Publicly, Bryan Miller ’74 had one of the most enviable jobs as a New York Times restaurant critic. Privately, he was often wrestling with bipolar II disorder.
For those grappling with depressive illness, life is largely about showing up. Social interactions can be exquisitely painful, and much of one’s time is taken up contriving ways to avoid them. For more than a dozen years at the New York Times, my life was consumed by high-profile work and endless socializing. I reviewed restaurants five to six nights a week in the company of one or two couples; had lunch two to three days a week; reported food stories; wrote a weekly recipe column, a weekly kitchen equipment column, and magazine features; this was augmented by public speaking, a daily radio spot, and a weekly TV appearance. I am surprised they didn’t draft me as an auxiliary truck driver. I held what was widely considered the best job in food journalism — indeed, the best job in the country, period. In the span of nine years as the Times’ restaurant critic, I dined out more than 5,100 times… Greater New York City was my peach — but it had a dark, moldy underside.
In 1982, I was felled by what might be called a double helping of mental illness. Typically, one is plagued either by a biochemical depression, caused by inexplicable changes in brain chemistry, or an emotional disturbance arising from personal loss, separation, anxiety, or other factors. We know a tremendous amount about the physical brain — how it communicates with various parts of the body, where information is stored, and how it responds to stimuli and medications. But when it comes to the etiology of depression, the why it is tormenting nearly one in five American adults as I write this sentence, there is so much to learn.
Remarkably, despite my dread of socializing, I never failed to show up for a restaurant review. At times I would stand at the front door, breathing heavily… I repeated to myself that I could do it, had done so hundreds of times, and that it would pass quickly. It could take a while, but I always went in.
Outside of professional eating, however, there were numerous vanishing acts, from the minor (private dinner parties, sports events, work functions) to the major (media interviews, business travel, social engagements). To this day I suspect there are some incensed Canadians in Ottawa who, in 1993, invited me to be the keynote speaker at a big gourmet gala, 400 guests. It sounded like fun five months in advance — as do many such invitations — until the date approached. Crushingly depressed, I made it as far as the United Airlines boarding gate.
Taking a seat near the ticketing desk, I weighed the consequences of going to Ottawa versus not going to Ottawa. If I were to go, and suffer through the event, delivering a halting, semi-coherent speech, at least I would find $2,000 in my pocket. Going straight home, on the other hand, would be capitulating to the disease. As the last stragglers trundled through the gate, the attendant, a middle-aged lady with tight hair and a pinched smile, turned to me. Was I on this flight?
“No, no, I made a mistake. It’s the next one.”
Three years into the illness, and between wives, I had drifted far from the shores of optimism regarding an imminent cure. The medications — anywhere from 70 to 114 pills a week — could be like an overmatched prizefighter, effective in the early rounds but ultimately weak-kneed and feckless. At times they left me a trembling, withered old man. Climbing the stairs to my third-floor apartment could be a five minute trek. Psychotherapy was bearing some fruit, though as yet barely enough to make a small cobbler. Grimly, I came to expect the worst, and it was worse than I expected.
In 1991, the James Beard Foundation anointed me with one of its two highest honors, the James Beard Foundation’s Who’s Who of Food & Beverage in America, awarded to a “most accomplished food and beverage professional in the country.” I had been at the Times for just over six years, five as the restaurant critic. It seemed a little early to get a career tribute like that, sort of like being voted into the National Baseball Hall of Fame when your rookie contract runs out. The honor came with a large bronze trophy the weight of a young St. Bernard, in the form of a French waiter. The Beard Foundation, a nonprofit culinary organization that likens itself to the motion picture academy, bestows annual awards to chefs, restaurateurs, wine professionals, journalists, and other industry types…
Two days before the event I was browsing in a guitar shop near Times Square. A familiar bell chimed in my brain. First there was a tingling on the surface of the scalp, like a mild electrical current; then confusion, followed by great anxiety. Before long, a cognitive thunderstorm rolled in, knocking down power lines and making a mess of things. My racing thoughts were random and unfocused and frightening … the wonderful assortment of guitars hanging on the walls could have been cured hams. I was certain I had forgotten how to play, so what was I doing there? I wanted to go home and sleep until it passed, but that was wishful thinking. In its wake arrived a thick, gauzy fog — a dull, stultifying nothingness that Emily Dickinson described as a so-called “funeral in the brain… .”
