Karen Wants Her Pudding

(A Yorkshire pudding is a savory item made of batter and baked until it rises and looks kind of like a mini bowl. Aunt Bessie’s is a famous brand of supermarket-sold Yorkshire puddings. It is Sunday. Our pub is well known in the local area for doing really good roast dinners. I am serving a family. They all look fairly normal, apart from the young grandmother — middle-aged — wearing pearls and a cardigan. Everyone else at her table is in jeans.)

Me: “Here you go, everyone! Here’s your roast beef, your lamb, and your veggie sides. Does anyone need any more sauces?”

Woman: “Excuse me?!”

Me: “Is everything okay?”

Woman: “Take this back to the kitchen at once! This roast pudding is burnt!”

Me: “I can do that for you now. I’m so sorry! I’ll get this changed right away!”

(I rush off to the kitchen.)

Me: “One of the ladies at table eight says that her roast pudding is burnt. Could you swap it for a lighter one?”

Chef: “It’s not burnt. Bloody h***. Let’s take a look at this batch and find one she might like.”

(We find the palest one we can find and I go back out.)

Me: “I’m so sorry about that. Here’s your meal. The chef assured me that they aren’t burnt. The Yorkshire puddings just look a bit darker than you would expect because they are made from scratch and baked. If you pull it apart, it still comes apart like bread and doesn’t flake.”

Woman: “Hmmf!”

Me: “Is it still not to your liking? If not, the chef cooks them in batches, so I can get another one for you in about five minutes. If you don’t want to wait, I’m more than happy to get you some more meat or potatoes, instead.”

Woman: “What I want is an unburnt roast pudding!”

(She shoves the dish at me and spills hot gravy on my hands.)

Woman’s Daughter: “For God’s sake, Mum! Every restaurant!”

Me: “It’s no trouble.” *forced smile* “I’ll just go check on the kitchen and get you a new one.”

(I go back to the kitchen and the chef hands me a plate of roast puddings.)

Me: “What’s this for?”

Chef: “That’s the new batch. Check if she can find one she likes. Let the table have the rest if they want them.”

(I go back to the table.)

Woman: “Every single one of these is burnt! Can’t you do anything right?! A roast pudding is meant to be beige! Light brown! Not mahogany! Not the colour of my bloody coffee table!”

Me: *silently goes back to the kitchen and explains what happened*

Chef: “I’ll make her one special. The colour she wants.” *sarcastically* “As this woman clearly knows how to cook a roast pudding better than me! You know what? I think she’s thinking of those cheap crappy ones you buy at the supermarket.”

(I take out the newly-cooked Yorkshire pudding. It’s light brown, undercooked, and almost raw in the middle. Her family has finished eating.)

Woman: “That’s what I’m talking about! Finally! That’s the right colour!”

(The woman takes a bite of the gooey mess, only held together by a ring of almost-cooked batter. I see the look on her face. It’s clearly underdone, but she’s made such a fuss to get what she wanted, it’s obvious she can’t back down.)

Me: “Is it to your liking?”

Woman: “It’s perfect. Thank you!”

(As I walk away, I hear…)

Woman’s Daughter: “Next time, we’re leaving you at home with your cheap Aunt Bessie’s!”