10. Someone, somewhere, is going to predict the trend of small plates, comfort food, farmer celebrities, food activisim, and both premium coffee and fancy tea.

9. Citizen reviewers are going to start writing with more authority and less snark as they begin to realize they can develop a following for their writing if they write with honesty, transparency and realism.

8. More and more chefs, thankfully, are going to realize that $50 a person isn't "everyday affordable," even if it's worth it. That said, the great fine-diners that dthat cost more than $50 will continue to do well because they stand out in the crowd.

7. Food & Wine is gonna pick a Chicago chef for their Rising Stars issue. No, I don't have insidery information, I have no idea whatsoever. This whole list is made-up stuff. I just know there's lots of great food in Chicago and they passed us over last year so we're due, right?

6. Food journalists are going to write more and more long-form pieces like this and this and are going to concentrate less and less on trying to get "the scoop."  Their influence and readership will rise with each thoughtfully written piece no part-time writer could begin to pen.

5. Freebie group media dinners are going to die completely, not because of disclosure issues — readers kinda don't care if a writer writing about asparagus dishes around town ate free asparagus — but because restaurants will realize they don't need to hold them in order to get news if they are newsworthy, which is a far more effective way to be newsy anyway. Follow?

4. Just as publicist gate-jumpers will continue to bypass traditional media to get the client's story out, journalists will begin to bypass publicists to get the straight dope from chefs rather than manufactured hooha. It is a good thing for everyone.

3. More restaurants will realize that their bottom line is in many ways beholden to technology — from entire marketing efforts to streamlining operations to enabling them to cut back on all those meetings.

2. More chefs are going to start — and work hard to maintain — good blogs, recognizing that it opens up a whole new world of being recognized for their talent and vision — it is the single best way for them to make sure they are "understood."

1. Promoting one's own restaurant will no longer be considered déclassé as more and more chefs realize they actually, really, need to make money to stay in business.

Seems RIA, the little web site that could, is causing a bit of a stir in the world of Chiacgo food journalism. The backstory: I have started (more and more) to break restaurant news on RIA and on Twitter. I do this because (more and more) I find that if RIA puts out our clients' information ourselves, we can amass an audience of diners, build their trust by putting out only valid and relevant announcements, and in time actually get the whole story out about a client, not just the bits and pieces journalists feel like writing about.

Over a short period of time, we've developed a large and loyal readership that is interested in receiving the alerts we send out on behalf of our clients. They seem to appreciate hearing about news that wouldn't normally find it into print, like maybe the special private dining packages one restaurant is offering for the holidays or possibly the New Year's Eve package of a restaurant that isn't "hot" enough to make it into print but is still a good, tasty restaurant.

Our readers get fun roundups about our clients, like this one about maple syrup and this one which we collected after the first big snowstorm of the year.  There's no bias in which of our clients gets included in the round-ups, anyone who answers the question is added to the list, offered up in alphabetical order. 

But is it just our clients on that list? Yes, but our service is offered at an artificially low price in order to allow restaurants who wouldn't normally have any access to PR to get some attention. Truthfully, I'd like the cost of our service to be even lower; we've even tried some lower-priced offerings in the past, but I just couldn't pay the bills and deliver what was needed at the lower price.  We'll get there.

That we have developed this ever-growing audience that wants to receive all the news a restaurant can put out is, I think, good for our restaurant clients.  After all, we're in business to help them stay in business. It is certainly great for us in our role as publicists, albeit we hardly act like publicists any more, because we no longer hit brick walls with so many of the stories clients really want to get out there that the media doesn't wanna write.

But it seems problematic for some media — they are now starting to wonder aloud if it is somehow untoward or they are finding it necessary to go on record why they chose to attribute news to, gasp, a publicist. Or should I say flack, or maybe huckster.

I dunno, sometimes I feel like people assume that because I am a publicist I have the moral compass of an axe murderer — one who makes you pay up for services rendered.

The thing is, in the new economy, most savvy PR people have already understood what Chris Brogan wrote about in his book Trust Agents. Trust Agents are people who are driving the social web — the ones that can generate buzz without having to use a journalist or story to do so (Thank you, David Tamarkin, for those very accurate words). Trust Agents aren't old economy marketers — pushing, pushing, pushing — they are today's online influencers whose currency is trust, reputation, and relationships.

Which leads me to my point — that those of us who, in today's transparent world, are in PR, marketing and the like actually have to act with an incredible amount of integrity on social media. I, myself, am keenly aware of the unavoidable fact that a journalist who makes an overblown statement is simply a journalist who makes an overblown statement. A publicist who lets one slip is proving, once again, we're just a bunch of screechy poodles who should never — ever — be trusted.  EVER!

David Tamarkin's blog post sort of proves my point there, I think you'd agree.  Or maybe you don't, because there's a lot of layers to reveal.

One such odd layer is that it was later discovered that his whole arm chair philoso-phistication was outta whack because this journalist, this journalist (read down), and this journalist (sorry, her blog doesn't permalink so you'll have to search to December 16 yourself) all did the same thing I did — give a big Woot! for The Bristol. (They really are nice guys, people do right to wish them well.)

And I am curious to know what you all think that means. I, maybe having enjoyed too much bûche de nöel myself, am still not too sure.