At the time I was taking an ornery medication called Nardil. It is a Monoamine Oxidase Inhibitor (MAO), among the first antidepressants, developed in the 1950s. MAOs elevate levels of the neurotransmitters norepinephrine, serotonin, and dopamine, all related to mood. Surprisingly, it is often the drug of choice when modern medications prove ineffective. MAOs have fallen out of favor because of potentially dangerous interactions with certain foods, drinks, and other medications — perfect for a food writer. It is risky when combined with the chemical tyramine, an amino acid that helps regulate blood pressure and is found in red wine, aged cheeses, some smoked meats and fish, and more. They say it is in caviar, but I was not about to accept that without a fight. One day at home I consumed a teaspoon of Beluga (the highest grade) hoping I would not have to dial 911. Fortunately, I was fine, and continued to experiment with more generous (and expensive) servings to no ill effect.
Aged cheese is another matter; on one occasion, after an accidental ingestion of feta cheese in a salad, my blood pressure skyrocketed, sending me into near stroke territory. I was trundled out of the Times newsroom on a gurney and hospitalized overnight. I have always wondered which of my colleagues observed this loud and unscripted performance, and why no one ever mentioned it.
It so happened that, on the day I began taking Nardil, I arrived at the office and bumped into Frank Prial, our wine critic. A ruddy Irishman with a generous girth and a pocketful of witticisms, he was an immensely popular columnist because of his down-to-earth, witty writing style and approachable erudition.
“Bryan, come on up to the test kitchen and help out,” he beckoned. “I’m tasting some Beaujolais.”
All Beaujolais are red.
I determined it was some sort of leap of faith I needed to go through and joined him. Besides, professional wine tasters do not drink the wine; rather, they swirl it around in the mouth, swallow a little, and spit it out. So I swirled, sniffed, tasted, and expectorated for half an hour. It turned out that red wine, like caviar, was not a problem for me. Nor were white or rosé. What a relief.
Greater New York City was my peach — but it had a dark, moldy underside.
Prial was also a talented reporter, having held at least a dozen positions at the paper over the years, including Paris correspondent. He wanted off the vinous beat, chiefly so he could return to Paris. If that were to happen, the paper would need a new wine writer. The brass decided I had a suitable palate and requested I accompany Frank on his bibulous rounds, which could involve assessing several dozen wines a day. How great was that? Drinking for a living. The paper even enrolled me in wine school.
It did not take long to discover that my antidepressant Nardil was a real party pooper. At higher doses, it drains the libido to the level of an octogenarian, which is problematic for a married 39-year-old male. Thirty milligrams, an average dose, leaves the engine difficult to turn over; at 45 mg it sputters and belches smoke; at 60 mg it repeatedly stalls out; 75 mg, well, you can imagine. In the early days, I was prescribed 90 mg.
My Beard Award appearance was set for 9 p.m., when I was expected to take to the rostrum and scatter some pearls of gastronomic wisdom. I would have rather been buried alive. Shortly after 7 p.m., I dressed in a charcoal suit and a loud yellow tie that had been presented to me by Pierre Troisgros, a three-star French chef. Adorning the tie were images of Pierre’s restaurant and his team of cooks — pretty wild, but that was the only night I could wear it without looking tacky.
