Tom Sietsema, the Washington Post’s food critic, retired recently after 25 years of reviewing Washington’s restaurants. I have known him even longer than 25 years.  When Tom was in college in Washington, he was the intern of Phyllis Richman, his predecessor. Phyllis was — and is — an old friend. At the time, I was writing for the Post, and Tom and I passed each other in the halls from time to time.

After his graduation, he moved to San Francisco to work for the newspaper there, The Chronicle, and I saw him from time to time.  We went on a tour together, a trip orchestrated by Roberto Donna, the Piedmontese chef of Washington, and I have always made it my business to show up in San Francisco as I love the city.

In his reviews of The BreadLine, my restaurant/bakery near the White House, and later of Bread Furst, Tom was always kind to me — though he would not like to hear it put that way. He would insist that I deserved every bit of praise. He couldn’t say otherwise; to do so would suggest he praised me for my personality rather than my baking. And once a critic is thought to praise personality over product, no one believes him again — about anything. That would be deadly.

I am off track.

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Tom and his partner Ed’s for dinner. I hope Tom won’t mind if I review the meal. I know he doesn’t expect to be reviewed in his own home, but no restaurant ever expects to be reviewed in its own home either.

Tom and Ed recently moved into a newly constructed apartment just off Connecticut Avenue in Woodley Park. The building rises above the old Wardman Park Hotel, where Presidents Hoover, Eisenhower, and Johnson once lived (not all together). Marlene Dietrich lived there too — though not, as far as I know, with any of the presidents.

Their apartment is elegantly decorated, with subdued lighting and soft background music — low enough that I did not have to complain about how little I can hear, even with my hearing aids. As Tom might write, if reviewing his own apartment: conversation was possible without raised voices.

Our reservation was for 5:30 p.m. When he was the restaurant critic, I was one of Tom’s favorite dining companions largely because I never complained about early reservations. I never minded them. I always imagined that after our dinners ended around 7:00, he went home to Ed and had dinner again — this time without me.

The table was beautifully set. The linens were carefully laid, candles running down the center. We sat just in time for soup: a nearly perfect consommé, which would have been flawless with one more straining and a bit more salt.

That was followed by a well-made meatloaf — not too compact but compact enough to hold together. It required no knife, yielding perfectly to the fork.

Tom never revealed the people with whom he dined; he preferred not to disclose friendships — (or perhaps they preferred not to disclose theirs). I have no such scruples. I have many friends with whom I love to eat — Corby and John, the Boasbergs, Pichet and Jase, among others — and I am not shy about dining with them or reviewing them.

Tom and Ed are excellent company: loquacious, cheerful, generous. Everyone should have friends like these. Their apartment is pristine. The liquor is good, the wine well-chosen, the linens spotless.

No review, however, would be complete without mentioning the dog.

They have a large white dog — ugly as a greyhound. The Internet informs me the breed is called a whippet and is described as “needy.” I could have told you that without the Internet. Henry, the dog, followed us as we moved about the room and later settled nearby, while Ed prepared Cosmopolitans — though Henry, as I recall, did not ask for one.

He did not settle on the floor where he belonged but stretched out on the sofa. No one shoved him off as I would have done.  Clearly, it was Henry’s place.

I don’t know much about dogs. We always had them when I was growing up, and I hated them all. My grandparents always had Collies, and my grandmother used to say to me, “It is unmanly not to like dogs.” What I hated most was that they smelled terrible, had halitosis, and never stopped moving and interrupting my reading.

Anyway…

Dessert was brought by our other guest, Bonnie Benwick, who retired from the Post in 2019. She made a chocolate olive oil cake. For a vegan dessert, it wasn’t bad — though it would not have been harmed by a generous dollop of heavily whipped cream. And perhaps eggs and cream in the batter.

After dinner, we moved into the living room — which is also the dining room — and once again shared space with the beast earlier mentioned.

What happens to a critic after writing about a city’s restaurants for 25 years? Is it like a chef who has run a kitchen that long? In some ways, yes. A chef can only cook, and a writer can only write.

For now, Tom is in demand. He hosts dinners for people he cares about. He continues to eat in restaurants, now without disguises, and often writes about his meals. I hope that continues. Staying in the limelight, however, is not going to be easy.

Tom wrote a weekly review for the Post. He did a weekly “chat” for the Post. He wrote long articles and traveled for stories. Despite the rise of amateur food critics who write their own blogs, he remained the city’s most prestigious restaurant critic.

I love that he now has time to invite me to dinner. I hope he enjoys that freedom.

But still, I wonder.

Will he miss the Post?