David Fishman

Mary sent me a link to this article in the New York Times and I loved it so much that I wanted to post it here. I was so David Fishman when I was little. Except I expressed myself with comment cards at fine dining establishments like Taco Bell. Assuming Satchel gets over his "CKs has the best food ever!" mentality and learns to spell, he might surpass the young Fishman.

12-Year-Old’s a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It
By SUSAN DOMINUS

Everyone’s a critic, and apparently it’s never too soon to start.

That’s why David Fishman, an Upper West Sider who turned 12 last month, decided to take himself out for dinner one night last week. His parents had called him at home to say they were running late, suggesting that he grab some takeout at the usual hummus place.

Hummus, again? David thought he could do better than that.

He had recently passed by the newly opened Salumeria Rosi, a few blocks from his home, and had been intrigued by the reflective black back wall, the cuts of dried pork hanging from the ceiling, the little jars of cured olives and artichokes adorning the walls. If it was O.K. with his mom (and it turned out it was), he wanted to try that instead.

David aspires to be a food critic — he has some vague notion that he could make a living writing for the Zagat guides — and the new Italian spot on Amsterdam Avenue near 73rd Street seemed worthy of investigation.

That night, Tuesday, turned out to be one of the first that the restaurant was open to the public. David requested a menu, which the hostess handed him, and decided that it was within his budget ($25). Then he asked for a table for one and waited to see what she’d say. A year before, he had been turned away from a half-empty restaurant in Montauk and told that it did not serve children unaccompanied by adults. “I was angry, but I didn’t show it,” he said. “What can you do?”

Grown-up or not, tables were hard to come by that evening — every seat was booked, mostly by friends of the chef and owner, Cesare Casella, the Tuscan impresario behind Maremma in the West Village. Even a boldfaced name dropped by (Tony Danza, who, to the David Fishmans of the world, is just another old fogy). But the hostess decided to squeeze in the Salumeria’s first unaccompanied customer under 4 feet 8, as long as he promised to be out by 8 p.m. It was a deal.

Nobody at the restaurant seemed terribly impressed by Tony Danza, but David Fishman — now that was something. People tried not to stare, but couldn’t help themselves. Where were his parents? Was he enjoying the food? Cash or credit?

Normally passionate for seafood, David ordered a specialty of the restaurant, a prosciutto, as well as what the menu called una insalata di rucola e parmigiano. “Good variety,” he wrote in the leather-bound notebook he brought along, restaurant-critic-like. “Softish jazz music. Seem to enjoy kids but not overly.” In other words, no cloying smiles or insulting offer of grilled cheese.

An Australian couple seated beside him struck up a conversation — he had no idea how much the financial collapse here was affecting the Australian dollar! — and a young couple on the other side of his table insisted, against his polite but firm protestations, on buying him a chocolate mousse. In turn, he recommended that they try the arugula salad.

The kitchen workers were so intrigued by the young adventurous eater that they sent out a bowl of complimentary tripe stew, which he enjoyed, although, he allowed, “It wasn’t my favorite.” He was a little surprised to learn, subsequently, that tripe was prepared stomach lining. His eyes went wide. “Intestines of what?” he asked. (Somehow, that seemed to matter.)

Food is David’s life — well, food and swimming and volunteering and student council and green rooftops (his school, Fieldston, has one). But he really likes food. At 6, he won a competition at the Crumbs Bakery for the best new cupcake concept (David’s Peppermint Patty Cupcake). As a prize, he got a free cupcake every Wednesday for a year — and then, even though he wasn’t technically supposed to, for more than a year after that. Sadly, eventually all the people who worked there were replaced. “Now they don’t know anything about it,” he said.

BUT the young foodie has cultivated a new fan in Chef Casella, a burly man who generally tours his restaurants with a trademark sprig of herb in his pocket. Mr. Casella came over the evening of David’s big night out to extend a greeting, and sent him home with a gift of fine hazelnut spread. Though David was disappointed that the restaurant did not serve gelato, he got points with Mr. Casella for knowing a little something about Italian cuisine.

“He reminded me of me, when I was younger,” said Mr. Casella, who used to drive all over Europe by himself to try the best restaurants. “He is so cool, though — more confident than I am when I eat out by myself.”

Mr. Casella likewise made an impression on David. “He looked like a real meat guy,” David said. Like a butcher? “Like a butcher-slash-guy who would eat a lot of meat,” he clarified.

As independent as David is, he is not allowed to walk around much after dark by himself, so his mom swung by the restaurant to pick him up when he called. Once home, he wrote up the review, Zagat-style, in his private journal, giving the restaurant a 24 out of 25 for food, and a 23 out of 25 for décor.

“As I left,” he wrote, “I knew that soon enough this would be one of the most ‘hip’ places in the city.” If there was a weak spot, it was the service, in his opinion: 21 out of 25. In his notes, David remarked that the bread service was a little slow.

“I agree,” the chef said when presented with the critique. “We’re working on it.”

E-mail: susan.dominus
@nytimes.com