Shut up and cook/serve/eat!

All of my chef friends are going to hate me. A couple of nights ago, my fiance and I decided to go to an early movie and afterwards get a some dinner.  He chose an absolutely amazing roast chicken and I chose a burger.  Since finding out I was pregnant, I have been listening a lot more to my body and my palate and I tend not to argue.  My doctor even told me that at some point I may even get a strong urge to eat tobacco and that for some women, the urge could be so strong as to make them want to eat chalk, dirt or coffee grounds.  Combine that with the fact that the little person growing inside me sometimes makes me a bit queasy and I make great dinner company.

I knew what was going to happen when I did what I did and when the server got that look in his eye that all servers do.  It is that look at the regret of life choices and knowledge that for the next 90 minutes that he would have to be the messenger.  We all know what tends to happen to the messenger.

I was ready though and I had once stood where the chef was standing now.  It was a medium sized restaurant and it seemed to be somewhat full.  I could see that we had gotten the tail end of the dinner rush and that people were beginning to filter out on the way to the rest of their evening and there were a few working entrees and a few more who had just gotten theirs.  Some of the servers were standing in the servers' station and there was no line at the door.  Tables were being turned and for some reason, I pictured the chef just standing there, waiting for my order, possibly waiting to break into song (something akin to Be Our Guest from Beauty and the Beast.)  He asked me how I would like my burger and I said, "well done, cooked through, and rested prior to plating please."

I was not trying to be difficult, I promise.  Me and the little guy on my tummy were just in no mood to see any kind of blood on the plate or anywhere near it.  I was about to explain this to the server, but before I could, he had turned and was already taking my fiance's order.  I could tell he was annoyed though.  I could see it in his eyes.  Or could I?

All that I was asking was that they leave it on the grill for an extra minute, then take it off and set it to the side for a few moments more so that all of the juices run out before it was put on a plate.  No big deal, right?

When our food arrived, my fiance and I went through our usual routine.  I always allow myself one bite of his potatoes but only one and he takes the onions and pickles off my plate.  Often he eats the pickles, but he has been well trained to know that I do not even like onions on my plate.

This time it was different.  There was a race between my anger and my nausea as I saw a pool of blood beginning to form at the edge of the plate.  Realizing what was happening and reacting quickly, my fiance grabbed the plate and headed in the direction of the server's station, met half way by our server.  In two more steps, he was back by my side, kneeling, asking if I was all right.  My hero.

My anger and my stomach were calmed by me thinking rationally about the problem (In truth, I was already writing this article in my head).  I went through a mental checklist and tried to see where I had gone wrong.
 I was craving a burger and my partner wanted something a bit more upscale so we compromised on a place that could do each, check!
I asked very nicely and was very specific about how I wanted the burger prepared, check!
I Waited patiently and was prepared to tip our server very well, check!

The manager arrived at the table and asked if he could help in any way.  I felt a number of eyes on us as we explained the situation and that we were just going to leave.  Then he emerged. The swinging doors popped open, as though so great was his rage at having to leave the line that it required both doors opening to accommodate and there, immediately, was the chef.  For a moment, he seemed prepared to be concerned and caring.  It was then that the manager said what would start WWIII.  "The burger was undercooked."

In my defense, I don't think I ever said that it was undercooked.  That would seem to imply that I thought it was raw or unsafe.  I am certain I said that it was not well-done and thought that might be the issue and thought he might assume that I was saying that it was not well made.  It was then that the chef said something that made my blood boil.  "If I'da cooked it any more, it would have been dry."

Not only was my stomach rumbling now and whatever was in my stomach on it's way up, but somewhere in the center of my skull a kernel of a headache was forming and Wendy's was looking better and better to me.  I was asking myself larger questions now.  When did this become an argument?  Not only with me, but this seems to be a trend all over the place and in every industry.  The implication is that "I know what you want better than you."

There are some dining experiences that should be experiential.  I still want to try dining in the dark or blindfolded.  If you hear about a great chef somewhere, by all means, trust him or her to put something on the plate that they have created or put their spin on and embrace how they prepare it and recommend it.  If, however, you know exactly what you want and how you want it prepared, then shouldn't that be on the plate? When did we get past the point where we are able to say that sometimes we just want a burger and when did we get past the point where we could have a burger well done?

When did dining become adversarial? When did it become us versus them.  It seems odd that there is a mentality that says that guests have to make it as hard as possible for a server, that a server has to make it difficult for the back of the house, the chef as hard as possible on the server and then it all begins to run the other way back to the guests' table.  In the end, no one leaves happy without a whole lot of unnecessary steps and a visit from the manager.

I have worked in every position in a restaurant since I was about 12 years old  (I would have been sent to a foster home if Social Services knew how much time I spent behind the bar when I was 15).  I have worked everything from fast food to fine dining.  Served, stood at the host stand, expedited, drive through, but now, for once, I just wanted to be "pregnant woman" at table whatever and have a burger.

Being friends with so many chefs and cooks, I see so many things all day and social media is setting itself as the battleground.  I wonder if someone tweeted about the difficult customer they had or the needy bitch who kept sending her burger back?  Being "friends" with so many chefs and cooks, I see it all the time.  There are articles written about what it means to be a chef, most of them talking about how to work around the meaningless troglodytes for whom you are forced to cook.

Another new trend sees the server speaking up. I have done my time as a server and I know how guests can be.  People come in and their most keen desire is to make you pay for something that someone else has done to them during the day.  There used to be something unspoken between the server and the guest, someone was an ass-hole, you dealt with it, and moved on to the next table.  "...You can't please all of the people all of the time."

Now, you are potentially being critiqued as much as the restaurant is.  Your every request is subject to scrutiny.  Your every question subject to ridicule.  Lately, your guest check has even been subject to being posted on Twitter or more.  There is even said to be a site where guests can get rated by restaurants. Thus the guest enters on the defensive and wary and takes it out on the server and around and around we go.

This has been an article of questions and I think that people need to answer these questions before they get into this business.  Do you want to make food?  Do you want to make money?  Do you want to make people happy?  You have to find the balance between the three or else, why do it?

We gathered our things to go, and I tried to remain calm and kinda smiley.  People watched as my fiance clutched my arm and led me out and I felt a little hot, not now from anger but from embarrassment.  I was too tired to argue, and too hungry to hang around.  Fifteen minutes later, we were in the Wendy's drive thru.  The girl in the well called me ma'am and my ice tea had just about the right amount of ice.  The fries were hot and the burger was well done with no pickles and no onions and we wonder why they are so popular.

In a few months, I get to be the woman who breast feeds in public (whole new argument there).

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