Often, when I'm sitting in a restaurant, I wonder if the owner has ever done the same — or asked someone else for candid feedback about what the place is like for a diner.

A table that wobbles, an overly loud sound system, lack of the right utensils when you need them, uncomfortable chairs, servers who interrupt your conversation — these drawbacks can negate whatever is positive about the place, even good food.

Reflecting on the past year of restaurant reviews, I'm thinking about how, for me, a dining experience is so much more than the food.

After writing about food for more than 30 years, I admit to being finicky. I strive to be fair and take more of an Everyman view in what I write. But inside, I've been known to judge a restaurant by its butter. If the butter has picked up off flavors in the walk-in, I know the restaurant is not paying attention.

In my first job out of college, I made a spelling mistake and a poster had to be reprinted. "It was just a small detail," I blurted to my boss. "Honey," he said, "it's ALL details."

I believe that. Even a lunchwagon operation needs to sweat the small stuff: Is the menu posted where you can easily read it? Is the ordering system easy to understand and designed to move customers through quickly? Do the takeout containers keep food from cooling off too fast or spilling?

Often, it's an accumulation of small stuff that makes the difference between a repeat customer and one that makes a face and says, "No, I don't wanna go there again."

Beyond food, two things determine my perception of an eating establishment: the comfort quotient and perceived value.

Comfort means the restaurateur thinks like a diner. Having grown up partly in a restaurant my parents owned, I'm deeply sympathetic to the problems restaurant owners face. Yes, they have to design a system that works for the kitchen, they have to stay within budget and deal with personnel issues and juggle a dozen fires a day. But without diners, none of that matters.

And some restaurants seem to want to make things hard for customers so they can make things easy on themselves. My top-of-that-list issue is busy restaurants that don't take reservations. Having a line out front may be good advertising, but it's a poor way to treat customers. Also in this category are places that festoon their walls with signs telling you what you can't do or can't have, places that don't explain unusual ordering procedures and places that charge you for every little thing (shared plates, wine glasses, refills).

Comfort means a restaurant tried never to say "no." The other day at Tommy Bahama's in Wailea, I asked if they could make a quesadilla with 'ahi instead of the crab version that's on the menu. I expected guff; instead I got a dish that was so good that the waitress joked they might put it on the menu. I walked away smiling and now I'm telling 100,000-plus readers about it. See how saying "yes" works?

Comfort means paying attention to sound and temperature and lighting and furniture and everything else that can make a diner feel welcome and relaxed. (Being an excessively short person who tends to run cold, I believe every restaurant should have a few footstools, a shawl or two and some cushions on hand — especially if they have oversize banquettes. I've only encountered one or two in my career that have thought of this.)

Comfort also means not confusing patrons but rather anticipating their questions and giving them the information they need up front. Just last week, I visited a new restaurant here that has a rather unusual concept involving serving yourself. The waiter seated us and walked away without a word. I felt dumb when I realized we were waiting for menus that were never going to come. Not a good idea to make your diners feel dumb.

As to perceived value, it varies widely. I'm a foodie; I love places like Hiroshi Eurasion Tapas that specialize in small exquisite plates, and I think Hiroshi's prices are very reasonable for the delicious mouthful you get. But the morning after I first visited Hiroshi, I overheard a guy telling someone that the food was great, but the servings were too small for the price. Equating value with volume is very common here and there's nothing wrong with that, just as there is nothing wrong with being willing to pay more for less if the less is top quality (and if you manage your weight by using portion control).

For me, value means that, for the money I spend, my expectations are met. Of course, I grade on a curve. The only thing I expect from a lunchwagon plate is fast service and tasty food at the right temperature. If the folks are friendly and there's a nice place to sit nearby, that's gravy on the rice. But when I'm spending 10 times that for dinner, I pretty much expect muscle-bound litter bearers and peeled grapes (and I so rarely get them).

CRITICS CHOOSE THEIR FAVORITES

As the year ends, our critics pick the top dishes of the year — in no particular order: