I have been a journalist for twenty years now. That makes me quite old, but let's keep that information a secret for now. For nineteen years of my career, I've been taking those I interview to a lovely restaurant in the city. It's called 'Un Avant-Goût Du Ciel' but I'm afraid after all these years I still can't pronounce it. It's French, and it translates to something like 'A Taste Of Heaven.'

It has lush, red carpet and curtains that flow from long windows that reached from the floor to the ceiling. All the tables are smooth and dark, the silverware polished and bountiful. Chandeliers hang from the high cream ceiling, and no noise can be heard from the kitchen. Unless, of course, you happen to come in on one of those days in which that waiter is fighting with the head chef again.

Speaking of that waiter, we must discuss the rules of this restaurant.

Most fancy places like "A Taste Of Heaven" require you to come in with a nice nightgown or a tux. But not this one. They provide one for you if you don't have your own, no matter your size. I don't care if you're a size negative nine or if you're a two hundred. They will have something for you, and they will ask if you would like it in "red, pink, aqua or shimmering, madam?"

They will let you order dessert first, or maybe dessert and the main course at once. They won't bat an eye.

The specials? Don't look for a dolled-up black board with something that sounds like it has eyeballs written on it. You'll have to ask for the specials book. And no, they've not just run out.

In fact, there are only two rules in Un Avant-Goût Du Ciel.

1) Do not flirt with, touch, or make any attempts at the charismatic, handsome manager.

2) Do not flirt with, touch, or make any attempts at that waiter.

If you do, prepare for the most horrific experience of you life. If you flirt with the manager, expect the worst service you have ever had. It is not a question of if your food has been spit on or not, it is a question of how much spit. And the tip? Oh, you better tip high. Higher than you have ever tipped before. No, that hundred bill will not do.

So let's say you decide that it's not the best choice to flirt with the manager, so you flirt with the waiter instead. Bad choice.

Remember the charismatic manager? He was so handsome, that blonde hair flopped over to the side, his blue eyes smiling from behind his glasses. Not anymore. Now he's demonic. He'll storm over to your table with an unsettling grin, and take your waiter by the hip.

"Oh, Artie," he'll whisper, "this food you've served the customer is completely unsatisfactory! You simply must take it back!"

"Artie" will only shrug, wiggle out of the arm around him, and move to grab your plate.

Do not, under any circumstances, let him take the plate.

If you have to, offer your first-born child. Because if there's anything worse than a jealous manager, it's a jealous manager and his friend, the offended French chef. The two combined will be enough to not only kill you, but shoot you down to the bottom-most layer of hell.

For nineteen years of my writing career I have been going to this restaurant. Not once have I tried to brake the rules. I have, however, seen it been done many times before.

"So," I continued, cutting into my steak and nodding to 'Vogue's sexiest woman alive!' "I suggest you start running. Now."

She grabbed her purse and lept up from the table. I watched as two blondes quickly followed after her. This should make another interesting article.

I decided to try something a bit different! I hope you liked it.

For those of you who said I should write the native-America story, I plan to. Unfortunately, it will take a long time to actually begin. I do apologize for the strip tease.

Sorry for any mistakes! Mon francais est pas bon!

-Mallory