I understand that people like their steak cooked certain ways. I personally can't stand to eat a steak with more than hint of pink in it -- the texture of undercooked meat makes me want to vomit. However, I fucking know this, I know it's called medium well, and I know that there's a chance it's going to come out either slightly undercooked or slightly overcooked. I can fucking deal with that. Some people, of course, are fucking morons.
One particular evening I had a table that I knew was going to be trouble the moment I approached them. The mullet, you see, is a dead giveaway. Sure enough, the woman and her son ordered our "share two" special (which I fucking detest anyway because all it does it attract white trash like this woman), while her daughter ordered chicken fingers and screamed across the restaurant at me for more goddamn cherry Sprite.
When the woman ordered her steak, I naturally asked how she wanted it cooked. Her response was the singularly unhelpful, "Oh, medium rare or medium well."
Because those aren't totally fucking different, right? I kind of blinked at her and asked which one. "Medium rare. No, medium well. Rare. No, no, medium well."
"What do you like it to look like?" I finally asked her. She started at me. "Do you like it red--"
"--or slightly pink, or--"
"So a little pink?"
"Yes, but not much. Not really pink."
Okay, medium well it was. I described it to her one more time and she said that's exactly how she likes her steak.
However, I was not remotely surprised when, two minutes after her food was delivered, I approached her table and saw her plate shoved to far edge of the table. Before I could even open my mouth, she spoke.
"I'm not eating this. It's shoe leather." She stabbed her knife into the steak and held it up, one end of it where she'd cut flapping about.
"You said you wanted medium well, right?" I peered at the steak.
"Yes, but not this! This is shoe leather!" She peeled the steak open so I could see the interior, which was brown around the edges with a perfect slightly pink center.
There was nothing for it but to pacify the bitch. But I was going to make her feel like an asshole first if I could. "Ma'am, that's our medium well," I said sweetly, "just for future reference. How would you like your steak, and I'll have them cook you a new one."
"Not like this!" she snarled, and repeated again that it was 'shoe leather'. So I took the plate back to the kitchen, showed the expo and the manager the steak we were throwing away that was the definition of medium well, and ordered her a medium steak. She said that one was perfect.