The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a

Restaurant Critic

Oh, hi kid. Aren't you the guy who led that "make our vending machines healthy" campaign last fall? Still getting beat up a lot for that? Oh, that's good. Yeah, I must admit I buy the bulk packs of chips now myself--probalby saving me a bit of money but... Oh right. Really? A food critic? Okay, probably you should expect something like this:

You'll go to a culinary college where you'll learn some of the basics of haute cuisine. Although you won't enjoy creating as much as consuming, eventually you'll manage to put together a decent enough five course dinner and armed with a knowledge of the difference between bernaise and hollandiase, and a good idea of what wines complement each food group, you're on your way.

Unfortunately the critic gig isn't one that offers a lot of employment opportunities. The jobs for the major papers in the big cities are so coveted that it's almost impossible to break in, and the smaller communities don't pay someone a living wage just to go try out the local eateries and review their fare. To pay the bills you'll have to actually go to work for a restaurant preparing food for some employed critic's analysis.

You have enough training in upscale cuisine to catch on at a trendy bistro, but the first time you hear through the grapevine that the critic may be coming, you're told not to expect to cook for him--it's Henri, the head chef, who reserves that honor for himself. Besides, the staff asks--why would you want the stress? They don't know the passion that burns inside you. You want to test the critic more than you want to prove yourself.

When the critic shows up, you watch him surreptitiously. When he leaves, you will make an excuse and follow his car home. You'll take the next few days off work, and begin seriously stalking him. The skulking skills you learned sneaking home to avoid pummeling from the kids here at school after you got all the good stuff taken out of the vending machines will stand you in good stead as you log his movements.

He's a creature of habit, and when his car dies on his way to some remote new eatery, you'll just happen by to rescue him. His ego will keep him from wondering why this random samaritan knows so much about his column, and your obsequeious behavior wins you an invitation to be his dinner guest. Over the veal veloute you charm him as you mock your employer's bechamel sauce and he breaks his two glasses of wine rule. You continue to lavish praise on his insights, and soon he's consumed most of two bottles and is singing duets with the waiters, who have heard enough of your conversation to realize his identity and rightly assume that his enjoyment of the evening equals a good review for their restaurant.

Then it's time for the final part of your plan--you've hired one of the waitresses at your restaurant to walk in and began yelling at you for missing your own engagement party, and the critic is too drunk to wonder at the coincidence of her finding you there. She storms out, and you sheepishly apologize and drop your car keys on the table, explaining you'll call him tomorrow about getting your mazda back.

The staff will offer to call him a cab, but he feels in your debt and insists on making sure your car gets back into town. Little will he know that you and your "girlfriend" will have already alerted the police to the drinking driver weaving back and forth across the highway in the red mazda; his arrest will be front page news, and the fact it occurred after a restaurant visit forces the paper to suspend him.

You won't be surprised when he phones to offer you the chance to fill in--you're certain you can make a good enough impression to take the job from him. As one of the few people your age who can comment on a restaurant's "insouciance" while tossing in witty barbs about the decor, you soon see your own picture on the column heading and your predecessor is reduced to writing recipes for a discount airlines in-house magazine.

You enjoy the good life for about six months, then it all begins to go wrong. Your gall bladder rebels against your rich diet, and every cream sauce you taste leaves you in agony a few hours after you sample it. While waiting for surgery, you struggle on, convincing your employer that it's a good time for a series on vegan cafes.

Your waitress friend, meanwhile, has an attack of conscience about her role in the plot that gave you your dream job, and secretly goes to the former critic and confesses all. He debates filing criminal charges, suing you, or writing an exposé, but settles on something a bit more satisfying. He hires someone to break into your home and secretly slip a few drops of highly-concentrated e coli bacteria into your favorite bottle of salad dressing.

The discovery of your body slumped near a beautifully laid table and an untouched salmon kiev is a headline-writer's dream.