At Boston, we do stars, but in my dream job, we’d size up restaurants using only Randy Jackson–isms, which I’ve admired since American Idol’s heyday for their sneaky precision and sweep. Bistro with shaky recipes? “A little pitchy for me, dawg.” Half-baked Scampo rip-off? “If you sing Lydia, you gotta bring Lydia.”

Meanwhile, you’d keep a hedgy “You could sing the phone book!” handy for a place like Faccia Brutta, Ken Oringer and Jamie Bissonnette’s thrumming patioed brownstone on Newbury. Five meals in, I’m still not certain the shore-hugging barge of tricks they’ve got floating in under the “coastal Italian” ensign is my favorite showcase for this duo’s singular culinary stylings. But if it yields this much showstopping bounty, why quibble over material? You follow the good food where the good food goes.