Bite by Byte

She is exactly what you expect her to be and somehow not at all. A crochet sweater soft enough to look inherited. Layered necklaces that catch the light when she leans forward. Rings stacked like tiny declarations. Square, oversized, purple sunglasses. Flip flops abandoned under the table, bare feet tucked beneath her as she types furiously into her phone, thumbs moving with the urgency of someone who knows the clock is always ticking.

This is Amy Drew Thompson—food lover, storyteller, deadline chaser—holding court in a moment that feels more like a porch hang than a newsroom sprint. The vibe is unmistakably boho zen, which is almost comical when you realize her day will include racing across Orlando for this interview, stopping for a martini (research for a story publishing in two days), three phone interviews, two deadlines, and then meeting up with Anthony “Biggie” Bencomo of Lunch with Biggie to taste-test a parade of rotisserie chickens. Seven, maybe more. Just another Tuesday.

She is, at once, deeply chill and completely in motion.

There’s a trace of New York in her—the kind that sharpens your instincts and keeps your sentences tight—but it’s been softened, rounded at the edges by more than two decades in Central Florida sun. Brooklyn-born, Long Island-raised, she arrived in Orlando over two decades ago with a one-year-old daughter and a career already in motion. This June marks twenty-one years in the city, a number she says almost with surprise, like she blinked and built a life.

“I’m one of those rare birds,” she says, laughing, “who actually did something with a journalism degree.”

Her path wasn’t linear, but it was always written. Book publishing first, then magazines—adult, travel, business, whatever paid and piqued her curiosity. She freelanced widely, the kind of writer who could drop into any subject and make it breathe. Conveyor belts, pest control, supply chains—topics that might sound dry until she got her hands on them.

“When you talk to someone who’s interested in what they do,” Amy Drew says, “it becomes interesting.”

That instinct—to find the human thread inside anything—is what would eventually shape her as a food writer. It wasn’t a pivot so much as a narrowing of focus. Even as her career shifted and stretched, she kept writing, building a body of work that was as varied as it was steady. One assignment led to another. One introduction opened the door to the next. Over time, that momentum began to pull her deeper into Orlando’s food scene. Assignments turned into invitations. Invitations turned into friendships.

She began writing for Edible Orlando, and somewhere in that orbit, the Orlando Sentinel came calling.

She was ready. “I didn’t want to be an outdoor cat anymore,” she says.

Seven years later, she’s still at the Orlando Sentinel, still chasing stories, still juggling multiple deadlines a week, still occasionally freelancing because, as she puts it plainly, “how else do we survive?”

But food was never the pivot. Food was always there. Her father owned restaurants when she was growing up—long days, longer nights, the kind of schedule that dissolves weekends and holidays into a blur of service. She remembers the rhythm of it, the weight of it. Eleven years without consecutive days off at one point. A childhood shaped by dining rooms and dish pits, by the quiet understanding that when the doors close, the work doesn’t stop.

“I see the story,” she says of restaurant owners now. “I see the grind.” It shows up in her writing, in the way she treats the people behind the plate as part of the narrative, not just the backdrop. There’s empathy there and a kind of reverence, not for perfection, but for effort.

And then there’s the appetite. “I’ve always been someone who lives to eat,” she says.

Not just the obvious hits, either. She is relentlessly curious, almost stubbornly so. If she doesn’t like something the first time, she doesn’t write it off. She tries again. And again. Until something finally clicks. “That’s how you learn what to look for,” she says.

It’s a philosophy that feels increasingly rare in a world of snap judgments and quick takes. Amy Drew doesn’t do “just no.” She doesn’t dismiss based on appearance or assumption. She tastes. She considers. She circles back.

Because sometimes, the difference between something you hate and something you love is just one really good version.

That openness is part of what makes her such a natural fit for Orlando, a city she insists has always been more interesting than it gets credit for.

Long before Michelin arrived, before glossy lists and national attention, there were pockets of brilliance tucked into strip malls and side streets. Vietnamese restaurants humming quietly in the Mills District. Pupusa spots that revealed themselves only if you were paying attention. Venezuelan bakeries, Filipino kitchens, Middle Eastern cafes—all feeding their communities, whether the broader city noticed or not. “The food was always here,” she says. “You just had to look.”

Now, of course, it’s easier to find. Social media has changed the game. What used to rely on word of mouth or sheer luck is now a scroll away. Trips are planned around saved posts. Reservations fill up overnight. Even she, who tries to keep her phone tucked away, admits the pull.

“I have a love-hate relationship with social media,” she says. “As a resource, it’s a great way to connect with readers and find new things. But at the same time, I don’t want to be the person holding up dinner to snap photos, or be glued to my phone.”

She prefers the experience over the evidence. The bite itself over the perfect shot.

What she’s chasing, always, is that moment of surprise. Not just in the unexpected—though she loves that, too—but in the familiar done exceptionally well. A dish that tastes like someone’s grandmother made it, even if it’s plated with surgical precision. A flavor that unlocks memory, even in a brand-new space.

She talks about meals the way some people talk about music, as if they linger in the air long after they’re finished. As if they follow you out the door. It’s mid-conversation when she glances at the time, mentally recalibrating. There’s more to eat, more to write, more to chase down before the day ends. The fire hose never really turns off.

But for a moment, she’s still here—barefoot, cross-legged, laughing easily, swapping stories about the best bites of the week and the eternal quest for more protein like it’s just another thread in the tapestry. (“How else do food writers stay fit?” she quips.) 

In a job that demands speed, judgment, and constant output, Amy Drew has somehow carved out a space that feels slower, more intentional. She listens. She tastes. She tries again. And then she tells you about it in a way that makes you want to do the same.

Even if it’s your seventh rotisserie chicken of the day.