Housekeeping: This blog will be taking a holiday on December 24 and 25 to cook dinner for mom and dad.  Also, Happy Birthday, Brenda!

So, since July, or you could argue since August 2007, my company has been working on a big project. Today, the first baby steps of the project are finally happening — a beta version of SpoonFeed, our digital dashboard for chefs, is now available for our clients to try out.

We have a saying at RIA — The Internet is great for most people, since they work at a desk and can tap away at the computer all day long. But if you put a computer on a chef's workstation — a stove — it would melt. 

And we've used that mantra to build software chefs will want to use, be able to use without effort, and will begin to rely on every day.

In short, SpoonFeed wrangles the digital life of restaurant staff.

· SpoonFeed connects a restaurant's staff together in a private online community — moving the conversations off of email and onto an easier-to-navigate online platform (there's a reason you talk to your friends on FB more than email, it's just easier to manage).

· SpoonFeed also integrates Facebook and Twitter, so chefs can understand, access and use these websites for business a little more effectively.

· Because our roots at RIA are in PR, we've built a platform so journalists, bloggers and the like can contact them on SpoonFeed. This bit is a paid-for service, but it is a dead-simple way to keep on top of these crucial conversations.

All this constitutes big change, to be sure, and it is going to take a while to turn the large ship that is a chef's habits and beliefs in the tiny channel that is a chef's free time to learn something new. 

But we know chefs, right now, are a frustrated lot. They are desperate for communication tools that work. They would love more, easy directions on what technology they need to know and which they can ignore, for now.  They beg for PR that accepts the new realities of direct access between chefs and journalists — and encourages it, in fact. And they long for more contact with one another, as they are their greatest inspirations.

I've spent somewhere around 18 years in the company of chefs, and eaten more than my share in those years.  And today, through SpoonFeed, I start to really give back.

For about a month now, I have been sitting down at my computer at some ridiculous time in the morning (it is 6 and dark as heck out) and attempting to write some blog posts about my review of 2009 and my predictions for 2010.

I am not a writer, you may have already ascertained, but I do put something I have scribed out into the public forum nearly every day. So, I seem to occassionally fall prey to what seems to me to be real writerly tics — such as the year-end review/preview.

I love year-end reviews/previews and tend to gobble them up like so many cookies this time of year, even those I tend to actively dismiss as pedantic while reading them ... comfort food and small plates are trends for 2010?!

But this year, I seem to be incapable of formulating clear thoughts on what 2009 has meant.

I tweeted somewheres around 25 tweets a day, including weekends, so clearly Twitter and what I learned there needs to be addressed. Which means I should predict something regarding Foursquare, too, since I understand Foursquare is the Twitter of 2010 — though I worry that means I'll be checking in somewheres around 25 places a day and that makes me tired to even imagine.

I committed to, and seemed to achieve, posting a blog post five days a week, nearly without exception. That makes me tired to even imagine as well. We didn't really have a strategy for my blog in 2009, just getting it up and getting into a habit. But it seems to have gone well seeing as though no one has egged my car, despite my occasionally cantankerous posts. I am getting rid of my car in 2010, though I swear that doesn't mean I am gonna go start naming names.

I ended my last official traditional client relationship in 2009. It was like cutting off a limb, I think, and the limb keeps reaching for the phone to call someone over there. I look to 2010 and am often scared about the fate of my own relevance, which finally makes me understand why a publicist friend refused to post her clients, for free, on RIA — she flat out said that if she did, she was afraid of what there would be left for her to do. I don't know what my days will look like in 2010. That's scary.

We launched a large software package in 2009, learned a lot about journalists' behavior I never knew before — even though my life and work was so enmeshed in theirs. We also learned a lot about diners, what they want to read and know and what no one is telling them — or at least telling them enough. And we started putting all that knowledge to use to build more, new, bigger, fancier, technotastic software that will capture moment-driven news from our restaurants and hurl it out to every network possible. Diners open our news greedily, read it heartily, and want to know why there isn't more — even if journalists only open it because it's their job.

I am convinced now that 2009 was a seminal year in my life, even if it isn't quite over. But, I am sure like many, we are getting up after the impact that was 2009, dusting ourselves off, and moving on. Me, I hope 2010 brings those million magical points of light my horoscope predicts. But when I really think about it, as I have for a month now, I am sure I will be happy with just knowing what I am supposed to do each day and doing just that.

The last time I shopped at Bloomingdale's, when it came time to check out I asked the sales girl what the current promotions were. I didn't have coupons, I don't open the sales flyers Bloomingdale's sends out by the truckful, I don't carry a Bloomie's charge card around.

But I was at Bloomingdale's, the epicenter of retail discounting. And, of course, I was able to talk the girl into giving me every single promotion on offer, which included extra discounts for using a Bloomie's card, which I don't even own.

The thing is, whoever buys a damn thing full price at Bloomingdale's? I'd argue no one who is willing to admit it in public. Why? Because they took the road to discounts a while ago and now the product (and experience) is devalued to such an extent that it would be an embarrassment to shop there and not get at least 30 percent off.

What's this got to do with restaurants? Well, it seems everyone and their brother is discounting these days. I even briefly worked with a restaurant that discounted their brunch before they even served one eggs Benedict. The dude was discounting before he even knew if the brunch service was gonna fly.  Needless to say, our relationship didn't really work out when I suggested that if he was that worried about the viability of brunch, maybe he needed to rethink his brunch!

