Since I didn’t really get any reasonable questions about actual food this week, I thought I’d take a few minutes to answer some of the love letters sent in to me by some of my new fans here in the Emerald City.Adam, from my inbox:”This city doesn’t need you. Why don’t you go back to Denver, you hack?”Because someone else is living in my old house now, Adam. I don’t think they’d appreciate me walking in on them. Someone else has my old parking spot and, eventually, someone else will start doing my old job in Denver. Seven-and-a-half years was a good run for me, but I was hungry for something new.What’s more, believe it or not, I volunteered for this gig. I chose Seattle, and I like it here. I’ve seen some beautiful things already, have eaten some good food (though nothing truly great yet, which has me a bit nervous), and met some nice people. You might be a dick, but I try not to judge an entire city by the pissy ramblings of a few of its assholes.Mike, in response to my review of Taqueria La Venadita:”This is the worst ‘review’ I have ever read. What passes for criticism in Denver, clearly has no place in a real city. Jason Sheehan is hack of the highest order. Go back to Denver!”See above, Mike. Heart you bunches.On my voice mail this morning, no name given:”Jason Sheehan is a stupid motherfucker. Why does he think I care about his girlfriend or his dog or his life or the time he spent cooking? Can we have Jonathan Kauffman back please?”Sorry, caller. From what I understand, Kauffman is settling in nicely in San Francisco and you’re stuck with me. And as to why you should care about all that stuff? It’s simple. Food is a highly subjective topic and the discussion of it a topic I take very seriously. The reason I write about myself is because I am the lens through which you’re seeing a given restaurant, experiencing any particular bite. Therefore, context is important. You should know if I have a cold, if I am miserable that day, if I’ve been looking forward to something for weeks and therefore more likely to love it or, on the flip side, dreading eating somewhere and hoping quietly for my low expectations to be overcome. Take this week’s review as an example. Would I have liked Ocho as much had I visited on a bright and sunny afternoon when the place was empty and the stereo broken? Maybe. But it would’ve certainly been a different experience. And I know this because I actually did visit on a (relatively) bright and (somewhat) sunny afternoon and it was a different experience–and not quite so personally moving. I chose to write about the night, the rain, my mood and the company I kept because, as with anyone who eats, all of this became part of my memories of Ocho, inextricably linked with my recollections of the albondigas, the sweat on my bottle of Estrella and the arrangement of my tortilla Espanola on the plate.As to why you should care about the years I spent cooking? Personally, I don’t care whether you do or don’t. But you know who does? All those cooks and chefs out there that I write about every day. I’ve walked the walk. I’ve done my time. And while my fondness for white jackets of all description does nothing to buy them mercy when they fuck up, it does give me an inside-out understanding of the business I write about every day and an appreciation for what cooks and chefs have dedicated their lives to doing: cooking dinner for strangers.Also, I don’t have a girlfriend or a dog. I have a wife and a cat. As to my being a stupid motherfucker? Well, you’ve obviously made up your own mind on the subject.Joe, in response to my triptych review of Ivar’s, Dick’s and Pagliacchi:”Who the hell gave this no-talent hack business cards?”No one, Joe. I’m a restaurant critic–and an anonymous one, to boot. I don’t have much use for business cards.Joe again, same place:”Also, did you really average 64+ hours every week for nearly 15 years, per your intro? It sounds like that wouldn’t leave enough time in the week to stroke your own cock. Many people work a lot, but you sound way too self-important to give up so much me-time.”Actually, Joe, that calculation was a rough estimate, taking into account time that I was between jobs, traveling, trying to do something other than cook. To be slightly more accurate, my work weeks were more like 80-100 hours–14 to 16 hours a day, six or seven days a week when I was running kitchens, working sous or just really loving the gig. And though for much of that time I had someone else to touch my cock for me, I still had plenty of me-time for jerking it when I was single. Thanks for your concern, though.Taylor B, appended to this week’s review of Ocho:”Whatever happened to people who actually wrote about food rather than turning the reviews into a personal ‘journal of discovery’?”Taylor, every dinner ought to be about discovery. If it’s not, you’re doing it wrong.Dan Sum, in response to this morning’s post about Anthony Bourdain going on Yo Gabba Gabba:”Do you feel an extra connection to [Anthony Bourdain] because you ripped off (and poorly I might add) his writing style?”No, Dan. I feel an extra connection to him because we were both cooks once, because we came up in similar fashion and because I’ve met Bourdain a couple times and can honestly say that he’s a good guy, a smart guy and the hardest working man in show business. Also, unlike you, I’m pretty sure he understands that there are a few other ex-galley brats out there who’ve sipped a little whiskey, smoked a cigarette or two and occasionally use the F-word. I know you love Tony long time, Dan. I’ve been giggling over your little comments since I was in Denver and you trolled around there (what, you think I don’t see the addresses of those who post comments?), getting in my face, making a fool of yourself and slapping up the same quote about my book a thousand times. Even though you changed your name, I can’t tell you how happy I was to see that you’d followed me half way across the country to my new gig. It was like a tiny, bitter, nasty piece of home that had stuck with me for 2000 miles.So thanks, pal. I missed you, too. But before you talk about who is ripping off who and who owns what particular stretch of literary turf, I suggest you stop reading me for a minute and broaden your horizons a bit. Two good places to start? Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell and White Heat by Marco Pierre White.Seattle Epicure, from the comment thread of the Taqueria La Venadita review again:”Ok, how do I put this mildly? Get out of my city.”Well, shit. Now that the Queen of Seattle has spoken…Sorry. Still not going anywhere. Thanks for playing, though. Oh, and all those other commenters kicking your ass around the blog? Don’t let ’em get you down. In between your telling me how much I suck, you’ve raised some good points. Keep at ’em, tiger.Okay. That’s enough for now. Though I’d dearly love to keep going, I’ve got a dinner to get to. But in the meantime, please remember: If you’ve got questions (preferably not about why I suck, why I’m still employed or why I came here to fuck up your perfect city), I’ll do my best to find the answers. You can drop me an email (jsheehan@seattleweekly.com), call me, leave a comment here (or anywhere else on the Voracious blog) or even send them in the old-fashioned way–through the mail.Word to the wise, though? Keep the death threats to yourself. I’ve been collecting those for years now, and they get old fast.