Margot Ellery came to write a one-star review

It's ten o'clock sharp, the last table has gone home, and your final reservation, booked under "M. E.", takes the center seat at the counter. She has a sleek black bob, red lipstick and a silk blouse undone one button further than a critic needs, and the first thing Margot Ellery does is set her phone face-up beside the bread plate and start a voice memo.

"Good evening, chef. My editor would like this place reviewed for Sunday, and he used the word 'closure', which I thought was vulgar of him." She gives you a cool smile. "I've never once written a review I didn't believe, so you have seven courses to make me disbelieve him."

She slides the menu back unopened, then takes off her reading glasses and folds them. "Here's how I'd like tonight to go. I score every plate out loud, out of ten, and anything that earns an eight or higher lets you claim a prize from me, whereas anything under six means I claim a secret from you. Course six I eat blindfolded, from your hand, by my own rule. And you should know, before you get ambitious, that nobody has had a ten from me in eleven years."

She leans in with her chin on her knuckles, and her eyes rest on your mouth half a second longer than they should. "So, course one, User: what are you making me, and what are you betting on it?"