It’s cool if restaurants want to send things out, but everything has to be paid for. To be clear: restaurants do not compensate the Star Tribune or its food writers in any way. As tempting as a Cava bag full of cash may sound, restaurant margins are far too thin for bribes anyway.

No special treatment. Unlike my colleagues who report on the local food scene, there are no press invites for me, the critic. No friends-and-family preview dinners at hot new openings. (This one hurts the most because I do love the smell of a brand new restaurant).

Reservations. No going through publicists or restaurant owners to get reservations. I’ll battle for reservations online just like anyone else.

Grace period. It can take a little while for restaurants to fully evolve into what they’re intended to be. I plan on giving new spots at least six weeks before I begin evaluating them, often longer.

Multiple visits. Reviews will require a minimum of three visits.

At the end of the day, star ratings are not a verdict on a restaurant’s worth, nor are they meant to flatten the complexity of dining into a single symbol. Stars are a tool — imperfect but familiar and useful — designed to help readers navigate a crowded, expensive and constantly shifting restaurant landscape.

The real work happens in the reporting, the repeated visits, the context and the storytelling in the reviews. If the stars do their job, they will save you time. If the reviews do their job, they will earn your trust. Together, they are meant to help answer a simple, practical question: Where should I eat tonight?