Why This Restaurant Critic Isn’t Dining Out Right Now

I’m a restaurant critic. It’s my job to dine out. Yet even though the restaurant shutdown ended nearly a month ago on Long Island, where I’ve been living since March, I still haven’t ordered anything except takeout. In fact I haven’t sat down for dine-in service in over 122 days, with no plans to change course. Resurgent COVID-19 infections prompted Gov. Andrew Cuomo to announce today that he’s pushing back the onset of indoor dining in the city. That’s a good start, but if you care about the safety of your fellow humans amid a pandemic that has killed over half a million globally and sickened many more — myself included — you should consider a stronger measure. You might consider not drinking or dining out at all, not even outdoors.

You should instead stick to takeout. I make that suggestion with a heavy heart. After COVID-19 wrecked my body — I lost 10 pounds in a week — I spent the following three months dreaming about falling back into my old routines: sipping daiquiris at a local Hell’s Kitchen bar, or gorging on vaca frita while a live Latin jazz band plays on stage. It appeared for a while that New Yorkers were about to return to such everyday indulgences. But as states throughout the country loosened restrictions on their hospitality industries and larger economies, the virus came back hard, threatening the progress we’ve made in the five boroughs.

For a patron with a sudden craving, no plate of duck wings or fluke ceviche is worth getting catastrophically sick over, especially if one can order those dishes more safely via takeaway. For a staffer with little alternative but to work, no economic benefit outweighs the reality of getting infected with COVID-19, which can bring with it chronic health repercussions, devastating financial consequences, and death.

Whenever I do feel the urge to go out for a sit-down meal or drink, I think about how COVID-19 cases are increasing in the U.S. more than almost anywhere else in the world, with new infections now double what they were earlier in June. I think about how Texas and Florida are shutting down their bars, how California is shutting down Los Angeles dining rooms, and how revelers in Hell’s Kitchen and the West Village stand as closely together as at a mosh pit while drinking. I think about how scores of restaurant workers have died, and how those that have recovered are going back to work without knowing whether they’ll fall ill again.

I have no doubt that smart people have carried out rigorous cost-benefit studies about keeping businesses open, arguing that at some point the social ills of a stagnant economy will wreak more havoc than the virus. Thing is, my argument isn’t a macro one for policymakers — who should pay workers so they can stay at home — it’s a micro one for consumers. For me, the low risk of sending a single uninsured waiter to an ICU bed, someone who isn’t really there by choice, in exchange for the pitcher of frozen margaritas you happen to be craving in the late afternoon, is a morally indefensible transaction.

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Other food reviewers have shared the larger sentiment against dining out. Los Angeles Times critic Bill Addison penned a newsletter wherein he said he wouldn’t feel comfortable returning to restaurants after hanging out at a Beverly Hills steakhouse. San Francisco Chronicle critic Soleil Ho wrote on Monday that she’s “still just cooking at home.” These statements and essays are meaningful because they implicitly deal with setting the right example. When a president doesn’t wear a mask, his followers don’t. When you see a friend drinking in a group and they ask you to join, it’s easy to say yes. When you know a critic is eating out around the city and filing regular dispatches from dining rooms, it acts as a signal that others can and should do the same.

New York Times California critic Tejal Rao was particularly eloquent in her own essay against dining out, citing the absurdity of having restaurants assume the responsibility of safeguarding the health of workers or patrons. “Restaurateurs, despite being pushed into the role, are not our public-health officials,” Rao wrote. Indeed, there’s something distinctly worrisome about entrusting the U.S. hospitality industry — known for more documented wage violations than any other sector — with the health and wellbeing of millions.

Many ex-restaurant staffers are actually doing okay thanks to a federal pandemic unemployment program that’s paying them $600 every week to stay at home, protect themselves, and protect their families. Those people, many of whom are only earning a living wage for the first time in a long time thanks to government assistance, are being pulled into work to earn less and put themselves at risk for catching infections, spreading infections, and dying. Many of those workers are uninsured, and while federal law is supposed to ensure that most patients not face costs for COVID-19 treatments, the reality is slightly more complicated.

What’s more is that local health regulations for dining out aren’t strong enough. Before every shift, restaurants have to screen employees with health based questions, but temperature checks aren’t mandatory for either staffers or employees. And even though patrons are encouraged to wear masks at tables while they’re not actively eating or drinking, few really do. Even if no one dies or is sent to intensive care under these conditions, the notion of being in a place where underpaid staffers are financially compelled to interact with unscreened and unprotected patrons seeking leisure is unacceptable to me on a very basic human level.

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Surely, some people will still insist on dining out anyway. Perhaps they’ve assessed that the chances of falling ill are acceptable, or that they’re ready to tough it out if they get sick. So allow me to recount what it’s actually like to catch COVID-19 — and I was one of the lucky ones.

On March 9, there weren’t any reported infections in Idaho where I was vacationing. There were just 600 or so confirmed cases nationwide, a reality that admittedly caused me to miss a few signals. I felt a little out of breath that day, but blamed that on the 3,000 meters of altitude. My cough didn’t seem odd either, which I attributed to the fact that my companion was vaping. When I got chilly after pizza and beers, I thought, hey, it’s winter. I drank some tequila to warm up.

By midnight, I had warmed up. My temperature likely approached 104 degrees Fahrenheit. My upper respiratory system started to get clogged up with fluid. My nausea was uncontrollable. I kept a cold rag over my head for most of the night because my body had transformed itself into an impromptu Russian sauna without an off switch. My resting heart rate, which often dips into the mid 40s during a good night of sleep, averaged well over 105 beats per minute for nearly nine hours. I was delirious and miserable. A day later a local doctor told me their goal was to keep me out of the hospital.

When I started cycling back in New York a few weeks later, the sensation was akin to breathing gasoline that had been set on fire. At some point during my recovery I regressed and barely had enough energy to stand up for more than 30 seconds at a time. I experienced an uncontrollable dry cough for over thirty days. If I had to be physically present at an office, or engaged in client meetings, I estimate I would have been out of work for at least one month.

So if you think in selfish terms, and are trying to calculate your own risk-reward scenario for dining out, remember that there are about 40,000 more confirmed U.S. cases per day now than there were when I became infected. And while most of those cases aren’t in New York, keep in mind that there aren’t any border guards stopping folks from flying into the city from California or Texas, even if they are required to quarantine now.

My relatively mild infection, confirmed by an antibody test, was among the most traumatic medical experiences I’ve ever endured. Imagine having to go through that, or imagine more permanently maiming yourself, killing your family members, or losing your ability to truly appreciate whatever expensive food you claim to enjoy for up to months at a time. My parents both tested positive later in March, and while I never developed anosmia, my mother lost most of her sense of taste for nearly sixty days. Cilantro, one of her favorite herbs, still tasted like soap to her as of a few weeks ago.

If this line of reasoning is what it takes for you to stay at home and not kill restaurant workers — now that you finally suppressed your hankering for rooftop blueberry mojitos and vegan chorizo arancini — so be it. And speaking more superficially, I’ll argue that restaurant food is a heck of a lot more enjoyable when enjoyed safely in your apartment, or on a bench, or on a grassy field in a park where waiters aren’t hovering around with plastic face shields like in some Michael Crichton quarantine horror flick. So really, maybe just stick with takeout.