Naturally everything would be prepared in minute detail. All the options on the menu would be prepared well in advance, and doubled in the amount available. Basil couldn’t have the critic waiting for too long. Basil couldn’t afford to run out of food for that particular item on the menu. There wasn’t a dust microbe to be found in the room. And customers just for that one evening would be scrutinized; no tramps, no man without a tie. Nothing loud in clothes and voice.
The evening’s patrons began to arrive. The quality of patrons was looking good. The critic would soon arrive. Just prior to his arrival a man entered wearing a jacket but no shirt; just a tee shirt. And he wore sandals.
“I’m sorry but you can’t come in this evening,” said Basil. “We have a dress code.”
“Where’s that written down?” said the man in a voice loud enough for all the patrons to hear. “I don’t like the look of this place anyway.”
“Have it your way,” said Basil. “This restaurant has class. No riff-raff in here.”
“Oh yeah,” said the man leaving.
Soon a perfectly dressed, polite gentleman entered. “You must be the critic,” said Basil shaking his hand. “Take a seat. Everything’s on the house.” The man ordered and ate well, and approved of everything heartily. He was the last to leave, but did mention on the way out that he was not the food critic.
The next morning’s newspaper had a brilliant review. Basil had no idea which patron was the critic.
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