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. Couldn’t they at least find a table for me in the back, just for old time’s sake? The answer is ‘Non.’ I’m now treated like any other punter — which is to say, with barely concealed contempt.
I’m finding it hard to adjust to this shift. This isn’t because I spent such a large amount of my time in the country’s top restaurants. Rather, it’s because the ability to ring up a fashionable eatery and get a table at a moment’s notice is such a reliable status indicator. It’s a perk that’s normally only enjoyed by the rich, the famous and the beautiful, like never having to queue to get into a nightclub. Consequently, to lose this privilege is a colossal blow. It’s as though I haven’t merely lost a column — I’ve also been exposed by the News of the World as a child molester.
I’m now beginning to think I would have been better off using a pseudonym when visiting restaurants in the past, like some of my colleagues. The rationale for this, obviously, is that they won’t be treated any differently from ordinary members of the public. The problem, though, is that the vast majority of top restaurant managers know exactly who the critics are and only pretend not to recognise them. Sometimes, they don’t even bother. There’s a famous story concerning A.A. Gill, for instance, who once appeared at a restaurant in dark glasses and told the maître d’ he had a table booked under the name of Cambridge. ‘Actually, you booked under the name of Oxford, Mr Gill,’ was the reply.
Much better, I always reasoned, to announce who I was when I made the booking. In that way, I could make allowances for the fact that I was treated well and would end up with a more accurate impression of the restaurant than those critics who mistakenly thought they were travelling incognito. The other advantage of my system, of course, is that it eliminated the risk of not being recognised. God forbid that I should actually be treated like a nobody!
At least, that’s what I believed when I thought I’d be writing my restaurant column forever. Now that it’s gone, I realise it would have been sensible to wear a convincing disguise every time I was on the job, like Ruth Reichl. If I’d done that, I wouldn’t be faced with this horrific status readjustment. It’s like the argument for not travelling First Class on a transatlantic flight if it’s only a one off — once you’ve turned left, you’ll never want to turn right again.
So if you happen to be passing Pizza Express in Shepherd’s Bush at lunchtime on 20 December, do pop in and say hello. I’ll be the bloke in the back surrounded by a very disgruntled group of middle-aged men.
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