Andy Richardson: There are times in this life when it just doesn't pay to be 'me'

I'd started the call in the normal manner: "Hello, it's Andy from the . . ." and she'd ummed and aaahed as though I was cold-calling about a bogus PPI pay out.

Her ears didn't prick up until I said the words 'we've just reviewed your restaurant'.

And then she woke up as though a bucket of ice water had ended her beautiful eight-hour sleep. The penny dropped. Except the penny didn't hit the bottom. It lay suspended in mid-air.

"We're going to be in the paper then?" asked Mary.

"Yes," I said, resisting the temptation to patronise. "You're going to be in the paper."

Mary had previous experience of being in the paper. And it hadn't been happy.

Her restaurant had been reviewed four years earlier and given an unflattering critique. I know, I'd written it. Mary, however, didn't realise that. She'd been peeling carrots, rather than listening to the conversation and so had missed my introduction.

Now, have you ever had a conversation when you realise somebody's missed the central fact in the story? You know, a friend's talking about all of their ex-boyfriend/girlfriend's faults, without realising that you and he/she are now an item. Well this was one of those.

Mary said: "I'd swing for the person who reviewed us last time."

"Would you?" I said.

"Yes. It was 'that Andy Richardson'." I could almost hear her shudder with disgust, as though she was gutting fish. My name made her feel unclean.

"Really . . .?"

"Oh My God. 'That Andy Richardson', he's the worst of the lot. If I ever get the chance to speak to him, I'll give him a piece of my mind. I hate him, I really do. He's scum."

'That Andy Richardson' listened intently, as Mary – without realising it – took the chance to give him a piece of her mind.

"He said our desserts tasted like the ones at Tesco – but didn't look as pretty." (They did).

"He said our undercooked steaks were still moo-ing when they reached the table." (They were, they were practically running around the field).

"And he said our waitresses were as disinterested as teenagers in a maths class." (I couldn't fault her memory. I was almost impressed.)

"But then, I'm sure you're not like that, are you . . ?"

Mary wasn't the only restaurateur to have taken umbridge at our reviews. On a different occasion, I'd written an unflattering report about a bistro in a local town centre. I'd started with a scallop starter, which the waitress had dropped near to our table. Bold as brass, she'd picked the scallop from the floor and returned it to the plate. "You can have that for free, if you want?" she said, dusting dirt from its exterior.

I demurred and later wrote a review describing the service as being like a car crash. What I didn't know at the time, however, was that the owner of the restaurant was on that day involved in a real-life car crash during a holiday in France. His vehicle had been hit by a truck and ended up in a ditch.

A few days later, when the review was published, he spent an hour lecturing me about the insensitivity of my metaphor.

Mary, meanwhile, was feeling pleased that after four years she'd finally purged the ghost of 'That Andy Richardson'.

As she drew to a close, she decided to obtain the important detail she'd missed at the start of our conversation.

She said: "And what did you say your name was?"