The women, arriving by limousine, were ushered to their table in the Four Seasons dining room by the attentive maitre'd. If not for the scars they'd bestowed on the wait staff during previous luncheons, their presence might have gone unnoticed; just three older ladies treating themselves to a luxury meal. Experience had taught the waiters not to underestimate their expectations. The demanding women were seated at the best table in the room with the flourish normally reserved for celebrities.

"Are you having a cocktail?" Marge peered at Brooke, lowering the over-sized menu to look at her companion.

"Oh, really, I shouldn't. You know I have issues with alcohol."

"Again? Do we have to go through this every time? Either order your drink or guzzle your water--just make up your mind."

"We have a special on mimosas," the waiter said, standing patiently at the table.

"You're new here, aren't you?" Susan set the menu down and stared up at the young man hovering over the table. "This one will have a martini--extra olives." She paused and glared at Marge. "This one looks like she could use a scotch--on the rocks. I will have white wine--the house brand is fine--a litre, not a glass."

Drinks and appetizers arrived at the table. Marge poked at the pecan-crusted Camembert; her dubious mood shifting from disdain to curiosity. "Why do chefs go to such lengths to ruin a perfectly good piece of cheese?"

"Just shut up and eat the damn thing--it's complimentary," Susan said. She was inured to the usual complaints and repetitive shuffle from table to kitchen as dishes were returned to the chef, a common practice when the women dined together.

The staff kept their eyes on the table, ensuring the petite blonde in the big-hair, Dolly Parton wig never ran out of martinis. Although the trio never made a reservation, word spread quickly from the moment they stepped into the luxurious lobby. Looking like aging grandmothers, the legendary trio were known to cause scenes, rarely with staff, most often amongst themselves. They were profiled customers. Despite their bad manners, they were given VIP treatment.

The waiter discreetly replaced Marge's empty glass with a fresh scotch. He was overcome by her pungent perfume and lapsed into a coughing jag, arousing disapproving glares from the women. Susan immediately raised her arm, snapping her fingers until she was noticed by the maitre'd who whisked over to the table. "We demand a new waiter," she barked.

"Certainly, madam," he said, jostling the young man back to the kitchen.

"The kid did have a point, Marge. You lay that toilet water on pretty thick. But then again, you do everything in excess," Brooke said, slurring her words slightly.

"Toilet water! I'm wearing Chanel, dingbat." Marge huffed, but ignored Brooke, distracted by the arrival of the main course.

"Why do you persistently order steak?" Susan asked. "You send it back, claiming it too tough, too rare--there's always a problem."

Brooke giggled. "There's nothing wrong with the meat. Old Marge here is just too cheap to get new dentures."

Patrons turned to acknowledge the clatter as dishes were slammed down and voices rose in anger. A flood of curse words drowned out the background music as the women made their argument public.

The maitre'd quickly approached the table, apologizing to other diners as he passed.

"Who are those women?" The exiled waiter asked when the maitre'd restored calm and returned to the kitchen.

He chuckled. "They work for The Post--writers of the longest running etiquette column in the country."