THOUGH MY DAD was a self-proclaimed food critic, the truth is, he really didn’t know a filet from a mignon and wouldn’t have recognized a gourmet meal if it had bit back at him. Fine dining was, according to his definition, truck-stop-café portions of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, hot rolls slathered in butter, and a bottomless glass of sugared iced tea. That’s how it was in the glorious precholesterol times, when no food came with a dire warning from the family doctor. Read More