The first mistake the new judge makes is reading the ingredient list. The W Chew is not the expensive bite, and the L Nibble is not the cheap one - it is the commit. A chew is the bite you stay with: the one the plate keeps coming back to, the one the fork goes back for. A nibble is the bite you take back, the piece pushed to the corner of the plate while the rest of the meal goes on. The word carries the difference, and the streak in the detector rewards the read that catches it in under three seconds.
Run the plate through three and the verdict writes itself. First, the commit: does the bite finish what it starts? The gas station sushi is the standing L, the rice that is somehow both mushy and crunchy at once, the one no fork goes back for. Second, the plate: does the food hold the room, or does the room hold the food? Grandma's Sunday roast is the standing W, the one that falls off the bone and soaks the gravy, the piece the family ends up fighting over. Third, the effort that is still visible: the W chew carries the mark of the person who made it, the slow sear, the rested meat, the sauce that was not microwaved. The L nibble hides the absence, the vending machine heat, the day-old replate.
All three checks read off the surface of the bite, not the menu behind it, which is why the call lands in three seconds instead of the tasting-note paragraph. The detector plays that speed against the ten bites, one call a time, and the streak is the read that keeps landing. When the call slips, the reveal explains which of the three the plate failed, and that is the whole point of the critic card at the end.