I recently did something dumb. When a Washington, D.C.,-area restaurant insisted that I confirm my reservation with a credit card and agree to a penalty of $50 per person if I failed to cancel within a specific period of time, I accepted the terms.

I signed on the dotted line—well, in this case, I agreed electronically.

My plan was to visit an old college roommate. Others were joining us. Less than 48 hours before we were to sit down to dinner, he came down with a kidney stone and was incapacitated. The trip, a mini-reunion for five friends, had to be cancelled.

The reservation was much harder to call off. A new car would have been easier to return.

I found the website and read the cancellation policy—it seemed to indicate that calling 24 hours in advance was fine. No problem. I called, the cancellation was accepted, and I was assured no penalty would ensue. The next day I received an e-mail from the assistant to the restaurant manager, saying I would be charged $250.

My reservation was for five, and it turned out that a reservation for five or more had different rules. Cancellation in this case was 72 hours in advance. Yes, I had read that. Yes, it was in the fine print of my agreement. However, I'd made the reservation several months earlier, and I'd forgotten. After all, it wasn't like I was buying a house. I was going out for pasta.

What a mess.

Here's a rule: Unless you're a lawyer and wish to enter into protracted negotiations, don't sign a contract to dine at a restaurant. Don't think about it. Don't consider it. Just don't do it.

Contracts are binding agreements that are supposed to benefit both sides. This sort of contract is of value only to the restaurant. It does you no good.

After five or six phone calls and a couple of e-mails, I finally reached the manager of the restaurant—Maestro at the Ritz-Carlton in Tysons Corner, Virginia. He asked a lot of questions: Who did I speak to? Why did I cancel? He said he'd get back to me. Much to my surprise, he did. He said that under the circumstances, a friend's illness, he would waive the penalty. His name was Emanuele Fissore. He could not have been more pleasant.

After we cleared that up, I identified myself as a food writer and asked him why he put customers through such horror.

He said he hated to do it. I believed him. He told me the no-show rate at Maestro had become excessive. He said his restaurant was small, and on some nights 25-30 customers would neither show up nor call to cancel.

He said this caused two problems. One was obvious—loss of income. The second was trickier. Customers who wanted an 8 p.m. reservation but could only get a 6:30 p.m. reservation would be eating at a time they didn't want and notice all kinds of empty tables around them when 8 p.m. came around. They'd feel mistreated. "So much frustration," Fissore said. "Why can't people just call and say, 'I can't come.'?"

I ended up feeling worse for Fissore than I did for myself. That's unusual. He seemed passionate about making his restaurant great and his customers happy.

Still, as much as I want to eat at Maestro, which has a wonderful reputation, I'm not going through that again. And I recommend you don't, either. When a restaurant demands that you guarantee with a credit card, just say no and eat somewhere else.

By the way, Fissore told me he had just come from a visit to his dermatologist. He got caught in traffic. He was 15 minutes late.

"They had already charged me for a missed visit," he said. "I said, 'I'm here! I'm here!' "

Don't get me started on dermatologists, the pickpockets of the medical profession. I've yet to meet one who cared about his customers as much as Fissore seems to care about his.