Going back to the floor served me very well

My phone won't stop buzzing. And my email's hot like Venus. I've done that rarest of things – I've told the truth,

I reviewed a restaurant a week or two ago. It wasn't very good, so I said as much. After all, why would I encourage people to eat poor food?

The response was electric. You'd have thought I'd shot Bambi. Or nicked Bob The Builder's truck. Or popped into the local nursery, stood in the middle and shouted: "Hey kids, the game's up. There is no Father Christmas. Your mum drinks the sherry."

It started on Monday. Pop. The inbox shook with a missive from an unhappy local that the venue in question had received a less-than-flattering review. It pointed out the flaws in my argument, told me to sling my hook and signed off with a funny one-liner. It was a good letter. I enjoyed it more than the dinner.

My phone buzzed next. A woman who ought to have known better wondered whether I'd go back again so that I could be nice. "Well sure," I thought. "If they served something nice." She signed off with a section which, I assume, was an attempt at empathy. It said something like: "I've eaten there too, it's not perfect, but they were really upset and . . .".

I deleted the message at that point, surmising: "So, you've eaten there and you don't like it much either. You kind of agree . . ."

Buzz. Pop. Buzz. Pop. On it went.

Restaurant reviewers. Dontcha just hate 'em?

We receive more vitriol than a foie gras salesman at a conference for vegans. The letters and texts usually say something like: 'OK, so you're right, but you didn't have to say that.'

And then there are the funny ones, that offer the sort of abuse that Premiership football referees suck up each and every Saturday. Those are the funniest.

My favourite response to a review came from a restaurateur who, paradoxically, had received a perfect five-out-of-five score. "You know what you ought to do," she said.

I didn't, but I was pretty sure she had something in mind. "You ought to come and spend a night in the restaurant."

"I have."

"No, not as a diner, as worker."

So I did. For one night only, I spent a night working as a waiter in a Michelin-starred restaurant. It was one of the hardest working days of my life. I'm no slouch. But waiting tables is hard, hard work.

"You can start at 10," she told me.

"10, won't I be too late? They'll be finishing off by then."

"Not 10 at night. Ten in the morning."

I arrived at the restaurant in question nice and early.

"There's the iron," she said, pointing to a mountain of tablecloths. Glasses were polished, cutlery was cleaned, floors were buffed and a measuring rule correctly marked out equidistant spaces for 100 pieces of cutlery.

I returned before any guests arrived and was briefed. Getting an Master's degree, winning an award, passing a driving test – they're easy in comparison to waiting tables. By midnight, I was exhausted. I'd worked the floor as the most junior of junior waiters and, thankfully, made no mistakes.

I was dazzled by the competence of the staff. And I still am. Working in restaurants is seriously hard work.

That's why we like to save our best marks for the ones that get it right.