No, I do not wear wigs. They pinch and can give one a headache. I did buy a sexy Ann Margret redhead number many years ago and wore it once -- I looked just like me with red hair.  But I do make reservations in dozens of different names with various telephone numbers.  I have credit cards in an assortment of names. And I do not wear my signature hats in restaurants.  I wear the hat for photographs and television, when I think I may be photographed at an event, or for fun when I’m on a panel or doing a reading. 

   

     I love hats. I’ve loved hats forever. So friendly on bad hair days. But when I appeared with a black cowboy hat pulled low over my nose on the back cover of my book Bite: a New York Restaurant Strategy in l972…my hat wearing days in restaurants were finished.  (I do show up in a hat now and then for a photo session at my habitual lunch hangout, Jean Georges, where I haven’t been unrecognized for years.)

  

     But there are countless other moral dilemmas.  Like how cruel is too cruel?  A few friends urged me to be really mean in my critiques now that I’m squaring off against many on-line meanies.  I do have space for the first time to revisit a place I loved and report that they’ve raised prices yet again or snipped an ounce or three from a portion or haven’t yet trained the staff to be gracious and apologetic, to accommodate a customer when something unforeseen goes wrong.

    I went to a small mom and pop French bistro on an odd street of an offbeat neighborhood because two citizen restaurant critics on some web site found it “just amazing,” “nothing short of spectacular.”   I won’t take that level of blogging review seriously again.  I wasted three hours and over $200 to discover a truly charming spot with an adorable logo and a cute gamine host and a singularly ungifted cook at the range.  I decided not to write about the place. 

   

     Why not?  Don’t the critics owe it to their readers to save them from wasting time and money? I asked myself how many food-lovers would be racing downtown to this virtually unsung spot. It’s not that learned critics elsewhere are touting it and I could set eager eaters right. I have never thought it worth swatting a fly with a tank.  A modest out-of-the-way spot getting no press at all will either find an audience or disappear.


    And then there are the cleaning bills. A few weeks ago a pal toppled her glass of red wine and it splashed on my jacket, my blouse, my skirt, my shoes, my stockings and my pashmina. It wasn’t totally her fault. She’d set her glass on a sloping edge of the table.  Our waiter at Stanton Social swooped in with a paper form for me to fill out for my cleaner instructing him to forward the bill to the restaurant.  

   

    A fabulous cleaner has recently come into my life.  Apthorp Cleaners does miracles.  Red wine on a banana wool jacket is child’s play for the genies of Apthorp.  It’s not the most expensive cleaner I’ve ever heard of…but it’s the most expensive I’ve ever been forced to rely on in this era when many cleaners haven’t a clue how to remove a spot or press a lapel.  My skinflint side wanted desperately to send the bill to Stanton Social.  But I believe a restaurant critic should never ask a restaurant for money.  Not even for charity.
   
    For twenty-five years Citymeals-on-Wheels has depended on the extraordinary generosity of chefs and restaurateurs in many of its fund-raising efforts to bring meals to the homebound elderly. James Beard and I co-founded Citymeals.  I have been board chair for all its life but the letters seeking restaurant participation are never signed by me. Our annual Corporate Dineout raises more money every year and depends on the exceptional hospitality of New York restaurants.  I have no idea who says yes and who says no.  I don’t want to know.
  
    For the same reason I will not be sending a cleaning bill to Monkey Bar where a waiter at the first friends and family tasting slipped and spilled a glass of icy white wine all over me.  I screamed. I was in shock for a second or two.  It was cold.  I was soaked.  I thought about going home to change, but sopped up what I could with paper towels in the ladies room. I finally warmed up by dessert time.

   

    Which brings me to another moral dilemma.  Friends and family tastings. With expense budgets tight and tightening, in some cases, non-existent, it might seem a sensible solution for a restaurant critic to swan in on a friends and family tasting where the house is giving waiters and kitchen a chance to exercise their new muscles. No one gets a check. Everyone is asked to write a critique.  Seems like a genius way to cover a new restaurant. 

    Mea culpa.  I have several times done a first tasting column based on a friends and family tasting.  Within my usual sometimes inscrutable moral rigidity, I refuse to fill out the questionnaire or write a critique or answer a question on grounds that a critic should not be a restaurant consultant. Is this getting tricky? I was always a dancer.  Am I dancing now on the head of that pin?

   

    I feel more comfortable writing about the early experience when the tasting is full of promise.  I would rather not try to predict the future when the kitchen and service are still half-baked.  Is anyone else feeling uneasy about the rush to judgment?

    Let me know what you think about these moral dilemmas.  Is anonymity essential for a restaurant critic? Is there any point of reserving in another name if you’re likely to be recognized anyway?  What do you think of a critic who doesn’t expect a bill, freeloads and brings his friends? What if she quietly accepts extra desserts and doesn’t insist they be added to the check?  How about calling in your own name when you’re not working but just want a table in the restaurant you helped heat up?  

    Am I being silly not to let a restaurateur pay for my cleaning bill?  Email me