A Medium Rare Scare

(I work in a really posh town, and most of our customers are posh, upper-class people. Most are really nice and friendly, but some try to act posher than they actually are and treat the waiters like dirt. One regular who acts like this comes in and is, as usual, obnoxious.)

Regular: “This glass is dirty, boy. Get another.”

Me: “Sorry about that.”

(I go behind the bar and pretend to get another glass. As I take it over to him and his wife, I ask if they’re ready to order.)

Regular: “Yes, I’ll have a steak, medium rare.”

Wife: “That.” *pointing to what she wants on the menu*

Me: “Okay, I’ll bring your food out shortly.”

(When their food is ready I bring it over.)

Regular: “This is not done enough; your chef is crap.”

Wife: “And this isn’t what I ordered.”

Regular: “Kids like you should go back to the gutter where you belong.”

Me: “Sorry, I’ll get the head chef right on it.”

(Again, I bring out their food when it’s ready.)

Regular: “What the h*** is wrong with you people? This still isn’t right!”

Me: “I’ll go get the chef.”

Regular: “No! I want the manager!”

Me: “He is the owner, as well.” *calls over to the kitchen* “Hey, [Chef], someone has a problem with your cooking.”

(After a few seconds a figure appears at the doorway. Our chef is almost seven feet tall, and as he believes in trying all his food before it’s served, is a little well built. Plus, as he has just been chopping vegetables, he still has a long, sharp knife in his hand.)

Chef: “Sir, I have over forty years of experience cooking for Her Majesty, the Queen, all without one meal being sent back. Now, if my food is good enough for her, it’s good enough for your scrawny neck. And I can overhear everything that’s said to my staff, so the next time you open your mouth, picture me before you speak, you human question mark.”

(After that, no one’s had any trouble from those customers.)