The event was held at the Times Square Marriott Marquis hotel, which has a grand ballroom that could hold a medium-sized junior college. I thought about the dozens of strange foodies I would encounter; the bubbly networking; the vows to get together for dinner, which of course we would not. Then there were those pearls of wisdom. I had scratched out a few talking points on a paper menu from a Japanese noodle parlor, but that hardly comprised pearls of anything. The night would be beyond distressing, presuming I could pull it off at all. Then again, there was the unthinkable: I could bail.
Turning west on 52nd Street, amid the forest of glass towers lining the Avenue of the Americas, I approached a popular steakhouse called Ben Benson’s. I had never reviewed the place, although it was well-regarded and only three blocks from my apartment, so I don’t know why I hadn’t. The tanned and tweedy namesake owner enjoyed a wide and loyal following. I had stopped by two years prior while researching the best crab cakes in New York. Ben Benson’s was the runaway winner — enormous, with sweet fresh crab, no filler, encased in a latticework of golden brittle potatoes.
Near the entrance was a small, clubby bar that saw a flash flood of financial executives when the corporate whistle sounded at 5 p.m. I felt very weak, from torpor or tension, and decided to have a quick drink. By 6:30 p.m. the crowd was thinning out as tipplers hustled to catch trains to Larchmont or Tarrytown or Scarsdale. I commandeered a stool, reckoning that if I got myself sufficiently embalmed the evening might pass with less angst. I glanced at the clock: 7:10 p.m. The event had commenced at the Marriott.
I was not exactly in the mood for barroom badinage, but the loud tie invited several queries regarding my plans for the evening. “You’re looking sharp, sir,” remarked a burly fellow in his 40s, wearing a khaki suit and a blonde brush cut. He had probably played defensive end in college.
“Nice tie,” he added. “Where are you off to?”
“Nowhere,” I mumbled.
“So you are all dressed up with no place to go?”
“I guess so. I’m supposed to be somewhere, but it’s a long story.”
“Women. Say no more.”
The medications — anywhere from 70 to 114 pills a week — could be like an overmatched prizefighter, effective in the early rounds but ultimately weak-kneed and feckless.
Two older fellows at the end of the bar nodded in approbation. My heart was racing. I needed a drink and ordered a rye old fashioned, my favorite cocktail. An interesting looking man soon arrived; he was tall, trim, in his 60s, with longish salt-and-pepper hair and a slow, warm smile. Clearly European. His name was Roger — actually, Rogier, from Belgium. He was nattily attired in a dark blue suit, Turnbull and Asser checked shirt, and blue tie. Time had skied down Rogier’s face, etching vertical creases that, in most men, would telegraph age but only added to his dignified mien. He could have been an art curator, a diplomat, an international banker. One thing was for sure: whatever Rogier was, he was well acquainted with that bar and the other patrons. He told me he was in the shipping business — fats and oils, whatever that meant.
“Off to some fun party tonight?” he asked, inspecting my tie.
“No…”
Sedated by two muscular old fashioneds, my brain still felt sheathed in gauze. Psychiatrists strongly admonish patients taking antidepressants to steer clear of alcohol. For the vast majority of depressed people who attempt to drink themselves out of their misery, booze is an exit door painted on the wall. Alcohol is a central nervous system depressant, and overdoing it can make one feel worse. In one respect I am fortunate, for I have a bell in my head that rings when I have reached my limit. Beyond that, I can be terribly sick for days. So I never cross the line. (Although that night came close.)
Nearly a third of people suffering from major depression have a drinking problem to some degree. Women are more than twice as likely to start drinking excessively if they have a history of depression. Teens that have had one bout of major depression are twice as likely to start drinking as those who have not. And, if they are on medication, there could be serious side effects.
Again, I entertained the idea of blowing off the award ceremony.
No, you can’t do that. The entire culinary world will be there: the food press, colleagues from the Times, restaurant owners, chefs, industry leaders. If you bail it will be a calamity for the Beard Foundation, and for you.
I bailed.
My third cocktail was taxiing down the runway, donated by Rogier. The Beard Awards were no longer heavy on my mind, as long as I did not look at the clock.
