Saturday, January 1, 2011
Day Twenty-Five.-The psyhic and the steak
Today, a man came in ordering a 12 oz. rib eye. Logically, I asked him how he wanted it cooked. It's a question that all servers are supposed to ask. It's a question that people answer upon countless occasions throughout their life (vegetarians excluded).
The man slowly blinked at me, mouthing the word "cooked" as if the term had never come up in his vocabulary. He then hemmed and hawed some semblance of an answer.
Man: "Well, well, I want it cooked...(frantic hand gestures), well you know!"
I slowly blinked, trying to keep my composure and not slap the man across the jaw. I attempted to answer in the sweetest way possible that I'm not a fucking psychic.
Me: "Do you want it medium? Medium-well?" Then he slowly blinked some more.
Man: "What are the differences between medium and medium-well? What's well-done?" Blink. Blink. Blink.
Are you freaking kidding me? That's the most unamerican thing to ask! Have you never gone to a barbecue? After being forced to describe the degrees of steaks, the man finally settled on well done. I inwardly cursed, knowing what was coming.
The food arrived to the table, and I thought maybe I actually was psychic. He had a scowl on his face, his arms crossed. He flew into me before I could even ask.
Man: "You lied to me! This is well-done? It's burnt! I've never had a well-done steak before, but I don't think it's like that!"
Are you fucking kidding me?!? You've never had a steak before in your life, and you suddenly decide that today's the day to try?? Again, I attempted to keep my composure.
Me: "Sir, after describing the degrees of steak temperatures, you settled on well-done".
Man: "Well, I'm not going to pay to eat the bottom of my shoe!"
In the end, he changed his mind and settled upon a salad instead of a steak, and vegetarians around the world cheered.