Pretty much as a rule, I am not a fan of chef-driven restaurants discounting their food. And when I say discounting I pretty much mean any special deal of 8 courses for price of 5, half-price lunch, or giving everyone a $25 gift card for a $100 purchase. What I am talking about is Discounts. On Food. No matter how that discount is delivered.

Half-price wine nights, held regularly, can help drive business on a Tuesday like nothing else can. Specially offered Sunday Suppers with platters of food at a reasonable price that is roughly commensurate with your current pricing  seems great. Kids of a certain age, I sometimes think, should always eat free. Those are things that build a following and, if only on a Tuesday or a Sunday, a customer base that appreciates your restaurant.

But discounting your food, well, that just does two things:

• it just pulls in a lot of people who are eating there because, finally, they can — and they won't come back when they can't eat for cheap.

• it gives a discount to someone who would pay full price anyway.

So I don't get why anyone does it, let alone why everyone seems to be doing it.

Look, the economy still sucks, private dining is dddooowwwnnnn, and there are so many more tasty restaurants these days competing for the same dollar that I realize it is hard to stay focused and not panic.

But this is really the time when restaurants should be evaluating how much work they put into day-to-day outreach to customers. Not just throwing discount spaghetti on the walls to see if it sticks. They should be getting real about why it is they need to make time for social media and engaging their customers — because they then have a following and fan base they can leverage when things do get lean.

And if business is really bad, well, maybe it is time to really evaluate why — because you should know, some people are doing really, really well these days.

The other day, I had dinner with David Chang. Okay, okay, so a friend and I were sitting at the bar of a restaurant, and David sauntered in and sat next to us. After taking a few dorky pictures, we started chatting. (That’s the same thing as having dinner together, right?)

What I find so fascinating about Chang is his balls-out, "I don't give a fuck” attitude on just about everything. He'll say what he thinks, he doesn't care what you think, and he is pretty darned frustrated with the stupidity that has infiltrated much of the high-end food world.

You can imagine how much respect I have for a chef who is frustrated by stupidity.  I was at one point wondering if we were seperated at birth.

Take PR, for example. During our conversation, David erupted in a diatribe about all the publicists who have swooned over him (likely everyone in New York, since he is a commodity). As he tells it, they’re all the same, prattling on about pitching stories and crafting messages. He has no patience for their old-school PR nonsense and kicks it straight into hard-ass mode, grilling prospective publicists mainly to see if they have a backbone and grit. He hasn't found one, it seems, who has either.

Compare that to some other folks I have spoken with in the past couple of weeks, conversations that went something like this:

"Yeah, OK, I think I've got what RIA does, but will you come to my opening night?"

"Hum... What for?"

"We'll, I mean I would want you to be there."

"What would I do?"

"Well, you'd be there. I mean don't you want to?"

"How will that help your business?"

"I don't know, it would make me feel better."

As I explained in yesterday’s post, publicists shouldn't be around to make people feel better. Parents, shrinks, sycophants, groupies, foodies, cheerleaders and significant others should do that. Not publicists.

The role of a publicist is to help restaurants and chefs obsess like zealots on the work that makes them interesting and appealing — and, yes, to then package that work so the media can make it news. I’m not here for razzle-dazzle, to wipe your nose, or to tell you everything’s going to be okay when it’s not. I’m here to help you get the most from your very best efforts.

Don’t believe me? Ask David Change what he thinks.

In my line of work, I often encounter restaurants and meet chefs whose concept doesn't really fly. Or maybe I see the writing on the wall before the place even opens and let the chef know that, really, they are a bit off.

Sometimes I get kinda adamant about it because, well, chefs are often not the listening types. I try to help make them understand that: concepts need to be laser-like to cut through the clutter; whether your food is delicious doesn't really matter until the diner eats it, but whether it sounds delicious when read about on a computer screen does; and that food should be priced based on what the customer wants to buy, not what fancy ingredients you want to serve.

A lot of times, their defense is to try and get me to drink their Kool-Aid, which always means hauling my ass into their restaurant on a frigid cold night so they can cook up a meal they are sure I'll love.

Often times, I do love it.

But it never changes my mind.

Because, really, my job isn't about drinking Kool-Aid. My job is about understanding how the public/media/whomever receives a message, and if they'll want it or even get it. My job is understanding how people who haven't drunk the Kool-Aid will feel about what you think is Kool-Aid and what they thinks is actually just another restaurant.

Think about it: you shouldn't be working with a publicist whose primary benefit is that they can drink your Kool-Aid and then tell you you are marvy. You should be working with someone whose goal is to try to figure out why no one else wants to drink it and then help you craft what you are doing so people do.

In other words: A cold pitcher of Kool-Aid only really matters on a hot day when there's no beer around. Stop trying to be the guy who peddles Kool-Aid in winter, at a brewery.

I know a lot about restaurants — I worked in fine dining restaurants, I went to culinary school so I could understand the food, I got my sommelier certificate so I could understand their wine lists, I've done PR for some super-fantastic restaurant clients for a bazillion years and, right, I eat out a lot.

