Certain rituals attend the changing of the guard. When Chris Nuttall-Smith took over as this magazine’s new food editor last summer, he asked me out to a leisurely let’s-get-to-know-one- another lunch at the Gallery Grill. I quickly warmed to his youthful enthusiasm and his smart ideas for the food section. I didn’t notice where the conversation was heading.

“I guess you often get recognized when you dine out.”

“Well, I’ve been writing about these chefs and their restaurants for nearly 20 years. I’ve interviewed most of them, spent time with them in their kitchens, found out far more about their work than I ever could by hiding on the other end of a phone. It doesn’t stop me from being objective.”

Chris nodded. “Of course. But a lot of people think a review is compromised if the critic is recognized. They think you get special treatment.”

“So I’ve heard. But I always book under a false name; my credit cards don’t say Chatto. I arrive after my companion, so I don’t always get the best table and it’s easy to spot if the senior waiter is suddenly switched to serve us. I look round the room, see how others are served and base my opinion on that. It’s not rocket science.”

If Chris thought I was being disingenuous, he didn’t let on. He just leaned in a little closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why don’t we find out? What if we give you an impenetrable disguise and send you to restaurants that know you well? Then we’ll see how differently you’re treated.”

“They’ll tumble me in a heartbeat,” I gasped, trying not to show alarm at this appalling idea.

“No they won’t. We’ll hire a top makeup artist. You’ll wear clothes that look nothing like your customary jacket and tie. And you used to be an actor, didn’t you? I think we should start with Susur.”

Walking home that day, I felt the misgivings thicken to dread. Recollections of childhood embarrassment erupted unbidden, as vivid and cringe worthy as ever. Humiliation taps hard on the tool that engraves the memory. What if my prosthetic nose were to fall off into the soup, floating there like some obscure piece of offal? What if a maître d’ found the game disrespectful to his valiant profession—took it as an insulting trick, even entrapment? Susur’s head waiter, Kelly Kwan, has known me for years. He would suss me out before the water was poured and I’d have to sit there for the rest of the night, dressed up for Halloween, while other diners tittered into their napkins and Susur himself came out to see, looming over the table in his white jacket, arms crossed, asking me what I thought I was doing trying to show up his staff.

But nobody wants to disappoint the new boss. “You’ll have to come with me,” I told Chris, “to do all the talking and run interference if I have to flee the building.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”