My first restaurant review for the Free Times was published on Oct. 3, 2001. It was a feature on Goodman's Sandwich Inn, a Parma institution that serves up this city's finest hand-sliced corned beef. They say novice freelancers should "write what you know." I knew Jewish deli, so that's what I wrote about.

Corned beef served straight up on soft rye with yellow mustard is certainly the biggest seller, followed by the brisket and then the pastrami. You won't find a Reuben, so don't ask. And although it ain't kosher to do so, you can get a slice of cheese on any of the sandwiches. The strangest request for a corned beef sandwich? "I once had a guy ask for grape jelly on his," Goodman recalls with a grimace.

Since 2001, I've had the pleasure of reviewing 400 restaurants, interviewing numerous culinary luminaries, and penning some enlightening food-related features. I sought this position because I believed I possessed superior food chops. Man, did I have a lot to learn.

Fried chicken and waffles was as foreign a concept to me as it was to the rest of the city when I wrote about Phil the Fire, back when Phil Davis worked out of the basement of the Civic rather than a proper restaurant. He went on to open - and close - two restaurants. Dim sum was something I felt comfortable writing about when I covered Li Wah's popular Sunday banquet. But even six years later, I vividly can recall the singular horror of beef tripe.

With a texture akin to cat's tongue and a flavor much the same, I can only imagine, I readily expect to see this dish on the Survivor food wheel.

It takes a spirit of adventure to be a successful food writer. Rare is the critic who can perpetually sidestep variety meats in favor of filet mignon. In the line of duty I've eaten eel, frog, cactus, tofu, schweinsbraten, ostrich, curried goat, oxtail stew, chopped liver, kimchi, vegetarian hot dog, questionable sushi, mofongo, Kentucky Hot Brown, chicken feet, even a deep-fried Twinkie. But even I sometimes draw the line, as I did at Empress Taytu.

Listed in a section entitled "If You Dare," kitfo is the Ethiopian version of steak tartare. Lean raw beef is mixed with hot sauce and served with homemade cottage cheese. I can't relate how this dish tastes because I did not dare.

Adventure is one thing, danger is something else entirely. I never imagined that my role as critic would place me in harm's way, as it did when I was served a blood-raw chicken leg as an amuse bouche. That it was served in the middle of the meal only made me that much more suspicious. Worse, I nearly ingested gelatinized gasoline once simply by ordering the beef yakitori.

Nudging the beef to one side, I see that the heat source is an open Sterno flame, with both wick and fire literally climbing up through the grate. Sterno, also called napalm, is not intended for direct cooking. Who can possibly enjoy napalm-scented beef? To his credit, the manager offers to remove it from my bill. It should be removed from the menu as well.

Despite opinion to the contrary, restaurant critics — at least this one — do not take pleasure in writing negative reviews. Still, critical reviews can alert readers to potential pitfalls. And properly penned, they can offer management a roadmap to brighter days. Here are some particularly egregious blunders.

When our server sets down a cup of seafood bisque, the contents in the mug continue to shake - jiggle, actually - for a good two seconds. "Is the soup normally this thick?" I ask the server. "No, it isn't," she states dryly. "Let me take it back and have the chef thin it out." ...

"There's nothing worse than over-cooked pasta," says my companion, who obviously has never tried beef tripe soup. The side of linguine, which should be firm to the tooth, is softer than Bob Dole after a glass of wine. ...

I don't know about you, but when I see a menu item called "hot clam dip," I pretty much have to order it. Let me tell you, hot clam dip is not as good as it sounds, unless a crock of melted cream cheese sounds appetizing. I had half a mind to ask my waitress to send over the captain. ...

Our strips of bacon look like desiccated pigs' tails, and they shatter like glass when touched. "They deep fry them," my server volunteers. "Looks like they left them in too long." Before I could say a word, she leaves to retrieve a fresh order. ...

As with any job, there are obligatory tasks that food critics must undertake regardless how unsavory. Among them are writing annual "Best Of" lists and patio round-ups, returning to a dismal eatery, eating eggplant, and attending the dreaded all-you-can-eat buffet.

Buffets are a calamity by design. Every other restaurant meal is made to order and delivered hot and fresh to the table. Not so at the buffet where food is prepared by the gallon and kept warm for long periods of time in a covered dish. Worse, on a list of foods sturdy enough to withstand such abuse, delicate breakfast items would sit near the bottom.

Some meals have been bizarre:

At one point, in the midst of flying spatulas and glinting knives, a severed and bloody finger bounces across the grill. Alas, it is a phony. Though the routine was hokey, this Japanese Jerry Lewis has us laughing right up to his bow and exit. And the food he left in his wake was no joke.

Others are just plain sad, as was this meal at Bistro du Beaujolais after the start of the Iraq war.

"Our business is off by 85 percent," says Georges d' Arras. It seems that although Georges considers every customer a friend, most have decided to stay home or eat elsewhere. And to this gregarious man with a pocketful of wine corks, nothing could be more heartbreaking.

One of the best parts of the job is spreading the word about little-known start-ups — places like tiny Pho Hoa, quirky Happy Dog, convivial Bistro 185, "hidden gem" Grovewood Tavern, Southern belle Henry's at the Barn, and up-and-comer Tremont Tap House. Inevitably, there are times I get to the party late, reviewing places that have been around longer than I. But just because a restaurant has thrived for decades doesn't mean I'm going to enjoy it.

The Diamond Grille is the stuff of legends, many of which may actually be true. But pity those customers who are neither Tiger Woods nor Vijay Singh, whose last names don't happen to be Firestone or Goodyear, because at the Diamond Grille there exists a rather patent dichotomy of treatment based on who you are — or are not.

Dinners out have provided me with opportunities not only to analyze new restaurants, but also new friends. It was over a lovely meal of snails and sweetbreads that I became smitten with Mosaica restaurant, and a gal named Kim. The restaurant is long gone. Kim, thankfully, is not.

Some guys are attracted to women with money. Others simply are breast men. But with me, it all comes down to food. I've given up on perfectly lovely women who refused to eat curry. I've thrown in the towel after a single date when one wouldn't try the freshest Malpeque oyster. So when, after sitting down at our beautifully appointed table, my date agrees to share a plate of escargot, I know that our future lies completely in her hands.

A long drive back from a bad restaurant can be absolute torture. But some of my favorite experiences have taken place miles from home. Little can top a high-summer trip to South Market Bistro in Wooster. The ride back from Chez Francois is rarely filled with regret. I have had the privilege of writing about restaurants in New York, San Francisco, Napa and Martha's Vineyard.

I very much enjoyed chatting with Anthony Bourdain, who offered this tidbit.

"The perfect meal will sneak up on you. You can't plan for it, you can't look for it, but it will hit you when you're half-drunk and least expect it. Cooking is a dominant act. It is all about control - of your time, your space, your ingredients. Eating, however, is all about submission. It's about sitting back in your chair, spreading your legs and letting whatever happens happen."

I've been sitting back in my chair and spreading my legs now for almost seven years. It has been the job of a lifetime, and one I would loathe to lose. Happily, I'm not going anywhere. Looks like we're stuck with each other for the foreseeable future.