My consigliere, Lauren, feels the piece of the puzzle I bring to the table at a restaurant meeting is all that firsthand experience — years of watching who succeeds and who doesn't with the insidery perspective of hearing the inside story straight from the chef's mouth. I get to see firsthand how the bomb is wired, which certainly helps understand why it went off.

There are all types of bombs — partnership bombs, bad seed bombs, extenuating circumstances bombs — but the one I hear most is what I consider the Yeah, But bomb.

It's the tick-tick-tick of the chef prattling on about why his restaurant is going to succeed if people could just understand what he is trying to do.

This is how the conversation goes:

ME: "You're prolly dead because you are too expensive."
CHEF: "Yeah, but if people could just understand the quality of the ingredients ... blah, blah, blah."

ME: "I think you're trying to be too many things to too many people."
CHEF: "Yeah, but I don't wan't people to just come here for special occasions ... blah, blah, blah."

ME: "I don't really think that tasting menu works in your casual restaurant."
CHEF: "Yeah, but I am bored with the menu and really wanna cook this kind of food ... blah, blah, blah."

ME: "Your food doesn't really read as yummy or even understandable."
CHEF: "Yeah, but if people could just eat here, they would get it ... blah, blah, blah."

If your marketing strategy includes a "Yeah, but," trust me, you've got some rethinking to do.

Seems everyone with a computer and a fork is starting to enter the restaurant space with tech schemes. Most seem to be ideas designed by people trying to solve their own problem — I wish I could register for restaurant coupons instead of a toaster — without a lot of thought to execution, scalability and the realities of The Restaurant.

One odd one that crossed my path in the past month or so was a deal where a bunch of people go eat dinner somewhere, tweet about it and supposedly the restaurant ends up being busy because of the great word of mouth. Be damned, FTC!

I was invited to join in the inaugural dinner, presumably because I am seen as having a lot of followers and as one who promotes restaurants (which I actually do for a living, not in exchange for a dinner).

It felt weird to me, the whole model. Not because of the implicit exchange of delicious food for positive access to followers, but because I wondered if the whole thing would seem authentic or not.

It didn't.

More, it read like a bunch of drunk people who didn't really know much about food but were excited to feel like they were in the restaurant spotlight for 15 minutes. I wasn't sure how anyone else was viewing the whole exchange that night, including the limited number of Twitter followers, but it all felt way too inauthentic to me.

Then, I was reading a blog about marketing over the weekend and it all fell into place for me.

And I realized why I pretty much try to keep my gushing — rather than just sharing information — about restaurants contained on Twitter, because if my stream really reflected the shocking amount of amazing food I am served, well, no one would believe it.

I also have a little personal rule where I don't write about anything I don't like. I am a publicist and my job is to promote, sure, but I am aware that communication is changing and my ability to have a solid reputation in the food world is likely going to be important to my clients in the future. So, I'm happy to share about something I love, but I'll not say much at all if I don't. I know my clients are watching my feed and wondering — why not, why no yumaroo tweets?

They think it is my job to just get the damn gushy tweet up there. I don't. I don't care what anyone says about my role as a publicist. Just as I guarded my reputation as a traditional flack, I will guard my reputation as a techie flack.

Which gets me to my point: PR doesn't solve problems. It doesn't make your crappy food somehow magically taste good and doesn't make a concept people don't understand somehow make sense. Nor does it make your misguided promotion somehow compelling for all.

If you are looking to a publicist to solve these kinds of problems, you are wasting your money. Because all it's gonna do is make more people come into your restaurant and confirm the crappiness of the food, so they can tell their friends; or make more people talk about how weird your concept is; or make you think your promotion has legs because it was on Fox Thing in The Morning — even if the promotion dirties your brand.

So, chefs, stop hiring publicists to solve your problems. Solve your problems first.  Then, when you've fixed up your restaurant, gotten the right chef in the door, had a come-to-Jesus about your pricing structure, or developed a year's worth of promotions that sell themselves — and only then — start spending money on marketing.

Ah, the best laid plans. All week, I’ve been offering tips to help restaurants develop a policy for comping the media in a variety of regularly occurring circumstances.

I’ve covered how to craft a basic policy, what to do with reporters in the restaurant, and some thoughts on how to handle a great media dinner. But here’s the reality: Sometimes, shit happens. People do wackadoo things that you don’t expect, or that are downright tacky. Here are a few circumstances my clients have experienced, and here’s what we did to make things right. I’d love to hear your strangest experience ever, and what you did to turn lemons into lemonade:

The No Tipper: I've spent the two last years dumping mine and some of my family's money into a business. So, from a disposable income perspective, I am dirt poor.  It is hard, sometimes, to have to explain to chefs that I would eat in their restaurants they are kindly inviting me to for a free meal but guess what, I can't afford the tip or the valet.

Personally, I worry that there are a ton of freelancers that are in that situation all the time. They've got good hearts. They've got good intentions. The don't have some husband or wife that bankrolls the project of freelance writer.  And, from what I hear, they aren't paid much. 

And to me, if you are gonna be out on the prowl for stories, and not just take the stories PR people hand over, you gotta be out on the prowl.  Eating.

The scenario: A journalist dines at a restaurant, gets comped, leaves without leaving a tip and the server takes the hit.

The advice: Back when I did regular PR, I let my clients know that a tip from a comped journalist was a bonus, and I often recommended that the restaurant just pay the staff directly, so they were taken care of, and consider it marketing. I still believe in that policy.

