It was all about whom you knew, whom you blew, and whom you’d yet to screw. You just had to be at the right cocktail party, at the right gallery opening, at the right restaurant, in the right club’s bathroom doing the right drug, on the right coast, in the right tight black skirt, thighs pressed to the right person, in order to find your name on a masthead of some slick publication. And that was how I became the food critic for Noir.
