if I was Phyllis Richman

The right critic can make or break a restaurant. In Washington, it's Phyllis Richman. She's the engine that moves the masses, and her weekly column is read religiously by the preferred clientele, those well-to-do-dual-income-no-children thirty-somethings whose palates and imagination run just short of originality, and need only a tiny push to be told where to eat.

Phyllis and her three pages in the Washington post have more affect on a restaurants' success than all the cilantro in christendom. She says go, they go. She says stay away, some still go out of curiosity. One place changed its' name upon recieving their advance copy of the review. Her picture should be posted in every kitchen within a hundred mile radius of the capitol building. In fact, she rarely allows herself to be photographed, and never consents to the publication of her image.

But I know what she looks like. That's because I have suckled on the thorny end of her pithy wrath. She is notoriously hard on servers, resorting to jabs about personality as opposed to professionality, and is not above berating anyone she feels is beneath the noble task of serving her in particular, and the public at large in general.

It was a Saturday night, and we were packed. I had the tavern room, a twelve table section known for its campers, and for long haul cocktailing. If I had great tits it would be a good section, but for someone whose strengths were knowledge of the menu and (mostly) cheerful service, it was a death sentence. A group of six people arrived and asked for a table for eight. The section was full except for a slot along the banquet that was known to the staff as "the refrigerator' because its proximity to the ventilation grate kept it at sub-zero temperatures. The leader of the group gestured toward the only open area and indicated that his party would sit there.

With gracious waiterly aplomb, I approached the table and exchanged salutations. The was a short lady with silver/black hair, and she asked what wines we served by the glass. This is important. It was my first brush with Phyllis Richman.

"We have Hawk's Crest chardonnay, which is Stag's Leap's second lable" Mistake: too precise. More information than necessary. The lady looked up at me, then titterred, and the rest of the diners followed her prompt to laughter. She asked me to repeat it, I did. They laughed again and it made me uncomfortable. I looked up. The was another table signalling for their check. A couple was ready to order. I still hate large tables. Sure, there's money in it, but it's always a hassle, never smooth. It rattles me, it's unmanageble and offends my sense of decorum.

I needed an escape. They were not about to let up. After a near eternity, I took drink orders. Every order involved a quiz, are the strawberries in the daquiries fresh ?(no) what beers are on tap ?(none) do you have coors light? (come on) what is the dryest red ?(people who ask for dry wines are the dining equivalent of tire kickers on a car lot). I knew something was going on, I just didn't know what. Flustered, I finally got away, feeling hazed.

I ran some errands, did a shot of vodka that the bartender forced on me saying it was someone's mistaken order, and returned. Everyone had moved, and now only two were holding menus. Unfazed but blearier, I asked if they would like appetizers. Another extended dialogue ensured, including descriptive passages and a litany of my personal favorites. I was losing my charming facade and become more perfunctory with each sylabble. Finally, one man said he'd like the fire shrimp, a dish I'd recommended. I acknowledged this order, looked around the table, no one else seemed to want anything, so I departed.

I could feel the eyes glaring from behind me. Returning to the table I could now feel animosity. I apologized and asked there was something else. Fluttering, the woman who turned out to be Ms. Richman indignantly huffed, "The rest of us would like appetizers as well" and gave me a look as if I had just farted. It went downhill from there.

The rest was my fault. I ceased attempts to be charming, slipping first into perfunctory, later moving toward surly, and had already complained to the other servers about what snooty pissants these people were when a waitress flew into the kitchen like her hair was on fire.She came up to me, eyes wild, small bubbles of foam forming at the corners of her mouth as she spoke.

"Did you know that you're waiting on Phyllis Richman?" she shrieked. I did now. All motion and activity stopped. The kitchen staff looked across the line at me. My manager was in earshot. He scurried over, aghast, demanding a rundown of the events thus far. I left out all the bad things. He told the hostess not to seat anymore tables in my section. I laughed malevolently inside. The damage was done. Any steps now were like closing the barn door after the horses had left. Face it, I'm the focus of evil in the universe.

The review called me the waiter from another planet. She said the black bean pate' tasted like punishment. That was my favorite line. She roasted us, slammed us and kicked us while we were down. It was funny. She advised patrons to stick to appetizers and dessert, advice that, if followed, would drive us out of business two ways: waiter's checks would be low, so the competent staff members would go work someplace else, and the kitchen would sell no entrees, and supply and ordering would be fucked, driving profits down, a slow but sure death.

This was not the last time that Phyllis Richman and I would meet, but only the opening salvo in our little war.