The Dine-and-Dasher: This is one that sorta only has really happened once or maybe twice to my clients, OK, maybe once a year is more like it, it happens — so just get the smelling salts and pick yourself up off the floor. 

The scenario: A journalist dines at a restaurant, just like a regular person with his wife or something, and then walks on the check. It's always a bizarre shock, but what's the proper response?

The advice: Call your significant other and vent to him or her about what an entitled ass the journalist is, and then leave it at that. You can't win any battle or smear campaign when you’re up against an obvious, oblivious megalomaniac — with a pen/keyboard. Your only choice is to suck it up and be the bigger person.

The Friends-and-Family-with-Benefits: This probably shouldn't be in the edge case file, because it happens so much, but I am a bad filer.

The scenario: A journalist asks to bring extra people to a sit-down dinner, without offering to pay for them. Offering a plus-one is a nice gesture; after all, few people really like to dine alone. But when plus-one becomes plus-two or plus-six, let’s face it: The journalist is taking advantage.

The advice: Let him or her know they can bring one guest, but others will need to pay their way. If they call the day of to see if "any seats opened up," pretend your phone is on the fritz, tap into the receiver with a handy spoon and then hang up. They deserve no respect.

The Crew: This one should be obvious, but lots of restaurants ask me what to do, so I’m going to clear the air once and for all.

The scenario: A story is written and the publication sends in a photo team to take photos and/or video of your food. They spend hours getting everything right, showing you proofs, tweaking and perfecting. Then, at the end of the day, these dudes are often the working stiffs who gets stiffed.

The advice: For the love of all things holy, you are in the hospitality business: Feed them! (And while I'm at it, if you go to a TV studio for a demo, bring food for the whole crew. Let's just say food for 20. Really, I need to remind you of that ... AGAIN?)

So, when an unexpected expense falls in your lap because the media is checking out your restaurant, consider this: You could be dealing with the alternative, a complete and utter lack of interest by the media in your restaurant.

And, if you’re still having a hard time being gracious, consider these words from Queen of Etiquette Emily Post: “No one — unless he be a hermit — can fail to gain from a proper, courteous, likable approach, or fail to be handicapped by an improper, offensive, resentful one."

The other night, I was at a media dinner for 50 writers. It was fascinating, sitting waiting for them all to file in, considering I was in a Twitter conversation with a few people who feel food writers who take comps should be outed, flogged and otherwise meant to wear a dunce cap in the corner.

Despite whatever random diners who read this blog may think, anyone in the business of chefdom, PRdom or mediadom either knows all about these media dinners or needs to grab Toto and take a good look around. This ain't Kansas (though I have it on good authority that it happens there, too).

The Media Dinner, like the FAM trip, is a semi-working system. Back in the day, it actually would make a good difference to hold media dinners. Word got out slow, so getting everyone in to see what was going on was a good way to make sure the word-getting-outness speeded up a bit.

Today, everyone is rushing around so frantically to Get. The. Story. that I pretty much think if the word doesn't get out on its own, well, it is because the restaurant is boring or otherwise "off" and in general needs to be fixed.

Another thing has happened as well. Lots of publications that used to be kinda lax on their taking comps policy have become crazily militant — and the journalists still working at the pubs are right to fear for their life before accepting a unpaidfor roll in the bread basket.

So, what happened was, media dinners became these odd affairs where freelance writers who didn't really write all that much ended up coming to the dinners and nothing would really come of it, after all.

So, it had been a while since I had been to one of these things and seriously, I was super curious to find out the current state of affairs.

The restaurants that held the dinners, in The Elysian, did everything right.  They actually redefined everything right, I happened to notice, when they handed me a cloth cocktail napkin.

In fact, they did such a great gosh darn job that I wanted to write about it. In fact, they did such a great gosh darn job that all I could think was: Why the hell has it become so incredibly difficult for so many others in the hospitality business to be hospitable?

What I found so brilliant about the dinner is that they understood that inviting in bloggers with niche followings, the ability to write large posts, and the freedom to write what they want can be a most effective tool in communicating a concept.

At The Elysian, to my mind, the concept is to built the most beautiful place on earth and then be the most humble, gracious people alive. Accept everyone into your well-appointed world and make them feel they belong there.

In an economy where it seems even rich people are still alittle afraid of being poor, The Elysian made everyone feel safe, welcome and well-tended — rich or poor, well-dressed or, in my case, maybe coulda cleaned up a bit more. 

So, as a hotel like that opens, how, really, can one communiate that kind of message? I live in the world of fine dining and let me tell you, everyone and their brother tells me their fine dining restaurant is going to be welcoming to all. They are, really mostly, not.

Because the minute I order a filet of Dover sole for lunch and the server looks back up at cheap ol' me and says, "and what would you like for your appetizer?" Your restaurant is no longer welcoming.

How can you communicate that message without bringing people in to tell the story for you?  People who can tell the story without the burden of editorial focus and writing to an audience?  Brilliant.

They didn't ask anyone to write anything.  They didn't let on any expectation.  They didn't try and control the message by telling anyone what to write. 