I looked at the clock.
8:30 p.m.
If I changed my mind, there was still time to shuffle down to the Marriott and make an ass of myself. I turned my attention to the new old fashioned. Then arrived a hefty fellow named Martin, an affable Irishman from Westchester who was in the commercial real estate business… He was one of the regulars, with an earnest smile and firm salesman’s handshake. He exhibited little urgency to decamp to his hushed suburban hideaway. Rogier, too, appeared to be settled in for the later innings, while deliberating another martini…
We went on talking about everything, mostly sports and restaurants. And dogs. “I had a red setter when I lived in Fairfield,” recalled Rogier. He explained that he was the “stupidest” animal he’d ever seen. He liked to sleep under the coffee table, and if the kids came in making loud noises, he would jump up, whacking his head, every time. It was comforting to spend time with some blokes who knew little about neither my world nor my illness and just wanted to shoot the breeze. I was invisible. No one could intrude upon my scary world. After the third old fashioned, the Beard Awards had faded into the mist. I was not drunk, but I was not sober. The three of us called it a night and promised to see each other soon.
The following morning I was in possession of what the French call a “guele de bois” (wooden mouth). A sequoia. And that was the least of my penance. I suffered from a nuclear headache and a royally vindictive stomach. Coffee offered little relief. The refrigerator was bare, save for a package of Kodak film and a roll of rock-hard goat cheese.
At 9 a.m. I headed down to the office — something I tried to avoid when depressed, but today there was an important story meeting. As I approached the Marriott Marquis, images of the awards ceremony played out in my mind. In my fantasy, all the preliminary medals had been passed out. The largely inebriated audience awaited the grand event.
“And now,” the president of the James Beard Foundation beamed, “the award for Who’s Who of Food & Beverage in America is Bryan Miller of the New York Times.”
Hearty applause.
The recipient should be on his way to the stage.
More hearty applause.
Where is the recipient?
Lackluster applause.
Heads begin turning toward the rear of the ballroom.
No applause. Murmurings. The foundation president sheepishly waits at the podium, an unclaimed bronze statue gleaming under the spotlights.
Turning onto West 43rd Street, I entered the Times building and made a detour to my desk in order to avoid eye contact with the food staff. Would they confront me as a chastising group, or individually? And even if they left me to myself, would I be fielding calls from food journalists around the country?
To my astonishment, no one brought up the Beard Award.
Following the editorial meeting, at which I contributed two good story proposals, I scooted out of the building, vowing to stay clear of the office for a while. Being a senior Times critic — I think there were around seven on the paper — I was a privileged character, free to come and go as I pleased as long as I fed the lion twice a week.
The question was, what do I do about my shameful dereliction? What a slap in the face to the foundation. They must want to hog-tie me to a pickup truck and drag me around Times Square. I considered going down to the foundation’s headquarters to apologize, but what would I say? I am a manic depressive and you caught me on a bad day? Better perhaps to craft a letter of groveling apology. Still, what was the reason? Depressed people lie about their condition all the time, but for once in my life my lie repository was coming up dry. Looking back, I should have done something. I subsequently learned that Florence Fabricant, a Times food reporter, was nice enough to (awkwardly) accept the award on my behalf. We have never discussed it.
Two months later I was enjoying a beer on the porch of my farmhouse in Rhinebeck, N.Y., about 90 miles north of Manhattan along the Hudson River, savoring a glorious stretch of well-being. It was a resplendent autumn afternoon. A UPS truck pulled up the driveway and the courier placed at my feet a large, heavy, cardboard box. I lugged it inside and sawed through the top with a bread knife, plunging my hands into bubble wrap. I lifted its content and placed it on the kitchen table.
It was the trophy.
— This esssay was excerpted from Dining in the Dark: A Famed Restaurant Critic’s Struggle With and Triumph Over Depression (Skyhorse, 2021) by Bryan Miller ’74