IF YOU ARE IN SOUTH BOSTON, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO ORDER CHINESE FOOD. Even if you’re dying of hunger and have the flu and there's a nor'easter that already broke your umbrella earlier today, you must either venture to Chinatown or forgo the only appetizing idea you've had all day and settle for snacks from the Dunkin' Donuts on the corner. No, no, you mustn't — not Nanning Wok, not Rainbow Dragon, and no, definitely not South Boston Chinese Restaurant. Yes, I know you're thinking of a nice hot plastic container of hot and sour soup that would nourish your weak body, clear your stuffy head, and make your faux-wood-paneled apartment in Andrew Square fragrant and cozy. But I tell you, don’t do it! No! No! I told you — yes, you see, I tried to warn you. Don't ask me what you are supposed to do with those dinner rolls that came with your soup — you could stab them with your chopsticks if you had been given any. Oh no! — is that crab rangoon? Yes, I could have told you they're not supposed to be all puffy and soft like sopaipillas. Well, now you know. You should've taken my word for it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to divert my full attention to licking the sugar off of my Munchkins.

DO NOT BUY PASTRIES AT STARBUCKS. The scones are dry and crumbly, the croissants smell like plastic wrap, and the muffins are greasy. The thing is, Starbucks is not a bakery. There are no ovens back there, behind the counter — only a refrigerator and a computer to facilitate the ordering of pre-baked and frozen foods.

Look, I know what you’re thinking as you walk out of Starbucks, trying not to spill your hot Venti beverage or smush your apple turnover, raising your shoulder so the strap of your weighty bag doesn’t slip down. You’re thinking about that poster inside, the one with the picture of the steaming gingerbread-eggnog-pumpkin-something latte next to the gorgeous maple-nut-cream-cheese-something muffin. You’re thinking that this is a great idea, that this turnover will taste great with your hot caffeinated beverage on this crisp morning. You’re thinking that coffee and pastry will make you feel so Holly Golightly, and that you might even take a detour over to Tiffany’s, to re-enact the famous scene (sans black dress and mean reds). Well, you are wrong. First of all, Holly would not go near a Starbucks. Second, Holly didn’t lug around a beat-up messenger bag bulging with books, a computer, gym clothes, and leftovers in Tupperware. Holly didn’t need any of those things — just $50 for the powder room and a dashing-yet-shallow Brazilian gentleman, thank you very much.

But you, with your coffee and pastry and messenger bag, are a recipe for disaster. You’re going to spill that Venti all over yourself. And it’s not worth it, because, as I said earlier, the pastries are gross. Trust me, I have sources. Don’t believe me? Just look at that turnover — it looks like crab rangoon. Don’t care? Well, fine, just eat it — you’ll be sick in an hour and you’ll have coffee stains on your shirt. And George Peppard’s not going to go chasing after your cat in the rain.

DON'T ORDER THE EGGS BENEDICT. Go grab that waitress and tell her you’ve changed your mind. Hurry! Oh, come on. Look around at this moderately priced restaurant, which is half-empty on Saturday at noon, and whose mauve-and-brown color scheme evokes mediocrity. You don’t want to order that here. Get french toast, an omelet, pancakes, but not eggs benedict. I beg you, change your order! We’ve been through this too many times before.

I know, it sounds like the perfect Saturday brunch: smooth hollandaise enveloping perfectly poached eggs, their whites just loose enough to easily give way to creamy, rich, golden yolks. But are eggs benedict ever the way you envision them? Hardly. Have you already forgotten? Just last week, at a different restaurant, you sent them back. The eggs were overcooked and the yolks looked like a sickly colored Jell-o. And what about the week before? You didn’t like the hollandaise — too much lemon juice, you said — but you chose to eat them anyway, so I had to sit there and watch you make a face with each bite. Painful, really. If you won’t spare yourself, at least spare me! And what about the time before that? The eggs were practically pickled (too much vinegar in the poaching water — a little helps the eggs hold together, but, ick, you shouldn’t be able to taste it!). That time, you just poked around at them and hypothesized about what had gone wrong in the kitchen. You thought you were being interesting, analytic, scientific, but ugh! What a way to bring down the weekend.

Let’s face it: Eggs benedict are difficult to make. Eggs are tricky. Hollandaise is tricky. So why, why, would you trust just anyone in the kitchen of this ugly restaurant to make them? Not that hard, you say? I don’t see you making them yourself, Fancy Pants. You can make them? I find that hard to believe, because all you have in your fridge is a bottle of Tabasco and a week-old carton of crab rangoon. Oh? What’s that? You don’t own the right type of whisk? Is there a special eggs benedict whisk? A Benedictine whisk? OK, you admit it’s difficult. So please change your order, quick, before it’s too late. No? Well, fine. I’m leaving. Have fun with your disappointment.

YOU MUST NOT EAT AT ANY FACTORY. I caution you, friend, as you push forward through the crowd to obtain the coveted black plastic buzzer. I understand that it’s freezing out, and your parents are in town, and you are all starving and shivering after hours of traipsing up and down the Freedom Trail. I sympathize when you say that your mother did not recognize the freedom to stop whenever you wanted. I understand that you want nothing more than to be inside and are in need of beer. As the buzzer shakes and flashes in your hand and you begin your journey through the puffy-jacketed crowd, I warn you again: Run!

Look at what you’ve done now. You are unprepared for the magnitude of the dining you are about to experience. Admit it: The décor impresses you. The rich lacquered wood, glimmering under the warm light of hundreds of identical lamps, makes you think that perhaps you have sunken right into the fleshy lap of luxury. You can tell your parents approve — “classy, yet comfortable” they say — and you swell with pride. Your father, a railroad engineer from Texas, orders a chocolate raspberry martini. You relax, order your beer, and begin to peruse the faux-leather-bound volumes of beverages and food.

As you all discuss Chapter One, Appetizers, my warnings surface in your head, which the beer has now cleared. Panicked, you scan the page again — mini-burgers, potstickers, springrolls, quesadilla! What, you ask, what kind of Factory is this? Tamales, bruschetta, tempura! Tex-Mex eggrolls! The cuisines of the world, brutally forced to assimilate and interbreed! Nachos, fried macaroni balls, crab rangoon! I told you, this is one f---ed Factory. But it’s too late now — you must calm yourself. Read no further, I tell you. Close the book. Order a burger and try to forget the atrocities just put before your eyes. But you can’t concentrate on your mother’s scrapbooking story. Your mind keeps wandering, imagining the savage brutality that is going on in the kitchen. Your eyes get shifty. You sweat. Monstrous items appear on the table, and as your mother raises a forkful of barbecue ranch chicken salad — with little potato chips, corn, and avocado — to her mouth, you crack. You leave your mother and father, mid-bite, and run past the servers with their trays full of carnage out into the snowy street. As you look at the sky and ask “Why, why?” I can only remind you that I tried to warn you. I tried.

Jonelle Seitz blogs at jonelleseitz.com.

Crab rangoon photo by Kyle/thebookpolice via Flickr (Creative Commons), Starbucks photo by Omar Omar via Flickr (Creative Commons), Eggs benedict photo by Allan Ferguson via Flickr (Creative Commons), Cheesecake Factory photo by yuchi.sakuraba via Flickr (Creative Commons), "Food Court" photography from Paul Keleher via Flickr (Creative Commons), "Plate" photograph from FoodCollection/Getty Images.