Monday, August 22, 2011
Yes, I should burn in hell.
The kitchen's been over-cooking steaks 99% of the time the last couple of weeks. And 99% of that 99% of the time, it goes like this:
“This is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I say in my best chipper waitress voice, whisking the offending plate.
But not this time. This time it was …
“This streak is medium, it was supposed to be rare!”
“I'm so sorry, I'll have them cook you a new one right away.” I reached for the plate and began to pick it up.
“What?” The woman grabbed the edges of the plate and slammed it back down on the table. “You're just going to take my whole dinner?” she asked with a sneer.
I blinked at her. “I like to make sure you get fresh new sides in this situation, ma'am. But I'll leave it if you'd like.”
She didn't answer, just glared at me and started stabbing at her potatoes with a knife. She muttered under her breath every time I was at the table for the rest of their meal. Whatever.