Waitersfriend

A couple of years ago when I was working at a restaurant in Northern New South Wales I had an interesting guest - I assume the first and only time in my past, present and future in hospitality that I will have this request so it kind of sticks out in my mind.

A booked table of eight comes into the restaurant.  They all seem pretty normal.  I start them off with the usual drinks etc. and begin building the rapport.  One guy in particular seems quite jovial and we throw a joke or two back and forth. 

Eventually I manage to squeeze an order out of them, as they had obviously been drinking all day.  Everything is fairly simple until I get to this one jovial ‘chap’ (he was a pom - and rather proper). 

‘What would you like sir?’ I ask.

‘I’ll have the steak raw, with wedges and salad.’  he replies

‘Certainly sir, one rare steak with wedges and salad.’  I confirm

‘No, I want it raw thanks,’

‘Raw??’, I reply, half thinking he is having a go, due to the quiet around the table.

‘Yes, I want the steak raw.’

‘Oh ok, so you want it blue - just lightly seared?’, I reply.

‘NO, I want it raw - don’t let the steak touch any cooking surface, just take the steak out of the fridge and put it on the plate with some chips and salad and bring it to me.’

I throw in a little chuckle just to test the waters and see if he will confirm that it is a joke…  Blank stare (as if I’m stupid).  ‘Yes sir, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.’ I reply, still with an experimental grin across my face.

So I place the order, and of course have to run into the kitchen to explain what I mean when I write RAW on the docket.  We all love beef carpaccio or steak tartare, but this is ridiculous!  I finally convince the chef that it is for real and the order is made.

The food comes up and I insist that I take out the 300 gram Sirloin  to the carnivore, half expecting a violent reaction when I put it down in front of him - you know, that red meat rage.  All I get is a polite thankyou.  I then realise I am still standing next to him just waiting to see that first gulp.  He looks up.  I leave.  ‘Enjoy your cow,’ I mumble to myself.

The rest of the night goes off without a hitch.  I clear the plates from the 8 pax - and the glass of chianti from T. Rex.  He says he is happy - his plate looks like it has been licked clean.  I can’t say he actually ate it because I had to drag myself away from the table.  For all I know he could have buried it in his pommy man bag to take home for sparkles the poodle, but I am pretty sure he ate it. 

Hmmm, normal… ?!

More life as a waiter…