The other night, I watched as a TV food critic led cameras into the kitchen of a trendy new restaurant.
His review of the meal has been rhapsodic, spread over an array of dishes, which he lustily devoured. And, I thought, gee, I’d like to try that place.
Then he went into the kitchen to talk to the chef—a young man who was clearly thrilled by the attention, his new star-status.
Being the food freak I am, I waited, pen in hand, for the reviewer to repeat the restaurant’s name and address, both of which I’d failed to write down during the opening. Yes, I was smitten, and ready to make a reservation the minute I had a number, That is, until the chef, while demonstrating how he prepared a signature salad, plunged both of his bare hands into the bowl of greens and other ingredients, and fondled them…repeatedly.
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