By Ruth Reichl, July 2007

A top restaurant critic goes under cover – and gets a taste of unfine dining.

"I will help you, but only if you are willing to do this properly. If you are intent on deception, you must go all the way; the restaurant critic of the New York Times cannot afford to look foolish."

Claudia Banks, a retired acting coach, had been my favourite of my mother's friends. With a square little body, she wore ridiculously high heels on her tiny feet and tight little snail-like curls on her small round head. She was past 70, but when I told her that I needed to disguise myself for my new job, she was eager for the challenge.

In 15 years as a restaurant critic in San Francisco and Los Angeles, I'd never felt the need for a disguise.

But, on the aeroplane to New York, the woman sitting next to me recognised me instantly. It turned out that she was a waitress.

"Every restaurant in New York has your picture pinned to the notice board," she told me.
"My boss will give 500 dollars to anyone who spots you. Forget anonymity. A good review from the New York Times is worth thousands." She considered for a few seconds. "Could be millions."

I'd been reluctant to take the prestigious job (and the cut in salary), but my husband Michael had lined up a job with the New York branch of his firm and our son Nick was just about to start school.

Claudia stared at me for a long time, studying my wild mop of curls and colourful clothes. "I have it!" she decided at last. "You will be one of those ladies who lunch."

Becoming Molly
And so we created Molly Hollis, a former English teacher, with the help of a neat ash-brown wig, a second-hand beige Armani suit worn with plenty of padding, plain court shoes with a low heel and a small handbag.

Under Claudia's critical gaze, Molly evolved. A make-up artist covered my skin with a thick coat of pancake make-up. My eyebrows disappeared, my skin acquired a yellow tone that it has never had and wrinkles where none had been. She made my cheeks look fuller and my mouth smaller. Hesitating over the lipstick, she chose a rather creepy coral shade that was, she assured me, two years out of fashion. I wrestled the wig on and looked in the mirror. A woman I did not recognise was staring at me.

"Meet Molly," said Claudia and we set off for Le Cirque, a famous four-star restaurant with a brand new chef.

The mâitre d' subjected us to a cool inspection. "Do you have a reservation?" His tone indicated that he considered this a dubious possibility.
"Molly Hollis?" I was surprised to find that my voice had got flatter and slower, as if it too had undergone a makeover.

Our table was small, in the back and wreathed in the murk of surrounding smokers, despite the fact that I'd asked for non-smoking. The wine list was snatched out of my hand before I'd read it. The real me would have been furious, but, as Claudia said, "Molly is a lady." So I stayed in character and fluttered my fingers at every passing waiter, saying in a pathetic voice, "Do you think I might please have a wine list?"

The waiter failed to mention to us the special seasonal menu. Molly said, in her very nicest voice, "Did I hear you say something about a special menu to the gentleman over there?"
He said sullenly "It's quite a large meal."
"That will be fine," she said softly.
I felt torn between Ruth and Molly. The former was gleeful; this terrible treatment was going to make good copy. But Molly was wondering why anyone would subject herself to this. The food was good enough, but it was hard not to notice that everyone around us was receiving considerably more attention than we were.

"I did not come here simply to eat," Molly told Claudia afterwards in her serious voice, "I came here for glamour. I am willing to pay for the privilege of feeling rich and important for a few hours, but it has turned into a nightmare. I may be nobody, but I don't like paying to be humiliated. It isn't right."

Claudia was looking at me with a kind of wonder. I was surprised myself. Where had that speech come from? Who was this woman? I had two more miserable meals as Molly and then I went back, as Ruth, in the company of my editor. When Sirio Maccioni, the owner, realised who we were, we had already reached dessert, but our plates were whisked away. I was fascinated to note that the raspberries on the new desserts were twice the size of the old ones.

That's the sort of royal treatment a restaurant critic is offered. When I wrote the review, however, I remembered Molly and deducted that coveted fourth star. At first, the reader reactions were hostile: "Shame on you!" from one, "pretentious idiot" from another, and "corrupt snob". But then the tone began to change. A man called and said simply, "Thank you. It's good to know that we finally have a critic who's on our side." Another said, "Keep up the good work. The silent majority needs you."

The final word was Claudia's, "My darling, that was an excellent review. But now they will be watching for Molly. You will have to become another character. Think of the possibilities."

...then mum
After my mother's death, I had kept only one of her dresses, her favourite blue silk. With a silver wig, more wrinkles and the bright green eyeshadow she always used, when I looked in the mirror all I could see was my mother Miriam Brudno. "My God," I exclaimed. It was unnerving.

