Photo by Eric Levin

Before our pre-meal meeting last Friday night, our young buck general manager, Don, told us to bring our cell phones for an experiment we were going to be conducting. Once we were assembled, he passed around a wine bucket with slips of paper in it and he told us to each take one. The names of fine dining restaurants with their phone numbers were on the slips.

It was 5:00 pm, the time we usually sit down for pre-service. "Okay," says the twenty-three year old hot shot, "Call these people and ask for a reservation for tonight for six people at seven-thirty, eight o'clock." "What!" we all said at once. "I'm sorry," one waiter said, "I don't think I can be that stupid." The rest of us nodded vigorously in agreement. "Just do it," Don told us. "Start dialing now."

Out came the phones. "You're looking for the following things," Don went on over our murmuring and shuffling. "Write this down: do they identify themselves when they answer the phone? Do they use negative language when they refuse you, or otherwise make you feel stupid for asking for the booking?" "Well, who could blame them, honey," Frankie muttered as he took the notes. Don went on: "Next, do they offer you any alternative, such as their bar or even another restaurant? Lastly, do they thank you for thinking of them. And make a note of how many people you have to talk to in order to get your answers?"

There was some trading of papers; some people knew the staffs of the restaurants they picked and didn't want to risk having their voice recognized. Finally, we were settled and everyone started dialing. I couldn't dial mine-I had to hear what everyone else was getting on the other side of these completely absurd requests. "Here, take mine," I whispered to Bruce, who was already affecting his deep hetero phone voice with his host. I looked around the table. Everyone, even the valets who were enlisted in our experiment, was getting into it. Some people were adopting English accents; Keith was dragging out the Southern drawl he scrupulously hid at all times; and Greta was really throwing herself into the role of Desperate and Clueless Dinner Guest by practically bordering on tears when she couldn't get a reservation for ten with a vegan menu at prime time.

The results were surprising. When we finished our calls and went around the room and reported on the exchanges, the grades were given. It reminded me of the grammar school report cards that I would studiously forge my father's signature to: Lots of D's, a shocking F-, a couple of C's and one surprising A+.

In order to protect the not-so-innocent, here are some of the highlights from our reservation telethon:

High End Restaurant Number One
Grade: F-
Shockingly, this celebrated resto didn't even get on the board because a recorded message picked up the phone after a couple of rings, then the line was bewilderingly disconnected after the computer put us on hold for a minute. "Recorded messages," as one great restaurateur I know never tires of saying, "equal lost revenue." After this display, all of us would tend to agree with his statement. Needless to say, our caller was angry to miss out on the game. "I mean, I could have made their night with my table of visiting French diplomats," Kristina complained. "We were ready to go vertical on their ass!" She was referring to their champion wine list that all of us had had the occasion to drool over when Don brought it in one night. She tried calling back one more time. The same thing happened. Lots of tongues were clucked. "No es bueno," the busboy mused.

"I didn't want to go there, anyway," Kristina pouted.

High End Restaurant Number Two
Grade: A+
A sweet, young hostess answered, identifying herself and thanking us for calling. When asked for an eight o'clock reservation for seven people, she told us she had one opening at ten, and a very roomy bar with tables where the full dinner menu was served. When we told her we wanted to eat in the dining room at eight o'clock, she murmured sympathetically and offered to take our number in case of any changes in the book, and gave the names and numbers of restaurants near by that may be able to accommodate us, as well. When we passed, she thanked us sincerely for calling and said she hoped we would think of them again in the future. Wow! "I want to go to that place," Don said. "It wasn't really on my radar before, but if that's their phone technique, imagine the service there." We all had to agree.

High End Restaurant Number Three
Grade: D
This food palace is used to non-stop phones, and it's fair to say they have to refuse 19-out-of-20 requests for a weekend reservation-it's hard enough during the week to get a prime-time table. The fatigue from saying "no" had obviously gotten to our maitre d'victim, as he was only able to muster a flat " Food Palace ," by way of greeting when he answered the phone. When the ridiculous request for a table of twelve at seven-thirty was made, there was a moment of silence on his end; no doubt, he was pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "We are fully committed this evening. If you would like to make a reservation for a party of that size, we recommend you call at least three weeks in advance." "How about a party of two at any time?" our country bumpkin pressed. "I'm sorry," our long-suffering soul apologized. Phones were ringing mercilessly in the background. "We couldn't get you in here with a crowbar tonight." Or any other time, we couldn't help but presume.

You get the point. Oftentimes, the phone is the first and sometimes only contact with a potential guest. In this competitive business, everyone wants to know how everyone else is doing. Inevitably, slipping standards in one restaurant mean more business for someone else. Whether you're an owner or a waiter or a bartender, this schadenfreude is driven by simple economics. Take this story of Don's exercise for his own staff in the spirit it was intended: awareness of the fact that someone is always watching and listening, and in this case, deciding whether they should get off the phone and come in.