Earlier this fall, thanks to a conflict of interest on Mike’s part, I snared the plum assignment of writing up Paul Kahan’s latest, the Publican, for the Reader. The review came out last week, and given the ridiculous amount of buzz the place has generated I was grateful to be given more than a month to churn something out, not to mention the latitude to run long. Or, rather, longer than the usual 350 words.
At some point in the monthlong process of writing the thing I had at least two and maybe three of those conversations that go something like this:
Random stranger: “So, what do you do?”
Me: “I, um, well . . . mostly right now when, like, I’m not bartending, or babysitting my friends’ kids, I’m a freelance writer.”
R.S.: [politely] “My, how interesting. What do you write about?”
Me: “Well, I was working on a book, but that’s sort of on the back burner for the time being ’cause I need to make some money. So, mostly right now I write about food. Business stories, and stuff about little shot-in-the-dark artisanal ventures. I’m also really interested in sustainability issues, especially as they intersect with efforts to develop healthy urban food systems. And, you know, I review restaurants sometim–”
R.S.: [snapping out of stupor] “YOU REVIEW RESTAURANTS?!? Oh my god that must be such a great gig! Do you eat out all the time? What’s your favorite restaurant?” [etc, etc]
And, you know what? It is a great gig. I can’t complain. At all. I get to go to restaurants whose doors I would often never otherwise darken, on someone else’s nickel, and tell people what I think. How cool is that? As they say, it beats working.
On the other hand, it can often be a surprising hassle. I can’t eat out more than a few nights a week without feeling logy and bloated and in need of some steamed broccoli. Some days all I want to do is stay home and eat canned soup. But I can’t, because the review is due next Monday and Thursday I can’t get a date, and Friday I can’t get a reservation, and Saturday I have to work, and Sunday the place is closed.
All of that I accept as the cost of doing business. But writing this Publican review was (believe it or not) the first time of late that I’ve taken a cold look at some other costs. It’s an anomalous case, but the math may be instructive.
I first went to the Publican on October 16, scant days after it opened. It was sort of an accident. A friend and I were in the neighborhood and–already having the assignment–I suggested we check it out. The place was a zoo, and after 45 minutes waiting at the bar we were both hungry and a little fretful, and not super in the mood for the Publican’s more extreme signature items, like tripe or sweetbreads. So we just ordered an assortment of comforting, if less adventurous stuff that looked good. Like normal people. Oysters. A rich pot of rillettes. Short ribs. Frites with a poached egg. I’ll come back again and order more strategically, I told myself. I’ll eat the bill on this one.
I went back three weeks later, on a Sunday, after a week or so of detailed scheduling negotiations with another friend. “Get ready,” I said. “You’re going to have to eat brains. And blood sausage. And pork rinds.” He was game, but, unbeknownst to us, on Sunday the Publican only serves a four-course prix fixe meal. We went for it anyway–and the meal was fantastic. Really great. But, still, no blood sausage crossed my lips.
Back for a third visit November 11, having begged a two-day reprieve from my editor after blowing a Nov. 10 deadline. By now, of course, the blood sausage was off the menu but the sweetbread schnitzel was still there. Dinner date #3 was up to the challenge. We ordered pork rinds, pickles, schnitzel, tripe and kale gratin, a couple oysters, and a plate of grilled mackerel.
Of course after all that the sweetbreads were greasy and the tripe never made it to the table. But that’s not the point.
The point is that, all told, I spent $337.39 out of pocket on these three meals. (It would have been more but dinner date #3 insisted on paying her own way.) Toss in another $36 for cab fare and one night of iGo rental for a total of $373.39.
Standard rules of engagement for reviewers are that the paper will reimburse for “a reasonable meal” for two. That means two apps, two entrees, dessert. No extras. No booze. This is competitive with reimbursement protocol at other local publications (though things may be different if you’re Phil Vettel).
In this instance my editor, bless her, convinced the bean counters to pony up for the beer on one of the three nights as well, arguing that at a place where the booze is generating as much attention as the food it would be chintzy of them to expect me to foot that tab on my own.
So, sometime in the hopefully not-too-distant future I should recieve a $182.18 reimbursement check. Add that to the $100 (I think) $75 I’m being paid for the review and that comes out to a net profit of . . . negative $91.21 $116.21.
For a month of (admittedly intermittent) work that’s not a very healthy business plan.
I want to re-emphasize that the onus here is on me. I didn’t have to go three times; I knew I would only be reimbursed for one meal. I could have and probably should have planned a more tactical approach. But once I realized I hadn’t, I still wanted to do it right. I don’t regret the three trips–though by the last one I was seriously jonesing for that steamed broccoli. But it did put me in mind of a round table discussion I did a long time ago, on “careers in the alternative press.”
“What’s the best advice you could give a young person interested in publishing?” asked the moderator.
“Be independently wealthy,” I said.
It’s true now more than ever.
UPDATED TO ADD: This, of course, plays into these darker feelings of futility as well.
UPDATE II: I rest my case.