What they did was have fun themselves: The chef trotting out his pizzas himself, a smile as big as the Canada sky stretched across his face. Another chef walking through the room with a pan full of sausages, smiling and posing for pictures because he clearly knew he held a big pile of love in that pan.  Valets who refused tips. Bartenders who eagerly offered fun drinks and explained their contents with a bit of a golly gee excitement instead of a droll eye-rolling "everyone knows what I mean when I say it is a riff on a Dark 'n Stormy."

And that, my friends, is the media dinner done right.  And no, you don't have to have more money than God to pull it off because these people weren't peddling the grand appointments, they were peddling hospitality.

Look, it even worked it's magic on me!

Technically speaking, a publicist’s job ends and the restaurant’s job begins the second a reviewer walks through your doors. But, c’mon, you know me better than that: I wouldn’t leave you hangin’.

So what should you do if you spot a surprise food blogger/writer who you know at one of your tables?

First, be authentic. They came in to try your food and experience your restaurant as other diners do. Treat them as you would — or should — any other customer: like a king or queen. Cook the hell out of some food, provide impeccable service, and most importantly, do what you do best.

Here’s another definite “do”: Say hello. Remember, you’re being authentic here, which implies a certain upfront honesty. It would just be plain weird to pretend you don’t know who they are if you have met them before.

I think it’s okay to ask them if they’re working on a story; after all, that’s what they do for a living. One way to do this tactfully and professionally is to ask for a heads up if a story is coming, so you can be prepared for the rush (a reality of coverage). Give them your direct contact info so they can follow up with you. If you want to show them you truly understand their profession, let them know they can call you for references or if they need comments on stories that aren’t explicitly about you or your restaurant.

Here’s a “don’t”: Don’t send out complimentary dishes without asking. I know it’s a natural reaction to want to end a writer’s meal on the Most. Amazing. Dessert. Extravaganza. Ever. But some reporters work for outlets with strict policies about accepting anything worth more than a plastic keychain, and they definitely don’t want to risk their jobs by accepting a free crème brulee.

Others are freelancers who have their own ethical guidelines about accepting free food, and no company expense accounts to boot, so now they feel compelled to pay for a bunch of food they didn’t order. Suddenly, you have become The Jerk (Who Ate into Their Family’s Budget). So ask first. If they take a pass, graciously accept their terms.

If they do accept comp dishes, please for the love of all things Holy, don't go all freaky deaky and serve anything that is not on the menu.  Really, it happens all the time and it is mind-bloggeling and mind-bogglingly stupid. They are there to experience your restaurant, not the restaurant you really want or think you should have.  So, unless you are working on something that is going on the menu in a few days or something, don't freaking serve it.

Don’t panic if you don't notice a writer until mid-meal. Perhaps she’s a big-timer who ordered a ton of food and had been enjoying herself anonymously until you spotted her. On the flip side, perhaps her waiter has been a hot mess all night. You can’t change what happened before you noticed her, but you can do the “do’s” for the rest of the meal – saying hello, asking if she can be your guest for the evening, accepting her terms, being authentic.

Fact is, beyond employing “secret shoppers” — which isn’t a bad idea, by the way — there’s not much a restaurant can do to prepare for a reviewer, beyond what you do every day to prepare for customers. The best approach is to stay true to what you know you do better than anyone out there, and avoid trying to be something you’re not.

There's a ton of fussing over on Twitter on this whole comping thing.  But let's face it chef, you and I both know that it is rampant.  My goal here is to help you navigate the waters — because if the writers can't themselves figure it out for once and for certain, well, how can you?

So, onward.  Develop a solid policy for yourself.

If you don’t develop a policy for how you will comp the media under various scenarios, you’re going to get into trouble fast. For one, you’ll have to fumble around to come up with a plan every time a reporter calls or shows up at your restaurant out of the blue. Who needs that stress?

So my first rule of thumb for restaurants is that they develop a comping policy to guide their decisions going forward. I suggest creating three categories — large, medium and small — that you can tweak as needed when various situations arise. These are my recommendations; ultimately, though, it’s up to each restaurant to decide how to handle various scenarios.

First things first: The ask. Some just haul off and ask up front. Others don't. If they haven't, always ask first.  Don't assume, don't argue about the check.  Just say, "If it would be alright with you, I would love for you to be our guest for the evening." Most writers can figure out that statement and then let you know their opinions on the matter.

Next, the policy:

Large: This is for writers with major influence — your city’s most prominent food writer, a national magazine’s food editor. If you’re comping someone who has great power to elevate you, go big or go home! Treat them the way you would if your mother dropped by. (Hmmm, I wonder if that’s the origin of the word “motherload.”)

Medium: For a writer who has a decent following and hasn’t dropped into your restaurant before, trot out a nice tasting menu. You want them to experience the breadth of your talent and understand what makes your restaurant unique.

Small: First, let me point out that everyone starts somewhere. So remember that those writers who today are working for small-potatoes blogs or still building their online audience may be tomorrow’s big-time writers. Don’t blow them off. I recommend for these folks (or for longtime writers who just want to check out your seasonal fare or update a listing), a smaller tasting that allows them to sample your current menu without breaking your bank.

I also recommend serving two glasses of wine to everyone, large, medium or small. Wine is important — it enhances both flavors and experiences. Generally, several bottles already have been opened for tastings or glasses that day, so if you don’t want to open a brand-new bottle, find appropriate wine from among those that already have been uncorked. I mean, what’s your other option? Iced tea?

