One of our cooks, I'll call him Floyd, is sometimes a perfectly pleasant man, and other times he gets a raging fucking attitude. Tonight was one of those nights. Somehow we ended up with an extra order of boneless wings, which then sat in the window for close to an hour. In that time we got busy, and because Floyd was pissed he tried to send out the old wings to a customer.
The Auctioneer was on expo, and he surprised me by refusing to send them. After five minutes of arguing about it, Floyd still wouldn't drop new wings, and Auctioneer still wouldn't send them out. PSM finally rolled into the kitchen and tried to take the middle ground … but re-saucing them. They were still fucking nasty, and I knew we'd have pissed off customers if they went out. They were already on fifteen minutes, but when PSM pushed them across the window to Auctioneer, he and I looked at each other and actually had a moment of mutual understanding and disgust.
I finished washing my hands, then picked up the plate of wings in question. Checking to make sure that Floyd wasn't watching, I gave one an experimental poke. Hard as a rock. It wasn't even my table, and I was pissed. For fuck's sake, in the time Floyd had spent arguing and being a jackass, he could have made new wings! And for PSM to try to pretty up those nasty dried up pieces of crap? Ridiculous. I started for the edge of the kitchen, and right before I made it to the door ….. oh, whoops. Wings everywhere. Bleu cheese on my jeans and the wall. What a shame.
Floyd wasn't happy, but it was an accident, right? What's he going to say. The customer was fine – and his server got a fat tip – because I made sure to go out to the table smeared with hot sauce and dressing to profusely apologize for my butterfingers.