Once I was a restaurant critic. Now I must book like an ordinary person

For the past five years or so, my best friends and I have been getting together for a Christmas lunch. Because I’m a food critic — or was, until recently — they have always left it to me to make the booking on the understanding that I’ll be able to secure a better table than they would. More often than not, this assumption proved to be correct and we have enjoyed memorable meals at some of the country’s finest restaurants.

Now that I no longer have a restaurant column, this year is shaping up to be very different. I had forgotten just how hard it is for a mere ‘civilian’ to get a reservation at a decent restaurant over the Christmas period. In the past, when I identified myself by name, the oleaginous Frenchman on the other end of the line would invariably say, ‘Ah! Meester Yong!’ These days, the response is more likely to be, ‘Can you ’old?’

I’m reminded of a funny article written by Ruth Reichl, the editor of Gourmet magazine. Back in 1993, when she was the chief restaurant critic of the New York Times, she decided to conduct a little experiment. She paid two visits to Le Cirque, first as herself and then as ‘Molly’, a middle-aged hausfrau in dark glasses and a wig. Needless to say, the experiences she had on each occasion were very different. Here was proof — if proof were needed — that how you’re treated in New York’s top restaurants is entirely dictated by how important you are perceived to be.

Since losing my column, I have become Ruth Reichl in a fright wig. Of course, I never imagined that the reason I was fawned upon in the country’s best restaurants was because the staff happened to like me — I’m not that naive — but I assumed that after plugging them relentlessly for five years I would have built up a certain amount of credit.