Stinginess as lasting impression? Hospitality industry, gang — which doesn't mean you have to be ridiculous. Just provide a warm "glow."

I’d love to hear if others have developed their own policies for comps, and how that little bit of preparation has saved you headaches in the long run. 

Since the FTC revised its “Guidelines Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising,” people seem to have their underthings in a bunch over writers who accept discounted and free meals at the restaurants they cover. The guides require writers to disclose any “material connections” they have to the entities they’re covering, including personal relationships, gifts, and comps.

The thing is, covering restaurants is expensive — but also impossible if a writer doesn’t have the means to eat the food. The vast majority of food writers are freelancers who don’t make a ton of money; nor do they have expense accounts. Even staffers or stringers for many media outlets don't have much of a budget, especially these days.

How can a person fairly write about a restaurant if he or she can’t afford to sample a variety — or even any, at high-end spots — of the dishes on the menu? And how can a writer cover her beat — i.e., eat out multiple times a week, if not daily — without going broke?

To my mind, giving this person the information he or she needs to write the story isn’t the same as “buying them off.” Here’s another way to think about it: Reporters who cover issues — such as transportation or real estate — don’t have to pay to get the information they need to write the story. They don’t have to leave a tip; people leave tips for them!

Here’s the reality: The ethics on this are still fuzzy. But really, people, sometimes food writers need to accept comps. And, rightly or wrongly (and despite the FTC’s guidelines), some members of the media — from both journalist and blogger camps — will not declare their comps. Only the restaurants know the truth about who pays and who doesn’t, and most are keeping that information quiet because they don’t really care how they get publicity, as long as they can keep their doors open.

Yes, I agree that seems to leave customers who are searching for reliable information about restaurants to tread somewhat murky waters. Who can they trust? But I also believe most regular diners are willing to give a restaurant a try regardless of what one reviewer had to say. And they will formulate their own opinions, independently of Yelp!, the local newspaper critic, or bloggers.

So, now that we’ve acknowledged this fuzzy ethical reality, the rest of the week I’m going to focus on giving restaurants what they need: tips on how to handle comps for the media. I’ve got answers to your dilemmas, from those “Oh, shit, there’s a critic at Table 7!” moments, to a question I get all the time: “Do I have to trot out a giant spread for anyone with a blog?”

I invite all of my readers to pipe up with your own two cents, tips and creative approaches to comps. There’s arguably no better freebie than good advice from folks who’ve been around the block a few times.

A little hubris is essential for every entrepreneurial venture. I know myself just how much guts it takes to put yourself out there for the sake of something you believe in. Unless you take pride in your work — and put emotional stock in doing the best you can to realize your ideas every day — you stand no chance of withstanding the daily juggernaut of problems, pain, confusion, complaints and general mayhem that characterizes any entrepreneur's day.

That said, it's equally essential to press pause on your personal pride parade on a regular basis. You must be honest about your abilities, your company's place in the world, and just how much no one, except maybe your mother, gives a shit about what you are doing.

This is humility. Humility means having a modest opinion of one's own importance in the world. And if you think about it, that's the key to success in any job in the service industry. This meal (customer service call, cocktail hour, tree pruning, whatever) is not about the person doing the work (i.e., you). This is about your customers.

Now, this isn't to say that the thing you believe in, the reason for your hubris, shouldn't still drive the ship. It should. But just as a captain wouldn't sail his boat straight into a storm, you would be foolhardy to continue to run your restaurant as you originally planned even after receiving clear signals from (lack of) customers and (critical) critics that you're headed for choppy waters.

Humility is about understanding when it's time to redirect the ship. It is about listening to and learning from people who are trying to help you. Put another way: If hubris is about having guts, humility is about doing a regular gut check.

I think humility is one of the markers of a successful restaurant on night one, no matter about the details.  Anyone else feel there are markers for success?

Yesterday, I teed up two ideas that I believe determine whether a restaurant will soar or bust. One of those ideas, perhaps the more important of the two, is clarity.

I truly believe this: Unless you are opening a Chili's, restaurants should be polarizing.

By that, I don't mean "love it or hate it." What I mean is that restaurants should have a niche, a raison d'être, a reason to be remembered. See, when diners decide which restaurant they want to visit, they do not think in broad terms or "positioning statements," which restaurateurs agonize over for hours, even months.

Customers think about restaurants in terms of problems: "I have to take my boss somewhere where she'll be impressed." Or, "I need someplace special to take Mom for a great Mother's Day brunch." Or, "Where's the most memorable place I can take my girlfriend to ask her to marry me?"

Or, they think in tiny, specific categories: "Let's go someplace new and trendy." "Let's go get some pasta, but not to a red-checkered tablecloth restaurant." "I want banh mi, but somewhere with some ambiance."

Here's the problem, the real reason behind the incessant churn in the restaurant biz: Most sort of upscale or casual fine-dining, chef-driven restaurants that have opened in the last few years don't solve any of these problems. They don't have a crystal clear focus that makes them stick out in diners' minds.

And unless you are Grant Achatz or someone with his kind of star power, your restaurant absolutely cannot rely on the concept of "great food" to continue to draw people in. There's great food everywhere, even — in the increasingly foodist society that is America — in peoples' own kitchens. Your job isn't just to deliver great food; it's to deliver a memorable experience. Doing your job right means honing your concept to such an extent that you become the obvious choice for someone solving a problem.

