Buried under chicken wings and with rising cholesterol levels, I knew I had had enough of reviewing restaurants | Corin Hirsch
ccan I have another bite to eat? I turned this over in my head as I surveyed the passenger seat of my car, piled high with takeout containers of chicken wings. Being overstuffed was a familiar feeling in my work as a food critic. That crisp October day, the question was also existential: I had simply reached the end of the road.
I was thrilled to get my job almost six years earlier at a newspaper that covered the 3 million people and more than 10,000 restaurants in New York City’s eastern suburbs. I had grown up on Long Island reading Newsday, an award-winning powerhouse in the 80s and 90s, and returned home years later for a job I initially loved. I drove hundreds of miles a week and sometimes went out to eat four or five times a day while looking for stories. Ribeye, oysters, cumin lamb, birria tacos – a lot of it went on my work credit card. The crowds were constant, but the reward was unearthing places, dishes and people that were under the radar. I also wrote about wine, beer, coffee and cocktails, which meant I connected with talented brewers and bartenders.
Whenever someone asked what I did for a living, their eyes lit up at the answer. “I’m a food writer,” I said, deliberately avoiding the word “critic,” which sounded pompous and was actually my least favorite part of writing about food. “Stop. Do you get paid to eat? What a hard life! You have my dream job,” they would always say.
From the outside, it used to be a dream, and complaining seemed unpleasant. That’s why I rarely told anyone that the job wasn’t for the faint of heart. Literal. I bounced from plate to plate, deadline to deadline, postponing medical appointments and taking work on “vacation” so often that it became a running joke among friends. On one occasion when I went to the doctor, my blood values told an ominous story. “I’d like to see that number a little lower,” my doctor said as she studied my rising cholesterol. “I know, but I can’t control what I eat,” I told her.
During the pandemic, diners focused more on lasagna, fried chicken sandwiches, macaroni and cheese and to-go cocktails. In turn, our team pivoted from reviews to review-style lists. Reporting this entailed caloric culinary investigations. Some food writers I knew had honed the art of taking one bite of anything; if I really liked a dish, I would eat more and maybe even finish it. I saw my weight increase, and workouts and daily walks had minimal effect. Occasional food poisoning threatened my job, but it was long-term overconsumption that took the real toll.
“Have we tried Lipitor?” My doctor peered at the screen. “Oh yes, we did that. What was the problem again?” “It hurt my legs,” I replied. “And what about Livalo?” she asked. “My insurance doesn’t cover this,” I told her. “Now, take it easy,” she warned. “Because it looks like you’re pre-diabetic too.”
I processed this news while eating fish tacos down the street. I couldn’t just do it not eat the tacos, or pappardelle, or Korean fried chicken, can I?
That could have been the beginning of the end. Or maybe there were a few endings in a row – from the pseudo-vacations and lethargic fatigue to a cardiac arrhythmia that required an ablation. Two days after the procedure, while I was recovering at home under the welts, an editor texted me about a story revision.
I stuck with it for another year, but started daydreaming about cooking at home more than one or two nights a week, about digging up endless leftovers. It was six orders of wings in one afternoon that finally got me in the door. From the front seat of my car—which doubled as an office, table, and photo studio—I wiped the sweet chili sauce off my fingers and requested a Zoom call with my boss.
“My time at the paper is over,” I told her. She leaned forward. “Are you sure?”
I was. Afterward, I felt wobbly but buoyant, as if I had immediately dropped a huge weight. I also wondered if I had done something phenomenally stupid. Media colleagues were losing their jobs at a steady pace, and I remembered the pain of being let go from previous positions. My journalist’s savings account wasn’t exactly robust.
I didn’t have much time to think because my story was going to be published soon. At the next restaurant, I sat at the bar, as I often did when eating alone, and ordered the scarpariello-style wings. Lacquered in a spicy vinegar sauce they were excellent. I sampled some while watching football on the bar TV with the chefs waiting for the dinner rush. The pandemic-era plexiglass dividers were gone and the place had regained a long-absent airiness. It was the kind of detail that wouldn’t fit into an SEO-optimized list.
It would take a few months to relearn the colossal appetite my body had become accustomed to, but I hoped those months would give me a few extra years later. I miss my colleagues and a steady paycheck—entrepreneurial life can be a rollercoaster—but fifteen months later, I’ve reversed the weight gain, lowered my cholesterol without medication, and am no longer pre-diabetic. The most unexpected change, however, is the reverse-aging power of stress reduction. “You look so different,” more than one friend has said. “You just look… relaxed.”
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Corin Hirsch is a writer who covers food, drink and travel
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