This is an essay I promised myself I’d never write.

Over the years, as restaurant critics shed their anonymity, it became somewhat of a trope: A large photo of an unremarkable-looking dude, with an accompanying article proclaiming the end of the era of their visual secrecy.

Often the essay included lots of analysis on the reasons for this reveal: after years of working in a city, most waiters and owners know who they are anyway; it’s unfair to the few restaurants that don’t know and therefore don’t get the advantage; and – to me – the most egregious fallacy for anyone who has done this job, the assertion that anonymity makes no real difference, that a restaurant can’t change its cooking or service on a whim and so remaining unknown isn’t worth the bother.

It does make a difference. It is worth the bother. I’m giving it up anyway.

I think about the time when Jonathan Gold and I were dining in the same swank new LA restaurant, the type of place that absolutely treated VIP guests differently than they did the average punter (despite the price being the same for both), and the vastly different experiences (and resulting reviews) Jonathan and I had. (Jonathan was so visually unique he was instantly recognisable as LA’s most famous critic, even before he officially gave up anonymity.)

I think about the times when I’ve shown up to extremely fancy restaurants in my op-shop finery, looking like this was the one nice meal I might be able to afford this decade, and being treated with extreme care and consideration, as if the staff wanted to make that one meal truly memorable. If they’d known who I was, could I take that level of hospitality for granted as a standard experience? Probably not.

I always imagined that if and when I let go of this tool – one of many in my reviewing toolbox, albeit a precious one – I’d let it go quietly. I didn’t imagine it would become one of the defining aspects of my career. I had no idea it would last for so long – almost 20 years – or that by the time there was a reason to let it go, I’d be one of the few remaining anonymous critics in the world. (Bill Addison at LA Times and Tom Sietsema at Washington Post are both technically still anonymous, which is to say they’ve kept photos off the internet.)

Anonymity for restaurant critics used to be standard, but social media and the pressures of a career in media, wherein visibility is everything, have made it the exception rather than the norm. As that exception has become more exceptional, it has become an integral part of my brand, for lack of a better word. I’ve been asked to write about it in numerous articles. For the past few years, this masthead has pointed it out under my reviews. But I wrote a book (released shortly) in which my anonymity factors heavily as a topic.

Here’s the thing about that book: I’m incredibly proud of it. It’s the most important thing I’ve done in my career, and it has the potential to open my life up to all kinds of opportunities.

‘I had no idea it would last for so long – almost 20 years – or that by the time there was a reason to let it go, I’d be one of the few remaining anonymous critics in the world.’

But for that to happen, people have to read it. And for that to happen, I need to promote it. Which means events. Television. And yes, according to my publisher, an author photo on the jacket is necessary.

Believe me, we discussed all the options. Instead of a current author photo, we could use a picture of me as a toddler (something I’ve done often when magazines want a photo for their contributors page). I could turn up to readings in a mask or a disguise of some sort. I had a harebrained idea that involved different friends acting as me in different cities, playing the part of Besha while I hid on the sidelines.

The problem is that one of the things I’ve always hated about anonymity is the inherent self-importance of the charade (part of why I didn’t want to write this essay). I hate declining photos at social events, I hate admonishing dinner-mates when they say my name, I hate lying to bartenders when they ask about my day or my life. It all seems so stupid – who cares? It’s just a part of my job. The idea of coming up with elaborate schemes to continue to obfuscate my appearance while promoting a book seems so ridiculously self-aggrandising.

And so, here’s how it’s going to go: There will be a (recent) photo of me on the book I wrote. I will do public book events; if people take photos at those events, so be it. Like every other food writer in Australia, photos of me will likely show up in the kitchens of good restaurants, so they know who to look out for. My experience of dining out will change, probably for the worse. (I hate making people anxious.)

But also? I will continue to do my best to get in and out of restaurants without being noticed. Numerous times throughout my career, I have certainly dined at places where the staff know me. It happens over time – one person figures you out, they get a job somewhere else and then they figure you out, too, etc.

In Melbourne, my siblings have worked in hospitality since before I moved home in 2017 – I meet people at weddings, at bars, at parties. And yet, still, I think I know how to fade into the background, to look unlike myself in certain key ways. I’m not saying it will always work, and I’m not saying it’s a perfect solution, but any attempt at anonymity – even as I’ve been practising it up until now – is not perfect.

I am saying that I’m going to continue to do my best to avoid being recognised. I’ve never attended media dinners, and I don’t plan to start. Doing my job well means I can’t get too friendly with chefs, public relations folks and the like, and I plan to maintain that social distance, whether I’m anonymous or not. Basically, I plan to continue to do my job as well and as ethically as I can. Anonymity is not the only way to achieve that. (Again: it helps! But it’s not a requirement.)

Restaurant reviews, news and the hottest openings served to your inbox.