When actor-activist Michael J. Fox released his memoir Lucky Man, Phyllis Richman thought the title a bit much. Sure, the most popular celebrity suffering from Parkinson’s disease has done a lot to spread awareness, but to call himself lucky? “With apologies to Michael J. Fox,” writes Richman in the Washington Post, “I must say Parkinson’s disease is not the best thing that ever happened to me.”

A few years ago, through publicist Heather Freeman, I was introduced to Richman, the Post‘s legendary former food critic. And every so often the two of us will go out for lunch somewhere interesting, whether it be for sushi or at a taqueria or somewhere fancy. She shows up with her cane, walking slowly, but is never late. And for the longest time I didn’t know she suffered from Parkinson’s. She’s never really brought it up—we’d much rather discuss why a certain restaurant grills a steak that is mediocre at best or how I could use the leftover duck carcasses from the Peking Gourmet Inn to make a savory broth. (When I commented to her that for decades she had one of the best jobs in journalism, Richman replied, “You have no idea how much bad food I’ve had to stomach.”)