Miami police were baffled by the motives of a customer who pulled up to the window at a Wendy's drive-through, got his meal, then started an argument over chili sauce.

First, he was angry because he wasn't given any right away.

When he finally got some, he wanted more. The Wendy's clerk told him that store policy mandated no more than three packets. He insisted on ten. The clerk complied. The guy kept arguing. The manager came out. He shot the manager—not fatally. He then made his getaway, presumably clutching considerable sauce.

Law enforcement authorities do not know what this was about. It's a mystery to them.

I figured it out.

It's all about reconstructing the crime.

I went to a Wendy's in The Galleria at White Plains. Despite the fancy name, it's a mall in New York's Westchester County. I ordered what I figured anybody with a criminal mind would have—a Jr. Cheeseburger Deluxe (99 cents), a Crispy Chicken Sandwich (99 cents), and a small Chili ($1.19). The bad guy sounded pretty cheap—so am I, for that matter—so I ordered cheap stuff.

I asked for some chili sauce.

The attendant put two gold-foil packets on my tray.

I said I wanted more.

I figured this would surely trigger an alarm and the crack Galleria security team would respond. These guys really look good—Smokey The Bear hats and crisp white shirts with an American flag patch on one sleeve, yet another patch that reads VALOR above a breast pocket. (The security guard at the Wendy's in Miami was asleep when the shooting took place, but to the credit of private security guards everywhere, he did wake up when gunfire broke out.)

She said, "Okay," and put three more packets on my tray.

I tore one open. Out oozed a creepy looking liquid, not quite clear. I tasted. It was spicy but somewhat sickening. It wasn't a sauce, nor was it intended to be one. It was actually labeled Hot Chili Seasoning. The ingredients: water, corn syrup, salt, distilled vinegar, natural flavors, xanthan gum, caramel coloring. It's pretty clear that whatever makes it hot is included in the catch-all category of "natural flavors."

I put some on the junior cheeseburger. This overcooked item wasn't particularly tasty to begin with, and the seasoning sauce made it significantly worse.

I put some on the crispy chicken, which wasn't crispy. It looked and tasted like breaded, assembled chicken bits that somebody had forgotten to fry. The sauce didn't make it taste worse. Nothing could have made that chicken taste worse.

I put some on the chili. Seemed like the logical place for Hot Chili Seasoning, come to think of it. Straight from the pot, the chili wasn't particularly appealing. The ground beef in it recalled grade-school days and the food we used to call mystery meat—a beef-like product that nobody believed could have come from a cow. The chili had the consistency of prisoner-of-war gruel. I started adding chili seasoning. With each packet, the chili improved, primarily because the taste of the meat was disguised.

By the fifth packet, the chili was neutralized. I can see why the guy in Miami wanted as many packets as he could get. If he had ordered a large chili, there's no telling how many he would have needed.

He also might have been driven temporarily insane by the difficulty of opening them up. They're the kind that say "Tear Here" across one corner but never actually tear unless you use your teeth. Opening ten of those could have made anybody mad enough to open fire.

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Hope & Anchor is a hip bar and casual restaurant in the Red Hook section of Brooklyn. It has lots of chrome and feels like a cross between a fifties diner and a fifties soda shoppe, a place where the food would be casual and the staff friendly.

I noticed that the menu contained a beer list but not a wine list, so I asked the waitress if I might have one.

"We took it out," she replied. "It was wrong."

I don't believe she meant that it was wrong to drink alcoholic beverages. I got the idea that there were typographical mistakes on the list.

"But you have wine?"

"Yes."

"Can I see some kind of list?"

"No."

"Is there anything I can see?"

"No list. You want red or white? I can tell you what they are."

"I don't know which one I want. That's why I like to look."

"In that case I can't tell you what they are. Too many."

I've never before been in a restaurant that sold wine but didn't want its customers to have any.

I ordered a beer. (They were out of my first choice, which meant the beer list was wrong, too.)

I also had dinner. I can report that the food was so mediocre there was no reason to regret not being able to drink wine with it.

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An Irish pub in Florida did what Irish pubs always do—pulled a silly gag. It got in trouble with (1) the law, and (2) women. Hard to know which is less merciful.

