If you’ve never met Pete Wells, you might consider yourself lucky. The New York Times food critic is infamous for the influence he exerts on the local culinary scene. His skewering of Guy Fieri’s American Kitchen and Bar is not far from the mind of any restaurant owner in The City That Never Sleeps.
It’s one thing to rise to that level of influence. It’s another to be able reach those heights while maintaining a guise of anonymity.
Last year, Thrillist’s Kevin Alexander attempted the impossible: “Finding Pete Wells.”
IT’S A THURSDAY NIGHT IN MARCH, and Pete Wells definitely might be in Pasquale Jones. PJ is an eatery on Mulberry Street in Manhattan, and its curriculum vitae suggests that it’s uniquely qualified for a Pete Wells review: open a month, packed every night, a sister restaurant to Charlie Bird, which he’s already reviewed (one star, “surprisingly erratic: tremendously likable one moment, strangely off-key the next”). I’m eating with my college roommate, Frank. I tell him to keep an eye out.
“For Pete Wells?” he asks, in between bites of a delicious clam pizza I think Wells might like even more than the one at the North End Grill (two stars, 2012, re-confirmed in 2015, a clam pizza that might be “better than Franny’s”).
“Of course for Pete Wells.”
Using tradecraft I learned watching the movie Spy Game, I scan the restaurant, concentrating on four- or five-tops, as I know from my research that Pete Wells will be at one of those. I count 22 white men aged 40 to 60 sitting at tables. Of those, 14 are at four- or six-tops. I excuse myself to use the restroom, and walk slowly around, making sure to glance in mirrors (tradecraft!). Twelve men can be excluded right away for various reasons (build, complexion, being Chipotle CEO Steve Ells, etc.), but two require a closer look. I’m nearly convinced one of them is Pete Wells, until he opens his mouth and heavily accented French comes out.
When I get back to our bar seats, Frank is staring at me.
“What the hell is this about?”
