The idea of what constitutes excellent restaurant service divides neatly along gender lines — a Hooters maid tottering over with a tray of beers and burgers might impress our male colleagues, but this year, we girls are dishing out the laurels to those dishy waiters who've caused us so many sleepless post-prandial nights — the men of Paradiso. It's not that these hunkalicious European studmuffins call us "madam," drawing out lush vowels as if they were licking anisette-flavored lollipops. And it's not that they wear $1,000 suits or that they glide through the luxe rooms at Paradiso like dark leopards bearing little crystal flutes of lemoncello and swoon-inducing Italian pastries. Nor is it that they have consistently made us feel that only ridiculous American custom prevents them from falling to their knees and kissing our toes between courses. That they all look like Roman gods born of a union between Sophia Loren and Marcello Mastroianni is not a factor we would ever consider in our deliberations. But the fact is: These good gentlemen have never spilled so much as a drop of wine, forgotten a detail, or failed to catch our eye when we needed a refill. They have materialized behind us to pull out our chairs, they have patiently advised us on wines, and they have flawlessly recited the specials. And then they have gently placed our wraps on our shoulders before whispering "buona notte," uttering the words with such sincerity that we have never, ever, imagined for a second that in a paradise inhabited by such angels, the night they're sending us out into could be anything less than magnificent.