I was always a good eater—hearty, not picky, adventurous. The sand from the playground, a snail from my mother’s garden (or so I’ve been told). So it shouldn’t be a surprise that I grew up to become a Yelper.

It all started one spring evening, a dinner in the Bay Area that I was so over-the-moon about, I must have looked possessed. Every aspect of that meal was perfection. And I wanted the entire world to know about it. Enter Yelp, a crowd-sourced platform that let everyday foodies write entire novels about some food they ate. After floating home, I immediately created an account and ferociously typed out my detailed review that no one had asked for. Then, for too long, every meal I ate warranted my detailed opinion on the internet. It was 2008. The people deserved to know.

Thankfully, I grew out of that (for various reasons, the most embarrassing of which was, unbeknownst to me, my Yelp account was linked to my Facebook and posted reviews to my actual IRL friends).

But that didn’t mean I stopped impulsively checking reviews before deciding where to go or what to order.

Now, fast forward to Italy. I love a good travel show and am, perhaps, easily influenced. So I pinned a few places to try when I made it to Venice—some from blogs about Italy, some from a popular foodie and one place in particular that had a star dish that people squealed over: A hidden gem! A must-try! Legendary! The best restaurant in Venice!

This “classic” place was a modest 10-seater, a windowless joint tucked in a shallow alley away from the oblivious selfie-stick tourists. With an overzealous itinerary, I’d made sure to get reservations, which could only be done via telephone when they were open. I felt lucky we got a table for the day and time we wanted.

I barely slept the night before, eager in my food-obsessed mind that it would transport me back to my Bay Area meal. Who didn’t want to try the best food in Italy, a place already known for its scrumptious food? I was militant about making sure no one was running late, worried we’d get turned away at the door, our table given away to those more dedicated, the ones committed to old school no-frills Italian dining, and I’d miss my chance forever, a regret I’d spend my life turning over in my mind at 3am.

When we walked in, there was just one couple, finishing a meal. It was dark, quiet. No ambiance music, no view of the canals. The walls plastered with bills from around the world. I figured the lunch rush would be dizzying soon enough and it felt like we were in on Italy’s best-kept secret (minus the other TV tourists who were gullibly led to dying restaurants).

“Pick any table,” the owner said, gesturing.

I mentally patted myself on the back, early-bird-worming it to choose the best table in the house, even if they were all the same. I’d looked at the menu ahead of time and knew what we’d be ordering— THE PORK!!—as well as the price. I knew it was expensive, but I thought, Hey, when in Italy. And also, it must be really good!

As we waited for our food, the owner reminisced on his flashy days of flying out to Los Angeles to feed hungry celebs: pre-surgery Khloe and Kim Kardashian, a pre-QVC skincare saleswoman Cindy Crawford, a still-attractive Leo DiCaprio. Then came the aged-to-acrisp photo albums, blurry pics of buzzed A-listers hugging and posing.

(None shown near or engaging with food, it has to be said.) “They flew me out there all the time,” the owner said, taking down a framed newspaper article to prove it, though not long enough to read it.

Maybe this was what it was all about: a charming older Italian hosting us like we were in his home, shoes off, bottles of wine opened, showing off and sharing his own travel tales. An insider’s look at the real Italy. Thirty minutes of “Oh, look” and “Wow” at the various movie stars before he offered to take our order.

We ordered three dishes to share: a pasta gorgonzola (26 euros), a corn and palmetto salad called brasiliana (24 euros) and the much-anticipated pork (70 euros). Yes, one order of pork, regular ol’ non-organic, maybe not farm-raised, maybe old, was 70 euros (over $80 U.S.). And did I pay for this?

Reader, I’m sad to say, yes I did. The price of fame, I suppose. I didn’t mind paying good money for good food. Once-in-a-lifetime food.

Still, we’d planned our entire day around this. What I thought would be a life-changing meal—one that I’d be talking about for years to come, a restaurant I’d whisper to everyone they must visit should they ever find themselves in Venice—left me with a bit of anger.

We were hungry, we were already there. And, despite the sticker shock, seeing the price with my own eyes, the brazen overinflated, cocky number, I still wanted to try this famous dish, which some reviewers had called the best pork they’ve ever had in their long lives!!!

When the food came out, we evenly distributed our tiny portion of salad and the unbelievably undercooked (raw?) pasta, so crunchy, so far afield of al dente, I was picking it out of my teeth for days. But the main dish… it was carried out with stoic reverence by the chef, steaming and piled high.

“Here we go!” I said, eyes brimming, the excited clapping hands of a child.

My tears of joy, though, were a little too over the top, even for me. The way in which this pork was cooked, a white vinegar bath of sorts, was so overpowering, my nostrils flared and my eyes watered rivers. I love a vinegar chip, a sour candy, but even this had me holding my breath. The chef placed it down in front of us with a flourish and cut it up.

“Enjoy!” he smiled.

I took my first bite. It was tender, if perhaps a tad dry, the vinegar taste so strong it coated my entire palate. Sheepish in my expensive mistake, I told my dining companions how great it was to be there, to finally get to try this dish! How exciting! How special! I put more on my plate in a brainwashed haze while they sat back and watched, unable to pretend. Finally, I gave up and asked for a to-go container, abandoning any pretension that cool people don’t leave a restaurant with a doggie bag. Luckily, we had the entire place to ourselves; the couple had long left and it was just us in there.

“We’re just too full,” I lied, knowing we’d be heading straight to a gelato stand.

He returned moments later with our bag of pork—and the bill.

Here, a can of Coke is 8 euros (what would be $1–$2 in the States at this place was over $9; elsewhere in Venice, perhaps $4), so we had gone with a petite yet hydrating bottle of water at the bargain price of 7 euros. And don’t forget the coperto, a cover charge most if not all restaurants charge, usually stated on the menu and priced per person (2–3 euros). Here, for some unknowable reason, it was 7. This meal for three, in which we all shared three dishes that left us unsatisfied, was over $180 USD—by far the most expensive, least impressive, least delicious meal I’d ever had.

I felt embarrassed for spotlighting this place, for dragging people with me, for justifying the experience. Convincing them as we passed one cute outdoor café after another with mouth-watering aromas that it would be worth it. And then I felt upset. Foolish. Why had I trusted one TV show, one person, to steer me here? To convince me that the higher price was going to be a culinary reward I’d reap the interest on for decades?

I think perhaps back in the day, this must have been the place. I love that it’s a long-established family-run business and wants to chat with their customers. That it’s laid back. That you can say you ate (or at the very least, posed next to) the same dish as Tom Hanks.

Unlike my former Yelp self, I’m not aiming to drag this place (which is why I’m not naming names). It’s more about reflecting on how I let others dictate what appealed to me, how I ignored all my instincts just for the sake of saying, “I was there too!” A checkmark on a bucket list. In a way, I guess it was a memorable meal, one that I’ll be talking about for years to come.

We paid the bill, including the 7% credit card fee, posed for photos with the owner, thanked him, and scooted along to roam around Venice.

Perhaps most offensive of all? The leftovers were dumped into a plastic bag, not even worthy of a takeout container (one step closer to the garbage?).

But hey, when in Italy…