Visited Stephen Starr's latest boite, Parc, on Rittenhouse Square Thursday night. The place is extremely lively and incredibly loud.

This is clearly the restaurant to be seen these days. Near us was a table of five blonds of various ages.

"Do you think we would be excluded from membership?"

"Remind me sort of like Paris."

"With bad hair. And untrained waiters."

Our waiter, clumsy and overly friendly, explained what branzino is without asking if we knew. He informed us that the anchovies in one dish weren't particularly strong. It never occurred to him, that grown women might like anchovies. He complimented us on our choices, as if our job was to please him. He spoke to us as if we were five or very slow.  

"Three out of your four choices would have been mine," he said.  Now we can die fulfilled.

One of the three women at his table happened to be the food editor of the Inquirer. The other two women have lived in other American citities and Europe, where customers, of any age or income, aren't dumb-downed about their palates or praised for their selections. 

Immediately, all efforts at sophistication were obliterated.

In an interview I once asked Starr if, with a gazillion restaurants in his empire, he worried about a waiter shortage.

"Someone turns 21 every day."

True, but that won't necessarily make him a good waiter.

We would have been treated with more intelligence and respect at a diner which reminded us that we weren't exactly in Paris.

Treat customers like idiots, and you'll end up having only idiots for customers.