Senioritis

There will always be patrons in the food world who do things we find intolerable. They are the people who order a glass of water and never drink it, the person who orders the dressing on the side and then orders extra, the person who orders a burger well-done and complains about how long they’ve waited for it. (For anyone who’s remotely curious, an eight-ounce burger cooked well-done can take up to twenty minutes. If you insist on eating your meat dead, you’ll have to wait for the killing.) 

One of my line cooks said to me today that he hates cooking well-done meat because it’s “boring” and “insulting”. I like that: it is insulting to burn a hand-crafted hamburger to the essence of a hockey puck. At a former restaurant, orders for well-done filet mignon would ring through and the chef would say, “Why don’t I just serve them my shoe on the plate, and I’ll eat the steak.” Having grown tired of the attitude of patrons, I have often considered teaching a restaurant etiquette class, but every time the idea surfaces I am told no one would attend, because obnoxious patrons will always think they can get it their way (damnit, Cosmo, stop telling women they can ask for things that are not on the menu!). 

I’ve spent thirteen years fulfilling people’s ridiculous requests, so it’s a curious state of affairs that I find myself so terribly annoyed by them now. The most likely reason has to do with my serious case of senioritis. (Even now I’m marveling that the word has become such a widely-used euphemism that spell check has not red-flagged it.) I leave for Montana in less than two months, and all I can think about is spending the summer writing my novel, hiking through sun-drenched mountains, and spending much-needed time with my family. 

I crave a break from a job where I’m always angry and a life where I’ve given up on everyone but myself. I need a break to regroup, reset, and restart. What I find when I return will undoubtedly include bad tippers, finger-snappers, and chronic complainers, but maybe I won’t notice so much after spending some time in a far-away place where your handshake is still your word and your word is better than gold. Or maybe I’ll be walking around with no shoes and a plate full of steak…