Editor's note: Beginning today, former dining critic John Kessler becomes a weekly columnist for Food & Drink. Today he explains why he gave up his past gig — which he held at the AJC for more than seven years and at The Denver Post for three years before that. And we find out what readers can expect from him in the weeks to come.

When I started making "time for a change" noises about a year ago, people thought I was nuts. Why would I ever want to give up my job? Not just any job but a Dream Job.

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In the pantheon of enviable careers, restaurant critic ranks up there with film actor, banana republic dictator and Springsteen roadie.

Every week I field calls from waiters, writers and journalism students asking how they can break into this career. I meet doctors and lawyers at parties who tell me they would switch places in a heartbeat. I remember telling one such regretful corporate attorney that he probably expensed more in restaurants than I do. That got him on a "last week at Jean-Georges . . ." story and me off the hook.

But after more than seven years as the principal dining critic for The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, I knew it was time to put my fork in the dishwasher. Several reasons went into my decision. On the personal side, I wanted more time with my family. On the professional side, I wanted to broaden my range as a writer.

There's also this: My great love of and fascination with food extends beyond sitting at a corner deuce and waiting for some guy in an apron to bring me salmon. Which is where this new column comes in.

For starters, I'd like to write about restaurants in a way that extends beyond the basic thumbs up/thumbs down modality. Atlanta has a rich restaurant culture, full of stories I'd like to tell.

And I love cooking. Not just weekend entertaining but household maintenance — those nights when a suspicious-looking chunk of old cabbage, a can of tomatoes and three chicken thighs transform into something delicious.

I also hope to write more about the great and varied food markets around Atlanta. There are so many international discoveries waiting to be tapped.

Finally, I hope to broach the subject of wine and spirits in a way that skirts between the rock of pedanticism and the hard place of silly cocktails. OK. Maybe a few silly cocktails.

So I'm passing the restaurant reviews into the very capable hands of Meridith Ford. I'll leave the critiquing business behind by answering these oft-asked questions. See you next week.

• Did I always have to pay in cash to keep my name secret? No. Many banks will gladly issue a credit card in the name "Ivana Tinkle" as long as you pay the bill on time. I had a wallet full of cards with fake names: Arthur Baron, David Lurie and Derek Margolin were a few I used over the years. And as my job started giving me more and more the profile of Orson Welles, I had a card issued to "Harry Lime."

• What was the most embarrassing moment on a review? Aah, how to choose when there are so many? Perhaps the time the manager at Seeger's (one of the best and most expensive restaurants in Atlanta) came and whispered in my ear that my American Express had been declined. Oops. I had maxed out every account with pseudonymous cards, so I had to pay with my debit Visa. With my own name.

"Guess the gig's up," I ventured weakly.

"No problem, Mr. Kessler," he responded without even looking at the card. The gig had long been up.

• To what lengths did I go to keep my anonymity? No prosthetic skin flaps, wigs or forays into drag for me. I did cycle through many styles and colors of hair and facial hair, from Ted Kaczynski fulsomeness to shiny-faced banker.

• But did they recognize me anyhow? For the first few years, no. I luckily possess the general demeanor and wardrobe of someone you want to seat by the swinging door to the kitchen. But the waiters who move from one hot new restaurant to the next got wise. Still, for another couple of years I felt that I could easily slip into older, more established restaurants that weren't expecting my visit. By the time I stopped reviewing I felt that I was more recognized at upscale, in-town restaurants than not.

• To what lengths did restaurants go to bust my anonymity? Well, once I agreed to address a men's group at a local temple. After getting assurance that I would be speaking to a couple of dozen temple members of which none were restaurateurs, I arrived to find the owner of one of the largest area restaurant groups sitting front and center. Maybe he was studying for his conversion to Judaism and subsequent bar mitzvah, but somehow I doubt it. I learned my lesson: That was my one and, until now, only public speaking engagement in Atlanta.

Otherwise, I heard many reports of pictures hanging on ice machines in kitchens throughout Atlanta. It was rumored that I was photographed in flagrante delicioso as I dined at a restaurant that's part of a large local group. And early on a restaurant publicist circulated a secondhand but accurate description (middling height and weight, unfortunate hair).

• What did restaurants do when they knew I was there? Chefs would often send out extra appetizers, courses, desserts or cordials that I usually felt compelled to refuse. Sometimes when "the chef wouldn't hear of" my returning an extra dessert, I'd pass it along to neighboring tables. I felt bad about refusing hospitality, but I was there to get the regular person's experience, not the VIP's.

Surprisingly, some restaurants that knew they were under review would totally botch the timing of meals. I suspect chefs would make dishes more than once before deeming them ready. I always felt so sorry for waiters who saw us gnawing the tablecloth as we waited.

• How could I try so many dishes? I'd go several times, bring guests and force them to play the rotating plates game. The germ phobic never ate with me more than once.

• Did I factor my guests' comments, other reviews and conventional wisdom into my assessment? No way. Critics have to be the ultimate boorish, self-important louts. When you're reviewing a restaurant, all that matters is you and your piehole.

The piehole rests its case.