For eight long years I toiled as a restaurant critic, before I hung up my fork, left only with two ring binders full of menus, several thousand photographs of dinner plates on my phone and the beginnings of gout in my left big toe.
Along with reviewing hotels, restaurant critic is the job every journalist wants, even if they pretend to be more interested in discovering lost tribes in Indonesia or bringing down our larger financial institutions. Dining out and being paid for it is a dream. Or is it?
Last week Pete Wells, the fabled restaurant critic of The New York Times, stood down, citing the toll on his health that came from 12 years of eating such rich food. It’s true, that amount of butter, salt, cream and Sauternes can play havoc with your insides. But is that the only downside? It is not…
No one wants to come with you
My husband once said he could identify the wallpaper of every restaurant in London, following years of sitting facing away from the action while I scoped out the clientele, staff and atmosphere. And no one wants to be the spare part while the maître d’ fawns over the face they recognise or get half measures on wine as the sommelier adoringly tops up the critic. And no one can believe that you’ll leave half a plate of calves’ liver or Basque cheesecake because you only wanted enough to write about – it’s a job to you, not a treat.
You get force-fed
“The chef’s signature dish is lamb brains,” means you’re going to have to eat the brains, dammit. Or you’ve heard the pastry chef is the real talent in the kitchen, so that means poking down a six-tiered confection when what you really wanted was a single espresso and the bill.
Then there are extra dishes once the kitchen has worked out who you are. Even last week, years after I stopped being a bona fide critic, the chef at a hot new opening sent me a surprise treat of six snails in a fiery mint lime curry sauce. Snails?! I ask you.
You become jaded
The first few times experiencing a tasting menu are fun and exciting. By the eleventh time, a pebble that’s really a potato or a foam that magically tastes of scallops isn’t fun, or exciting. What you really want is fish and chips.
No one invites you for dinner
I’ve lost count of the times friends have said “oh we can’t have you round, you’re used to really posh food.” It’s hard to explain, convincingly, that after all that rich food in fancy restaurants what you crave is shepherd’s pie, some mid-range Montepulciano and a good old natter.
You get tiresomely fussed over
A restaurant critic’s job, essentially, is telling people where to have dinner. They want to know if the food is delicious, if it’s good value, what the atmosphere is like. They don’t care whether the ovens were custom made or that the carpet was designed to resemble an 18th-century parquet floor. You don’t mind a quick chat with the chef or some wine suggestions from the sommelier – any interested diner would be up for that – but that’s all. And heaven protect you from being interrupted, repeatedly, by an obsequious “how is everything?”
You must be first through the door
I went through a phase of being in competition with the then-critic of the Evening Standard, the indomitable Fay Maschler, to write the first critique of every new opening in the capital. It’s not pleasant, dining with the scent of fresh paint in the air and having nervous new waiting staff tremble as they try to get the sparkling water in your glass rather than all over the table. Closely followed by indigestion as you bolt whatever the food is down then dash for the door, laptop in hand.
Your health will suffer
Pete Wells is correct, eating restaurant food on repeat, year after year, isn’t good for you. Especially as you get older. I’ve never quite shifted the stone I gained bouncing from classic French bistro to hearty Indian biryani specialist to Nordic bakery – and as appalling as it sounds – you actually start to turn down the free Champagne on arrival. One glass leads to another and then, well, you’re asleep in the cab and starting the hard work of actually writing your review with a mild hangover.