At McGuire's Irish Pub in Destin, the signs on the bathroom are deliberately misleading. The one for the men's room reads LADIES in big type and then something tiny underneath, saying they shouldn't enter because it's actually the men's room. (The converse joke is posted on the men's room door.)

For many years, nobody complained. Some folks even smiled, but perhaps all of them were drunk at the time.

One day recently, according to reports, a 15-year old girl mistakenly entered the men's room and a young fellow walked in shortly afterward. She exited the restaurant crying. A man who claimed to be her father filed a complaint with Florida's Department of Business and Professional Regulation, and the joke signs were ordered down. (Later a compromise was reached, so the signs could be put back up.)

Women like to say there is no difference between the sexes, that we should all be treated alike.

They're wrong. I cannot think of a single man who would be horrified if a woman entered a public bathroom while he was in there, regardless of what he was doing.

I admit that I'm not the savviest guy where women are concerned. I don't know much about them. I don't even understand what there was about this experience that would make a woman, even a teenager, cry.

I asked some female friends.

One wrote back to me, "Obviously it is not a modesty issue, since all the practical stuff happens behind closed doors. I suspect the real reason is that we're all in there talking about the men we're having dinner with."

Another said, "Because men pee on the floor and leave the seat up. And, you know, there's the weird way that men pee—women don't get that."

And, a third: "In general, ladies' rooms are more like a sanctuary, whereas for men they're utilitarian. It's where pairs of women go mid-dinner to discuss dates and effect necessary cosmetic repairs. Nobody likes to get caught in deshabile, physical or emotional, by a bumbling and usually drunk intruder."

In summation, this is what I discovered: Women think of men as inconsiderate alcoholics who relieve themselves in an incomprehensible and clumsy manner.

They may be right, but I don't like their attitude. Come to think of it, I don't want them in our bathrooms. Men are sensitive, too, and we have our own rituals, the most sacred of which is standing side-by-side at urinals. If women are going to feel that way, I don't want them peeing next to me.

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I have no idea what made Eric Ripert so mad.

Here's what I had written: "Try the 1995 Krug Champagne for $240, a perfect match for steak tartare."

I was reporting on the new restaurant Landmarc, in New York's Time Warner Center.

The steak tartare is excellent there. The 1995 Krug is excellent anywhere, but at $240 per bottle, it's a steal on a wine list. Yes, sometimes a $200 bottle of wine can be a bargain.

Right after writing that I got a telephone call from Ripert, chef and co-owner of Le Bernardin in New York. He said I was wrong. He claimed Champagne was too delicate to match with steak tartare, which is highly seasoned, chopped raw meat.

Generally, I don't like to argue about food with chefs. They know more than I do. But Ripert is the chef of a seafood restaurant. He prepares fish 99 percent of the time, and he drinks red Bordeaux with everything. I will concede that he is one of the best chefs in the world, but there is no way that he knows more about what wine to have with meat than I do.

We arranged a challenge.

He would prepare steak tartare.

I offered to bring the Champagne.

He said, "I don't want the bad corked wine you have in your cellar in my restaurant."

He was sure in an ugly mood. That's what can happen when you always drink red Bordeaux with fish.

Came the day.

He brought out his steak tartare.

Despite the contention, I will be gracious. I concede that this fish cook had created the best steak tartare I've ever had in my life.

I didn't expect that. I knew he'd get the seasonings right. He's good that way. But I never expected him to be brilliant with raw meat. In many ways his steak tartare was typical: filet mignon, capers, cornichons, red onion, parsley, Tabasco, Worcestershire, Dijon mustard, and so on. But I'd never tasted steak tartare so silken and so layered with flavor. He said the meat was hand-cut. Nice, but that couldn't have been the answer. Then he said he had added a secret ingredient: The fat from foie gras. Genius.

He claimed the tartare with a delicate non-vintage Champagne didn't work—the meat overwhelmed the wine. He was right. Then we tasted it with a rosé, which has more body, and he conceded that it matched up well. He even admitted that the high acidity of the wine was mouth-cleansing, as I knew it to be.

I asked him to simply admit that I was right.

It was hard for him. He managed to say, "You can say that you are not wrong."

He said the steak tartare required a bigger, richer Champagne than the rosé. I asked him what that might be.

As though he had just come up with the idea, he replied, "I think 1995 Krug would work well."