The Secret Life of a Restaurant Critic
Sure, it's a fun job. But when an owner threatens to get a gun because of my review, that's not so fun.
I'm Interviewing The "French Woman Who Does Not Get Fat." It's a cat-and-mouse game played out in the plush surroundings of the Federalist restaurant on Beacon Hill. Mireille Guiliano's book is on its way to selling more than a million copies, and all I can concentrate on is matching her bite for bite. She sips her champagne, I sip mine. She nibbles at her scallop dish; I politely push my quail from one side of the plate to the other, trying to scribble down her quotes as she outlines her philosophy. We share a creme brulee, each of us tasting a scant tablespoon of the creamy concoction before putting down our spoons in unison. Then we get up to leave. I can feel her eyeing me as I look her over, and I know exactly what she's thinking - because I'm thinking it, too.
We're exactly the same height and each a size 4. But she's in the business of staying thin, and I'm in a business that, by logic, ought to make me fat.
As the Globe's restaurant critic, I get all sorts of questions each week: Where should I take my in-laws? Is there a romantic restaurant in the North End, the South End, the Fenway, off I-495? What happened to that place that sold twin lobsters in the 1950s under the Tobin Bridge? But the one I hear most often from those I meet face to face is: How can you be a restaurant critic and be so thin?
So it's time to fess up - on this and a few other frequent queries. Some are good-natured. How did you get into this? Some not so friendly. How did you get to do this?
For 13 years, I've been getting paid to eat in restaurants - regularly and often. A dream come true, you might say. Well, yes, and then again, no. A friend once asked what the worst thing about my job was, and I answered, "Eating out." The best thing: Eating out. It's a paradox. Tasting another bite of overcooked tuna, another spoonful of sludgy pumpkin soup, another leaden bit of deep-fried calamari can feel like attaching a ball and chain to my tongue. Yet as soon one taste, one memory wears off, I'm up for another.
External Source - For the complete article click here
Source - Boston Globe
We're exactly the same height and each a size 4. But she's in the business of staying thin, and I'm in a business that, by logic, ought to make me fat.
As the Globe's restaurant critic, I get all sorts of questions each week: Where should I take my in-laws? Is there a romantic restaurant in the North End, the South End, the Fenway, off I-495? What happened to that place that sold twin lobsters in the 1950s under the Tobin Bridge? But the one I hear most often from those I meet face to face is: How can you be a restaurant critic and be so thin?
So it's time to fess up - on this and a few other frequent queries. Some are good-natured. How did you get into this? Some not so friendly. How did you get to do this?
For 13 years, I've been getting paid to eat in restaurants - regularly and often. A dream come true, you might say. Well, yes, and then again, no. A friend once asked what the worst thing about my job was, and I answered, "Eating out." The best thing: Eating out. It's a paradox. Tasting another bite of overcooked tuna, another spoonful of sludgy pumpkin soup, another leaden bit of deep-fried calamari can feel like attaching a ball and chain to my tongue. Yet as soon one taste, one memory wears off, I'm up for another.
External Source - For the complete article click here
Source - Boston Globe
