The other night, I watched as a TV food critic led cameras into the kitchen of a trendy new restaurant.
His review of the meal had been rhapsodic, spread over an array of dishes, which he lustily devoured. And, I thought, gee, I’d like to try that place.
Then he went into the kitchen to talk to the chef—a young man who was clearly thrilled by the attention, his new star-status.
Being the food freak I am, I waited, pen in hand, for the reviewer to repeat the restaurant’s name and address, both of which I’d failed to write down during the opening. Yes, I was smitten, and ready to make a reservation the minute I had a number, That is, until the chef, while demonstrating how he prepared a signature salad, plunged both of his bare hands into the bowl of greens and other ingredients, and fondled them…repeatedly.
The food critic didn’t even blink. He gave the restaurant four stars.
I, on the other hand, made sure to write down the name of the restaurant so that I would never make the mistake of going there.
Maybe I should have sent him salad tongs, too.
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