To Whom It May Concern,

When I applied to become the New York Times restaurant critic, it wasn’t completely a prank. I need a job, and I won’t say I wasn’t interested. I was. I spent a lot of time on the application, and also thinking about how my life would change, what it would be like, how oddly hard being a restaurant critic is, that I’d get a trainer and nutritionist to try to not get gout or die, which friends would be great to eat out with, and how I would dress to skew my identity. I’m a fat, white, middle-aged woman. I am invisible to everyone, a bonus for this position.

The job posting was written about on Eater with a link leading straight to the listing in the beating heart of the New York Times career tunnel, a place I’ve previously never visited. I did apply, in earnest, and I applied also as a sort of fuck you, but really I applied because I knew about it, and that never really happens.¹ People not in the know never know. That’s what the know is all about. I don’t have a lot of fancy journalism friends. But this time, in theory, I had access. “Why not me?” I wondered, both about the job and which rom-com or 90210 episode I first heard that phrase. I wanted to be considered, to be a contender.

I was conflicted to apply in earnest, knowing how so many of the Times’ headlines and stories about the genocide in Gaza make it seem like bombs just drop themselves to kill Palestinians. Their reporting and opinion pieces about trans health care and gender identity have often been biased, dangerous, and inflammatory, cited by conservative lawmakers as fact to pass discriminatory legislation.² I still applied, knowing this about the paper, and also knowing it would make my mother so damn proud if I was hired, or even just interviewed.

The application process consumed me. That’s how I know it wasn’t a joke. I enlisted the editing expertise of my friend AD Dunn for feedback on the eleven essays I initially compiled for the writing sample. They read each one, responding with a brief and pointed observation. My favorite comment was for the fifth essay:

do we think on average we drag the NYTimes in 50% of all essays or ?

AD also recommended other work to send in, and muddled through my résumé, never a small task, and cover letter, which I’ve been waiting to officially not have this job to share. The other evening I received notification that I was, indeed, not in the running for the critic job, after “careful consideration”, a phrase I would obsess over if only the return email didn’t being with “noreply.”

Separated at Birth

Dear _______,

To become a restaurant critic is to court certain death, say farewell to any concept of healthy cholesterol, and put yourself out into the busy, dangerous streets of comments below, praying to come out the other side. Not to mention the pressure of following twelve years of the excellent, kind dictatorship of Pete Wells. But here I am, applying for the esteemed job of New York Times restaurant critic.

I love how a great room feels. A long lunch is the most leisurely gift in the world sometimes, and these days the heavy-handed presence of a design consultant or obsequious service can weigh down a meal. Criticism is vital, not for the ego, not to state the superiority of one’s taste, but for a dialogue and opening of the brain, to learn, to expand, and to consider something new. We notice what we value. I have worked in restaurants, I have opened restaurants, I grew up in the industry. I understand why food costs what it costs, I am aware of the labor behind many menus, and I can smell a vanity project from a mile away.

Restaurants are the only third space left standing. We don’t go to record stores, we don’t go to the movies, we don’t wait in line for tickets. Even when we order food for delivery, it is with the least amount of human contact possible. But we definitely eat out. We like to wrap ourselves up in the warm blanket of how eating brings us together, that restaurants are culture. Restaurants reflect our culture, how we are influenced, how we want to be seen, and they indicate what we think is important at the given moment. We use them to celebrate, we task them with delivering joy and transcendence, and sometimes that happens. Having food and drink in the equation definitely helps. We also use restaurants for cachet and status. As this city becomes more expensive every day, I don’t think eating out should just be for the wealthy, and I don’t think that the only people who should have restaurants are the well-connected.

I understand and appreciate the places we tend to file under “labor of love,” restaurants, long on flavor and vision and short on funding. True hospitality does not shield us from all the hard work it takes to open and run a restaurant, it welcomes us in, allows us a breath and to feel taken care of. This, along with delicious food, does not always look that same, and that is the beauty of restaurants, the distinct tales they tell. Restaurants are about food, people, and work. These are the stories I am interested in telling because they are the stories I have lived.

I appreciate you and your time. I hope to hear from you soon.

Take care,

Millicent Souris

1. Not with an interesting job that pays well. The “pays well” part is one of the more elusive qualities of employment.

2. https://nytletter.com/