Cold by Definition

When asked how you would like your steak cooked, the obvious choices are rare, medium rare, medium, medium well, and well done. Each choice has a corresponding internal temperature, and this is how a cook can tell when the steak is cooked exactly how it's ordered.

There are, however, a few other ways to order a steak. You may not be familiar with them, as I certainly was not until I began working at the Steakhouse. One of those ways is called Pittsburgh Style, also called Blue-Rare, meaning it is so rare, that it looks almost blue inside.

I seldom, if ever have anyone order their steak this way, either because they are not familiar with it, or because it is absolutely disgusting. But, either way, if it is ordered, the cooks will make it.

The other night I had a table of two. They were unhappy throughout their entire meal. Her Rum and Coke was to strong, even though it was Malibu Rum, which is like liquid candy. His salad tasted old, even though it was the first scoop out a new bag, and the dressing and croutons were hand-made that afternoon. And their bread was cold and stale, even though it was a fresh batch right out of the oven. I got the feeling early that they just wanted to complain, so I acted interested in all of their shenanigans, and nodded my head with implied concern, but had mentally tuned them out, and was in my head enjoying a Malibu Rum and Coke of my very own.

He ordered the Prime Rib, and wanted it very rare. I let him know it would be more like Medium rare, as the Prime Roast is kept in the oven all night, and the later it gets, inevitably the more it is cooked. He was annoyed, but ordered it anyways.
When I brought out their dinner, they said everything was fine, so I left them to eat. Five to ten minutes later I stopped by to see if everything was still going well, they said it was, so again I left them to eat. Only seconds after I walked away and stopped by another table, the man half stood, and began violently flailing his arms to get my attention. I shot him a "Wait your fucking turn" look, and he sat back down. When I had a moment, I returned to his table to see what had happened in the 14 seconds since he told me things were going good.

Man: "The Prime is cold."

GH: "Of course it is, its been out here on your table for ten minutes"

Man: "No, I mean it was cold when you brought it out to me. "

GH: What I said- "Oh I'm sorry can I get you a new piece?" What I meant- "Then why the hell did you tell me twice that everything was fine?"

Man: "Yes, I want a new piece...could you make it RARE this time please. If you knew better you wouldn't mess with me"

GH: "I'll see what I can do"

Upon returning to the kitchen I was informed we were 86 Prime, as the last piece had just been sold. My manager told me to offer to heat it up, give him a Rib-Eye, or a piece of dessert on the house.

He said I would ruin the Medium Rare if I heated it up, he hated Rib-eye (even though Rib-eye IS Prime Rib) and he had no appetite for dessert. And then he just stared at me....for minutes....without saying anything. My manager saw what was going on from across the floor and came to my rescue. She finally got him to speak. He said he would take the Rib-Eye but wanted it Blue Rare, charred for only 45 seconds on each side. So that's exactly what he got.

A few minutes later, I was introducing myself to a new table when the man stood and yelled my name across the restaurant. I ignored him at first but after three consecutive yells, I looked back and said "Wait your turn Sir!"
This asshole was challenging me and I was not in the mood, so I put on my game face and went back to his table.

Man: "This Rib-eye is awful. It's colder then the Prime. Don't you guys know how to serve a properly heated steak. What the hell is wrong with you."

GH: "Well sir, before the steak was put on the grill it was in the fridge, which is somewhere around 35 degrees. We did as you asked and only grilled the steak for 45 seconds each side, and last time I checked, a minute and a half is certainly not enough time to bring up the temperature of something so cold. If you wanted a warm steak, you should have asked for Well Done, because Blue-Rare is cold by definition. Now you can enjoy this steak the way you ordered it, or I can microwave it for you. Those are your only options.

The man looked dumbfounded, as if I had just shot him in the neck with a metaphorical stun gun. Swallowing his pride, he puffed up his chest and demanded to talk to a manager. So I waved one over, and listened as he implored her to comp his entire meal. He played every card in the book, and even threatened to tell his "Gun Club" buddies how terrible he had been treated if he was not compensated somehow. She said she would not be comping any of his meal, and then she asked him to kindly Fuck off.

I was so elated. People will do anything for a free meal, and apparently my manager wasn't in the mood to be fucked with either. A few minutes later she went out for a smoke, and I followed her to thank her for not letting him get away with such tomfoolery's. She had had it up to her ears with doucherockets for the night, and started ranting. Right at the point of "What an asshole!!I hope him and his damn gun club friends never set foot in this Restaurant again," the man walked around the corner to his car. He looked back towards her, and half joking, half serious she said,

"Goodnight Sir, you're sure lucky we don't spit in peoples food here."

But what i really meant to say was...

On A Busy Friday Night.

Patron: “Could I get some ranch for my french fries?”

G.H: “Absolutely, is there anything else I can get you while I’m back there?”

(What I meant: “Absolutely, but if you need anything else and don’t tell me until I get back I’ll cut your fucking balls off spit in your drink..”)

Upon returning-

Patron: “Oh, I actually meant Ketchup, not ranch”

G.H: “No problem, anything else you need”

(What I meant: “They are not even similar in any way, how could you confuse the two, stupid douche rocket. Oh, and thanks for wasting my time, if I get a shitty tip from another table cause I wasted all night on your useless errands I’ll blog terrible stuff about you and use your full name.”)

Upon returning-

Patron: “Actually, can I get some extra napkins to?”

G.H: “When I get a minute, I’ll bring them right out”

(What I meant: Fuck you and your napkins. When you stop me again in 20 minutes, I’ll apologize and act like I forgot, then I’ll go in the back and pull some napkins out of the garbage and you'll never fucking know!”