The Steaks Really Aren’t That High

My partner and I work graveyard shifts, and we rarely get days off together. When we do, we make as much of it as possible. This time, we decide to go get a nice dinner, and we go to a different steak house than we normally do. Our usual closes at ten, and it is pushing 11:30 pm.

Our waitress is prompt in greeting us after we sit down. It is obvious that she has some form of mental disability. It’s not a big deal, so we just order. He gets a NY strip and I order a filet, both medium rare.

Our orders are out promptly, and I can tell before I even finish cutting my steak that it is wrong. Medium rare steaks are pink with a red center, and this filet is far past that. If it was just a little more on the medium side, I wouldn’t bother with getting a new steak, but this is far past even well done. Fortunately, my partner’s came out just fine. I know I won’t eat this steak, so despite my anxiety about asking for a new one, I flag down our waitress.

Me: “Sorry, I hate to do this, but my steak is wrong.”

Waitress: “No, it isn’t.”

Me: “Well, yes, it is. I ordered a medium rare.”

I show her the inside of the steak, which is quite a solid brown, without even a fleck of pink.

Me: “This isn’t medium rare. This is at least well done.”

Waitress: “No, that’s medium rare.”

I show her my partner’s medium rare steak and explain that that is what medium rare looks like. She just looks confused and keeps repeating that my steak is medium rare. Eventually, my partner and I convince her to take my steak back.

A new steak is sent out for me shortly, but it isn’t brought by our waitress. Instead, it is brought by the chef.

Chef: “I’m so sorry about the last one. It most certainly was not medium rare. Can you cut this one to see if it is better?”

I cut it open and it is now a perfect medium rare. I show it to him and thank him for changing out my steak. A little bit passes, and our waitress comes by for refills on drinks and asks about my steak. I show her the (now partially eaten) steak and how it’s correct this time. She still looks confused but nods and continues on.

A couple of minutes pass, and another woman stops by our table.

Manager: “Good evening. I’m the manager, and I just wanted to make sure your steak was better this time.”

Me: “Oh, hi. Yeah, it’s perfect now.”

Manager: “That’s great. I saw the previous steak, and I don’t have a clue how anyone thought that was medium rare.”

Me: “Well, things just happen sometimes. But it’s all better now, so there’s that.”

The manager talked with us for a couple more minutes before leaving us in peace to eat. I had a feeling that she didn’t much like our waitress, so I made sure not to say anything negative about her. After all, she didn’t cook the steak. I certainly wasn’t expecting three people to check on my one steak, though!