So, last night I’m sitting in an upscale restaurant doing my job: eating. Working. Undercover. I’d been there 30 minutes and so far the chef, owner, and waitress were unaware of my presence. Then, who should saunter through the door but Timmy, the alleged executive editor of this city magazine. He and his darling mother stop by the table. Introductions all around. (Did I mention that his mother is darling?) Then, Timmy blurts to the waitress: “Hey, did you know you’re waiting on the food editor of D Magazine?” I shot him a wicked WTF look and he stammers: “You’re not working, right? It’s no big deal. They all know who you are.” Well, they did after that: I was flooded with attention. Thanks, Timmy. I’m sure you had a few chuckles over the affair, but now I have to go back. In addition, you owe me $60 for the wine I sent to your table. Putz.
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