Stickers Would Dish Up the Dirt on Restaurants

I was interviewing a figure in the news at a local restaurant I used to love.

She was articulate and poised, and, when a large cockroach skittered off her plate, she barely broke conversational stride.

“OK, I’ve traveled in the Third World,” she said. “So this is no big deal. I’ve seen a lot worse than this. So there’s no reason, no reason at all, to freak out. WAITER!!!”

A few months later, I returned for lunch, figuring the roach was a fluke. Just as I was regaling my comrades with my hilarious roach story, one of them gestured to the wall.

“Hey, look! Your old buddy is back!”

Without a word, a waiter grabbed the wriggling insect by a leg and hauled it away, much as a weary mother might remove a screaming toddler from the grocery store. I haven’t been back.

All this is to say: A Thousand Oaks city councilman promoting a restaurant-rating system is onto something. The idea has legs, as we say in the idea business--at least six of them.

Dan Del Campo wants the county to issue stickers like those plastered to the windows and doors of every restaurant in Los Angeles. The stickers give prospective customers an idea of what to expect inside, based on the most recent health inspections. For instance: A=A-OK. Grade A. A1. Absolutely adequate, hygienically speaking.

B=But the drinks are great and it’s hard to find a decent fish place in this town anyway.

C=Cholera.

Ventura County does not grade its restaurants. Inspections are done three times yearly. On the Internet (https://www.ventura.org/env_hlth/env.htm), you can scan a list of local restaurants that have been shut down--most for just a day or two--over an impressive array of violations, including lack of hot water, rodent infestation and sewage running free, free as the wind blows.

These are serious shortcomings. I can think of only one thing less appetizing than finding rats in a restaurant kitchen, and that’s finding half a rat. In both cases, the public ought to know.

Sophisticated diners will claim that in France the great chefs insist on stocking their kitchens with a few world-weary Euromice, who sip Merlot and can tell a good cheddar from ordinary fromage de maison. But, c’est la vie; this is Ventura County, where many a restaurant owner has sung the blues over stringent enforcement of tough health codes.

My kitchen at home would fail any county inspection.

“Finger tracks noted in peanut butter,” the report would read. “Hair seen falling onto counter top. Green scum around faucet that owner has failed to replace after 12 years of leaks. Serious human infestation . . . “

Restaurant owners who oppose a sticker system point out that unimportant technical flaws can unfairly pull down a grade. But Del Campo, who is trying to get Ventura County’s 10 cities to support the idea, insists that won’t be the case.

“It should revolve around food preparation, storage and hygiene,” he said. “A restaurant shouldn’t be docked for having a lightbulb that’s not the correct wattage.”

I agree completely. Lightbulbs should enter the picture only if pieces of them are found in the Cobb salad.

But that doesn’t mean the county should shy away from warning the public about other negative aspects of the restaurant experience.

The dreaded ED sticker would hang like a badge of shame on restaurants whose waiters offer droning, complicated, Excessive Descriptions of the specials.

” . . . And we also have a rack of monkfish, swizzled in balsamic vinegar and drained of vital spirit after marinating in a marshmallow remoulade, and topped with a liver-flavored peppercorn mayonnaise . . . “

Somehow, Jason, Your Waitperson This Evening, can tell the life story of this sorry monkfish--whatever that is--but make you, you unappreciative Philistine, ask for the price. For all that: the ED.

I think diners would also be well-served by the BM--Bad Music--sticker.

I would personally have slapped it on a sandwich shop where a radio was blasting rap music to the trillionth decibel, mainly for the enjoyment of the staff.

When I complained to the kid behind the counter, he took action so quickly you could hear his pierced body parts clank.

“Yo!” he yelled to someone out back. “Find an oldies station!”

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Steve Chawkins can be reached at 653-7561 or at steve.chawkins@latimes.com.