When Dine-O-Man went to Le Bernardin

As Le Bernardin marks 50 years of excellence, here's the Dine-O-Man column I wrote about this elite New York restaurant for Avenue Magazine. To see how they'd treat a real nobody, I fashioned a ruse.

NEW YORK - March 3, 1990

A restaurant critic will go to great lengths to maintain his anonymity and ensure the integrity of his judgements. Yet when Dine-O-Man visited the New York restaurant Le Bernardin, under an assumed name and in borrowed clothes, blending in with the crowd was the last thing he was after.

Dine-O-Man wanted to see how a classy, prestigious French restaurant like Le Bernardin would look upon a diner who lacked even the slightest hint of sophistication and good taste. Would a polite, paying customer still get first-rate service if he wasn’t well-dressed and urbane? Or would he be treated like an outcast, banished to Siberia, the location reserved for their least-desired parties?

And so a reservation for two was made under the name of Silverberger – Danny Silverberger – for dinner at 8:30pm.

“Would it be, like, possible to get a very nice table?” Dine-O-Man asked in his best New Jersey accent. “I’m bringing my girlfriend and I want it to be, you know, really special.”

“Yes,” the reservationist responded. “I’ll mark it down. ‘Nice table for Silverberger.’”

The next step was to choose appropriately inappropriate outfits for Dine-O-Man and his daring date, Julie Zimmerman. They agreed these should verge on the tacky, yet in a way that might be considered almost hip in certain suburban zip codes. This was a particularly difficult chore for the dependably dapper Dine-O-Man.

He settled for a pair of plaid slacks in shades of rust, orange, and brown; a pumpkin-colored shirt; a brown sports jacket; and the pièce de résistance, the TieTanic – an inch-wide white tie with blue stripes and little black boats depicting the sinking of the Titanic in eleven different stages. Très cool and just the right thing for a seafood restaurant. The ensemble was topped off with a blue down jacket that was a few inches shorter than the sports jacket underneath.

Zimmerman chose a form-fitting, white-acrylic sweater with glittery lamé stripes and, continuing the nautical theme, a gold anchor crest in the center. She wore black leggings; high-heeled pumps; and a large purple banana clip in her hair. She was blushed to the max.

The IRT subway station at 72nd and Broadway provided a test-run. When an all-denim couple began pointing and snickering at Dine-O-Man and Zimmerman, they knew they were on the right tract: If they were mocked on the IRT, imagine what would happen at Le Bernardin.

The dashing duo stepped into Le Bernardin at 8:25pm, checked their coats and greeted the maître d’ with nervous grins. Richard Hollocou smiled back, his gaze frozen for a second on Dine-O-Man’s TieTanic. He asked the duo to stand to the side. At precisely 8:30pm, he had Danny Silverberger and guest directed to table number 33.

Stares followed the two as they were led through the plush dining room to a prime location more like the French Riviera than Siberia. They were seated at a spacious round table with an unobstructed view, outward as well as inward, its two seats facing much of the dining room.

As he took his seat, Dine-O-Man felt both surprise and relief: Surprise over the good table and the possibility of uncompromising service; relief at getting his plaid pants hidden under the tablecloth.

After studying the wine list for several minutes, he beckoned the captain:

Excuse me. I don’t know much about wine. Could you recommend one for us that’s dry – I don’t want a sweet wine – and tastes good, but won’t cost more than, say, $40? I don’t want to spend too much.

With pleasure. For that there are some nice choices.

His recommendation was the 1986 Rully from Domaine de la Folie for $35.

Dine-O-Man sampled the crisp, dry, white Burgundy as one would a new flavor of Listerine. Lots of sloshing about in the mouth. He turned to his companion and loudly proclaimed:

“No Chianti tonight, honey!”

The remark confused the captain for an instant, but he recovered quickly, perhaps pleased that his recommendation had been so well received.

Further efforts were made by Dine-O-Man and Zimmerman to rattle the captain. When Zimmerman reached for the bottle of wine in its ice bucket, the maître d’ dashed over to intercept her. “Non, non, non,” he said. He motioned for the captain and reprimanded him for overlooking an empty wine glass.

Dine-O-Man pestered the captain with inane questions: “Why does this [sauce] spoon have such a funny shape?” and “What is this stuff on the dessert?” But nothing Dine-O-Man did bothered the captain or his colleagues. As dinner progressed smoothly, from the seafood fricasée of clams, mussels and oysters in a sensuous butter broth to the poached lobster with basil butter, it became clear there would be no problems with the service that night. It had been impeccable.

The ones who did sneer openly at table 33 were the other diners. They pointed and whispered. Some giggled. Others frowned with disapproval. All told, they seemed more captivated by Dine-O-Man and Zimmerman than their own fabulous food and maybe not-so-fabulous companions.

Dine-O-Man and Zimmerman left Le Bernardin full of fine food, high praise for its front-of-house team, and a burning question: Are plaid pants and banana hair clips the secret to excellent service at a fine French restaurant?

To investigate further, Dine-O-Man called Le Bernardin the next day, revealing himself to be Danny Silverberger. Did they remember him? What did they think of his attire?

The captain, Dimitrios Haronitis, said he noticed the clothes after a waiter pointed them out. “‘The gentleman at table 33 has a very funny tie,’” the waiter told Haronitis. “When I got to the table, I noticed the tie. It was white with a little boat on it. Very cute.”

But the clothes didn’t affect the way Haronitis served the table. And he was pleased, rather than annoyed, when Dine-O-Man requested a wine in a certain price range. Haronitis finds it more difficult to recommend a bottle when he doesn’t know what the diner’s budget is: He then has to make suggestions in several price ranges so as not to embarrass budget-minded diners, or sell well-funded ones short.

“Honestly, your clothes weren’t that bad,” said Haronitis. “We’ve seen much worse.”

Hollocou, the maître d’, recalled one particularly outrageous dresser who turned out to be Billy Idol. “You’d be really surprised by what we think is funny,” he said. dryly.