The culinary life

I'm often (twice in the past five years) asked what it's like to be married to a restaurant critic.

The first thing you should know is that it's not as glamorous as it sounds. Sure, you get to eat at fancy restaurants with unpronounceable names and order whatever you want off the menu with no thought of the cost, but that's only part of the story. Being the husband of a restaurant critic is a big responsibility. It is my job to hand the car keys to the parking valet, sneak out a menu and figure the tip. I have also been known to give directions to the restrooms, though that service is not stipulated in my contract and is purely voluntary.

My wife is supposed to dine anonymously and it's sometimes hard for me not to "blow her cover." If the service is slow, it takes all the self-restraint I possess not to leap out of my chair and scream, "Hey, buddy! How about a little bread over here! Don't you realize this woman's a restaurant critic?"

Sometimes I go a little overboard trying not to look like I'm dining with a restaurant critic, and that can cause problems, too. Take it from someone who's "been around the block" a few times: Loud burping, tucking the edge of the tablecloth under your chin and stuffing six meatballs into your mouth at the same time tend to attract, not deflect, attention.

My wife likes to give a restaurant the benefit of the doubt when it comes to food, wine and service, but as her dining-out companion, I feel obliged to "tell it like it is." Although I think my wife appreciates my thoughtful, critical appraisal of the cuisine, I have had to "tone down my act" over the years, at my spouse's insistence. When the soup is too hot, I no longer run around the dining room clutching my throat and grabbing glasses of ice water off other diners' tables. Also, when the bill comes, I have learned to resist the urge to smack my forehead with the palm of my hand and yell, "Holy cow! What did we do, break a window?" Although I try to conscientiously appraise my food, I'm not always sure what I'm eating. I have, for example, given high marks to a roasted duck that turned out to be veal and I once mistook peas for capers, which was just as well because I don't like peas.

The primary reason for these misunderstandings is that I am an unsophisticated lugnut who does not know a moose from a mousse. The other reason is that I get confused by all the "daily specials" rattled off at tobacco-auctioneer speed by the waiter.

I don't know who started the trend of reciting food items rather than listing them on the menu, but whoever it was should be stood up against a wall and shot or, better yet, forced to recite the Declaration of Independence after hearing it read aloud only once. My mind a blank but pressured to come up with something, I wind up ordering "that thingamajig with mushrooms" or "one of the first ones you said; you know, the smothered one."

Fortunately my wife, who has the kind of memory one normally associates with professional bridge players, is able to keep it all straight, which is fortunate since she is the one writing the restaurant reviews. Also, it's my job to remember the doggie bags when we leave, which is a big responsibility and not something your average husband is capable of mastering without years of practice.

David Grimes writes a humor column for the Sarasota (Fla.) Herald- Tribune.

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