The Customer is Right

It was the first table of the night, and the waiter had taken the couple’s order and scooted outside for a smoke. I’m seasoning a sixteen-ounce New York strip steak when the white-haired southern gentleman from the table pokes his head in the kitchen door and says to me, “Ma waita fogata ask how I wanmasteakcoo.” I ask him to repeat himself. (Those of you who know the story of my husband’s long courtship know I have a serious phobia of accents; years of playing in concert band have damaged my hearing.) “Ma waita fogata ask how I wanmasteakcoo.” Slowly in my head I work out that his waiter had forgotten to ask how he wanted his steak cooked.

“Sir, we default everything to medium rare.”

“Oh goo. Vera rara.”

“You got it.” I consult with the owner/chef to work out the timing, and sixteen minutes later I’m plating up a beautiful steak, medium rare, with green beans and port wine sauce. My euphoria over the beauty of the plate doesn’t last long…waiter is out for another smoke (or maybe more puffs off the first one), I’m peering through the window into the dining room, and not liking what I see.

“Waiter, get in here! Go check on your table. Something is wrong; that woman looks displeased.” Waiter comes back, and I can see by the look on his face I was right.

“The steak is medium well.”

“WHAT?! I used a timer! Damnit! Tell him I’ll make him another one, and for God’s sake, get that plate back in here!” Every angry word out of my mouth is said in a hush to avoid my voice carrying over the false wall into the dining room. Even at a loud whisper, it’s no secret that I’m pissed. Why the hell do I have to teach experienced wait staff that the first thing you do for a customer who’s unhappy with their food is to get the plate out from in front of him? I season another steak in a hurry, fretting over a displeased customer with an over-cooked twenty-eight dollar steak in front of him. I don’t even consider getting the owner. It was his timing that put a medium-well steak on that man’s plate to begin with.

I have a replacement on the grill sizzling away when waiter returns with the man’s plate…the steak is a perfect medium-rare. My blood is boiling, my ire veering rapidly away from the owner (whose instructions were actually spot on), and toward the customer.

“Medium well?! This steak is perfect!!” I am practically hissing at waiter now, and he’s anxious to fix the problem and get out of my line of fire.

“He wants it more on the rare side.”

“FINE.” I shave four minutes off the cooking time, re-plate and serve. The plate comes back.

“He wants it cooked a hair more.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me."  Who is this southern man to tell me how to cook a steak? Everybody’s a freaking expert. “I’ll give it to you one more time, but if it comes back again, I’m gonna throw it at him.” Two more minutes in the oven, a third re-plate, and I’m ready to blow a gasket. Waiter merely looks at me, sympathy on his face before disappearing to the dining room. When he returns, he reports that the steak is perfect. “It should be; I made it three times.”

Shortly thereafter, owner comes through to talk to the solo table. It turns out he knows them, buys them a glass of wine, receives their report that everything is perfect, and is none the wiser that this gushing couple has just wreaked havoc on my inner rage and confirmed the antithesis of the age-old adage, “the customer is always right.” They’re not, but there’s nothing we can do about it.