Long life to her

Writing reviews gives her maximum, superlative excitement, the Empire State of excitement. "Good service, very professional, but a shelf arrived scratched for me," she might write. "Great service and very well treated, but the croquettes were small," she might have written.

She has written reviews of burger joints, hardware stores, supermarkets (and she has complained about the functioning of the pan she got with the reward points) and above all of restaurants with certain pretensions. She feels important giving her opinion on the croquette, the doneness of the meat, and the brand of the dessert ice cream that—it is true—they sell to you as artisanal. She likes to complain bitterly about the fact that they won't give her ketchup for the girl, who is all about fries with ketchup, and about those who bring a dog. She likes to warn that she will write a review, because she likes to force them to treat her to a drink. She is the smartest, the one who doesn't mince words, the most determined, the rudest. She wouldn't distinguish guacamole from chicken droppings (and, depending on how you look at it, she can't be blamed for that), but she doesn't hesitate to trash the smell of the bathroom air freshener, the cook's hairstyle, or the color of the paintings of cocktail glasses with girls sitting inside.

Long live the review writer, the scourge of coastal hotels that do two-for-one deals, the whip of fifth-range restaurants, the amazon of hardware stores where they don't have glass tupperware with an airtight lid.