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“In the late 1960s, I worked the steak broiler at an upscale Italian restaurant. Chefs hate getting orders for ‘well-done’ steaks. Not only does it ruin a good piece of meat — turning it into a dry, leathery excuse for a steak — but it also disrupts the rhythm of the kitchen, especially during the Sunday rush. Well-done steaks take forever to cook and throw everyone off. Of course, right in the middle of peak Sunday chaos, the dreaded order came in: a New York strip, well done.”
“Frustrated, I grabbed the steak, muttering curses, and placed it off direct heat at the back of the broiler, hoping it would bake through without turning to charcoal. After a long wait, I called for the rest of the order to be plated and sent the steak out. It was, without question, thoroughly well done.
But a few minutes later, the server tiptoed back to the pass, holding the plate with the same steak. The customer said it was not done enough. I stared for a moment, then said, ‘Get out of here.’
‘No, really, he wants it done some more.’
Angrily, I grabbed the steak with my bare hand and literally threw it into the broiler’s maw, then got back into the rhythm of churning out other food orders.
Eventually, the server returned and said, ‘Hey, what about my well-done New York?’
I pulled the grill all the way open, and there it was, shriveled and burnt beyond recognition. I grabbed it with the tongs and dropped it onto a clean plate.
The steak made a tink sound as it hit the plate. It was like a big squashed Kingsford briquette.
‘I’m not serving that!’ said the server. I lost it…
‘Take that &*^!@$ steak out of here and give it to him!’
The next person I expected to see was my boss, but no, the server returned about 15 minutes later and held out a $5 bill.
‘The customer says that’s the best steak he’s ever had, and he sent you this tip.’ (I was probably making $3 per hour back then.) My eyes bugged out of their sockets.
There’s no accounting for some people’s tastes. I’ll never forget that Sunday.”
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