Here's what I mean: Right before my Mom turned 70, she went through a mind-boggling amount of personal crap, including the summer when my Dad had four brain surgeries in three months, two of which involved a medical helicopter transferring him from one hospital to another. My sister and I wanted to do her birthday up right. Truly the only restaurant that would tell her how much we loved and appreciated her was Daniel — in New York City, not Chicago, where we all live. So, we all got on a plane and flew to New York. Daniel being Daniel meant that it, and nowhere else, was the only place that would do for Mom's 70th birthday. Didn't matter that Daniel was a plane ride away. Daniel owned the category of "where to take Mom for a big birthday after Dad has had several brushes with death."

Unfortunately, a lot of new places don't realize the importance of clarity. They think they won't get enough customers if they think tiny, so instead they decided to be as many things to as many people as possible. I hear it all the time, restaurateurs telling me their place is "For everyone! Yes, Ellen, we want your grandma and your niece to both come here and love it!"

The result is that no one knows how to use these restaurants. They don't solve anyone's problem. And once that "new-restaurant sheen" has worn off, they become an afterthought. They become the place diners visit when they can't think of anything better to do, or they're in the neighborhood, or it's half-price wine night.

And these are the kinds of places that either close after a few years (usually 24-36 months), or worse, in my mind, spend years floundering in the backwaters of diners' minds.

How 'bout you; ever dial up your honey and say, "Hey, let's go out tonight, let's go to a 'kind of a steakhouse but not really a steakhouse?'" Or do you say, let's go out for steak?

There's been a lot of hootin' and hollerin' in the Chicago food world in the past few weeks about proper protocol for reviewing new restaurants. A lot. Some believe media should wait to write a review until a few weeks after a restaurant opens, to give the chef and management time to work out the kinks. Some think a restaurant is fair game from the minute it flips that "Open" sign.

No matter what you think, the fact remains that media often have to go in straight away anyway, because it's their job, by definition, to be on top of the news.

My approach to opening nights is different, likely because I am not a journalist. Me, I like to go in opening night and form an opinion because I pretty much think you can guess how long a restaurant will be in business on Night One. And it doesn't have a thing to do with whether the servers auction off food, if the food runners actually know what's in the dishes they are delivering, or even whether the chef manages to get all the bits of food together on the plates properly.

It has nothing to do with those things, because if it did, Blackbird would have been a colossal failure. For realz. My first meal at Blackbird could only be labeled a disaster — and I won't go into details, because you need to focus on this blog message, not dwell on idle gossip.

And the message of the blog is this: review ... don't review ... it don't matter.  What does matter is that, even with a laundry list of out-and-out failings, it was obvious to anyone who could hold a fork that Blackbird would soar. And, eleven years later, it is still soaring.

So far, my track record on guessing how long a restaurant will remain open has been scarily spot-on. Maybe I am off six months when there are extenuating circumstances such as a rich uncle leaving the chef a pot o' gold in his will. But for the most part, little details of a review aside, I pretty much think we all know when someone has stumbled on greatness or if they are on a train to Siberia.

So, what is the defining characteristic? What is that certain something that makes it immediately apparent, Night One, whether a restaurant will thrive — or crash and burn?

If I were to pick one word, it would be clarity. But I am going to pick two, because this is my blog, and I get to pick two if I want. So I'll go with clarity and humility.

But you'll have to come back to read my thoughts here, clarity tomorrow and humility on Friday, and in the meantime, really, don't you secretly think the same way?

Yesterday, I wrote a post about people who ask me what I think, inspired by an evening with The Pie Guy. The Pie Guy is a guy who makes good pies and is toying with the idea of starting a little business making pies.

It was interesting to be talking to The Pie Guy about his pies just then because I had come from a meeting with a restaurateur who wants to reconcept his restaurant and is trying to figure out what the restaurant should be.

I always get worried when I sit in meetings with restaurant people who are trying to figure out what they are trying to be. Mostly because I know that people with no restaurant experience whatsoever have at least the possibility of succeeding if they are crazy insane with the need to open exactly this restaurant because they believe in it so much they will die if they don't.  But people who are just trying to figure out what the restaurant should be will likely flounder.

I know this for a fact, or at least my version of a fact, because I have seen it happen time and again. The people with the passion to make their restaurant  just so — and get kinda pissy if you don't precisely intuit the tiniest of details that make such sense to them — always seem to succeed, no matter how messy their startup phase may be. And the people who run restaurants that are cobbled together to be something the restauratuer thinks will work don't. 

And Pie Guys that go into the pie business "to make money" and not because they are insane about making pies at 4:00 a.m. will be miserable and will make no money.

So if you are thinking of starting a high-end food business or running a chef-driven type restaurant, take a gut check and make sure you are opening the kind of restaurant you believe the world needs so badly it will stop spinning if it doesn't exist. Make sure you are opening the kind of restaurant that you are so compelled to open you'd be willing to give up sex to make it happen. Make sure this isn't a way to make money first, but rather the realization of your life's dream.

It doesn't mean you'll be successful beyond your wildest dreams, but it does mean you'll have a chance.