It is often said that the British are reluctant to complain in restaurants. This is nonsense. We love nothing better than complaining, and incessantly. This soup is vile, we'll say, the service is appalling, the vegetables are soggy, the steak is overcooked, the sauce is off, the wine tastes like something with which you clean the kitchen floor, and it's all outrageously expensive. And so on and so forth, whipping ourselves up into a frenzy of frustration and disappointment. But not one word of this tirade do we share with the staff of the establishment. No, we complain instead to our dining companions. And we spare them nothing of our bitter rage.

Then, finally, some zonked-out failed actor in waiter's clothes will pass by and say 'Everything all right?' and we, who have been griping without stop for the previous hour, will reply with jolly and stoic resolve: 'Yes thanks, wonderful.' Why? Why do we suffer one gastronomic farce after another without raising so much as a murmur - apart from the hushed psychotic whining to our fellow sufferers? The answer, of course, is because we don't want to cause a scene. Essentially, we'd sooner eat, or make a show of eating, unseasoned dog's giblets, than cause a scene.

However, in avoiding a scene we are also avoiding one of the most entertaining and enduring pleasures that a restaurant can offer. Indeed only the very finest of wines or the most exquisite of dishes can compare to the truly satisfying indulgence of a well-executed restaurant tantrum. Better still, it's free and you may even get a refund.

But as with making wine or food, there is an art to making a complaint. And one can easily be intimidated by the stylish surroundings, clientele and staff of a good restaurant. So the best place to begin learning how to complain is somewhere that offers the most opportunities and the least fears: a motorway service station.

Unless you have had your palate surgically removed, you will find plenty of cause for complaint in your average motorway service station. And rather conveniently, there is every chance that the drive to get to one will have put you in just the right mood: apoplexy.

Start with the lowliest staff member, the poor bastard in charge of the frying pan. Open up with a little sarcasm. These places think they can disguise the excrement they serve by attaching the word 'traditional' to every dish, so that a burnt and cold fry-up becomes a Traditional English Breakfast. Ask if it's called traditional because the eggs were fried so long ago.

The joke will undoubtedly be lost on the 'chef' (after all, he's working in a motorway service station), but it will do wonders for your confidence. Having established your superiority, demand to see the manager. Don't worry, it will only be some spotty reject from catering college. He will want to give you a load of company guff about high-rates of customer satisfaction and a wide-ranging menu catering to differing needs. Don't let him. Point instead to the charred, rubbery produce lying defeated on the hot-plate and ask: 'Let me get this right: I pay you to eat that, rather than the other way round?'

He'll stutter and splutter, and you can follow up with a series of insults steadily escalating in vituperation and profanity. It's all good clean fun, and it won't get you anywhere - even if they offer you improved food, they can't deliver it because they don't understand the concept. But it is excellent practice.

Apply the same principles in a few chain type places like Angus Steak Houses and Harvesters, and then you are ready to do battle in a proper restaurant, somewhere with a knowledgeable staff and a severe maitre d', somewhere your efforts will be duly noted and, quite possibly, respected, just so long as you hit the right note of informed taste.

Take along a friend for moral support. Once seated, you can start complaining about the seating. It's too near the lavatory, too draughty and insufferably noisy. You want a better table. On to wine: you're sure it's corked. There's certainly something wrong with it. Another bottle. The hors d'oeuvres: measly and overpriced. The entrée: you have suspicions that a freezer may have played some part in its preparation. Dessert? No thank you very much, not after the disaster of the first two courses.

Now that you've told your friend precisely what's wrong, perhaps it's time to inform the staff. But, well, you've finished the meal, and really, on reflection, and on this occasion only, you just don't want to cause a scene. Of course. Cheers.