A Colossal Toss Up

I’m trying to decide if being a food critic would be entirely the best job ever, or alternately, the worst.

I’ve been thinking about this, of course, ever since I heard that Frank Bruni was leaving his post as the NY Times critic. If you haven’t heard, he has written a book called Born Round, and in order to promote it he must officially unveil himself; thus, he must step down as the elusive Times critic.

But, who would want a job that prevents you from being yourself, one that requires a disguise in public? Then again, who wouldn’t want a job that pays you to eat at some of the nicest restaurants in Manhattan multiple times and awards you with formidable power on the restaurant scene? I can just imagine telling the Times, quite deviously, that I still wasn’t sure after two visits to New York’s swankiest new restaurant, and that I needed to go again to complete my “research.” But wouldn’t running to the bathroom between each course to jot down notes take all of the pleasure out of an industry whose sole intention is to please? You can see I’m experiencing somewhat of a dilemma. It’s a colossal toss-up.

In the end, for me, enjoying meals at restaurants wholeheartedly, rather than mixing business with pleasure, trumps wigs and sunglasses. Because who wants to suppress all forms (visceral and otherwise) of reaction to delicious food so as not to be noticed by suspicious matire’d’s? Not I, that’s who. I’d like to retain the right to moan or giggle or even curse when I taste something extraordinary. To me, that's the best part.

What does everyone else think?