"Are you aware," asked Claudia at last, "that when you said 'gawd' it was in your mother's voice? You even sound like her."

I am nothing like my mother. She was a commanding figure who did not have a timid bone in her body. Fearless and totally tactless, she was a woman who said what she felt and did what she pleased. Having spent most of my life being embarrassed by her, I was shocked to discover how easily I slipped into her shoes. Finding out that it was fun was even more frightening.

At the legendary 21 restaurant, Miriam sent back the martini because it wasn't cold enough, rejected oysters that weren't fresh, demanded that the soup be reheated and decided the waiter had overdone the anchovies in the Caesar salad. He had to start again. Claudia cringed in embarrassment.

Once outside, I pulled the wig from my head. Claudia looked at me. "Did you actually believe any of those things you said in there?"
"No," I said, happy to hear that my own voice was back. "That was all Mum. She made a scene at every restaurant we ever ate in and it always made me miserable."
But when we were dining at the Four Seasons and received impeccable service, Miriam revelled in the luxury. After a particularly delicious mouthful of the restaurant's newest dish, peppered loin of bison, I uttered my mother's classic phrase, the one she used every time she found some food she really liked. "This," I said, "is the best thing I've ever eaten."

Claudia's eyes filled with tears. "Oh my darling, how she would have adored being here."

Much more, I thought, than I ever would. And suddenly it came to me that being Miriam had allowed me to experience this meal in an entirely new way. My mother could be difficult, but when she was happy she was capable of abandoning herself to the moment.

I had originally put on a disguise as a way of fooling the restaurants, but now I saw that it was also a way of fooling myself. I wondered what other lessons I would learn from the women I would become.

Then Chloe, Brenda, Emily...
"Ruth?" said my husband Michael when I walked into our flat. He recoiled as if I were an intruder. "Ruth?" In fact I was "Chloe", an elegant platinum blonde in a smart little black satin suit, with immaculate red nails and pink lipstick. Although I had opened the door with my key, he assumed a threatening stance and eyed my blonde head uncertainly. Only when Nicky hurled himself into my arms shouting "Mummy! Mummy!" did the doubt leave his face.

"Pretty," said Nicky, stroking the soft blonde hair. And then, ever the diplomat, he added, "But I think I like brown, curly hair best."

Chloe, unlike me, had no trouble getting a taxi and I was astonished to find that she seemed to know just what men wanted to hear and didn't mind saying it. As red-headed Brenda, wearing big glasses with green frames, green suede platform shoes and an antique Chinese silk embroidered coat, I attracted very admiring glances from Gene, the doorman of our building, and for some reason people always wanted to confide in Brenda. Over the six years I assumed disguises, she was my best self, the person I've always wanted to be – kind, generous and funny, optimistic and clever, which presented a dilemma: I hoped that finding the Brenda inside me would not always require a wig.

"What's your name?" asked Nicky when I appeared in another costume.
"Emily Stone. I am a very punctual person." I had a tweed suit and hornrimmed glasses.
"What does that mean?"
"That I'm never late. And I never make mistakes. You wouldn't like me very much; I'm a real meanie."
"Oh no, Mummy," said Nicky, "you couldn't be a meanie." He was wrong.

It was extremely unpleasant to find how easily I was able to summon this mean, petty person who was waiting inside me. Because if Brenda was my best, Emily was my worst. A bitter, disappointed, dried-up prune. She certainly didn't have it in her to enjoy the Rainbow Room, the gorgeous Art Deco room at the top of the Rockefeller Centre with spectacular views.

Now eight, Nicky had fallen in love with the place when we went to celebrate Michael's birthday and he'd been begging to go back. I had resisted, but one brunch at the Rainbow Room was not going to turn my child into a miniature food snob. Is it silly to set the food in the middle of a revolving dance floor? Not from an eight-year-old's perspective. My son watched for five revolutions, picking out the sections he liked best.

He tucked his hand into mine and looked up. "I'm having such a good time," he said. Waiters smiled indulgently and we felt charmed and lucky, as if we were momentarily royalty in a marvellous castle.

"Would you like to eat here every day?" I asked.
"Oh no, Mummy, that would spoil it. This has to be special." I smiled at him, happy that he understood the true purpose of a restaurant such as the Rainbow Room.
"But do you know what I wish?" His grave brown eyes looked up at me. "What I wish is that you didn't always have to go out. I wish we could eat at home, together, every night."
I got the message and not long after gave up my job, bidding farewell to Miriam and Molly, Brenda and the rest. It was time to be myself.