My job is full of risk as well as reward

ANOOSKA TUCKER-EVANS OH MY god, you have the best job in the world.

If I had a dollar for every time someone said this to me, I’d be so rich I would have long retired.

Being a restaurant reviewer is undeniably a great job. We have the privilege of dining at some of the best restaurants in the country – and sometimes the world.

We enjoy morsels of food so refined, so clever, so delicious, your heart feels like it may actually burst with joy.

We meet and are inspired by chefs and producers so passionate about their craft, it makes you want to eat better, live better and be better.

We’re able to fulfil our passion, driven by a hunger to never stop learning; realising no matter how much we devour or how far we travel, there’ll always be a dish we’ve never tried and something new to fall in love with.

But while I adore my job, it’s not all French champagne and foie gras. It has its dark side.

For each truly orgasmic meal, there are at least 20 you’ll want to spit out like a bowl of overboiled brussels sprouts.

Three years ago, I spent two weeks straight eating almost nothing but fish and chips, trying to find the best in the state.

After facing food dripping in more oil than a BP refinery and frozen fish mushier than a Renee Zellweger film, the sight of anything deep-fried and battered still induces a little dry-retching.

On the topic of grease, there is the issue of what dining out multiple times a week does to your body. You see, chefs don’t just cook with oil – they cook with oil and butter and fat and salt and all the things that make food insanely delicious, while ensuring your cholesterol is higher than Willie Nelson and Snoop Dogg in a weed plantation.

A recent visit to my doctor confirmed exactly this, as she revealed my lifestyle had put me on the express train to heart attack station, with clogged arteries the only stop.

My job requires me to cheat death every day.