Anyone who has ever been out to dinner with me knows that if I have time to decide what I want to eat before the server comes for my drink order, that's a really bad sign. Menus are apparently kryptonite to me. I'm sure ancient Egyptian heiroglyphs have been translated faster than the time it takes for me to get through a menu. Even though there's absolutely no chance whatsoever of me actually ordering a salad as a main dish, I still have to look at the salad page. And the pasta page. And the appetizer page... you get the idea. I keep thinking maybe I'll try something new this time, but that never happens. "I'll have the steak sandwich, medium, with the Caesar salad."
Thankfully the food arrived faster than the server. On a scale ranging from 'still moving' to 'burnt offering', isn't medium supposed to still be pink in the middle? Fear of starving to death prevented me from asking if they can uncook it or something so it's less brown and a little more pink inside. Then I started to wonder why do I worry about making the server feel bad if our food isn't done quite right? It doesn't make sense, but most of the time it still stops me from saying anything. It's not like she's going to break down in tears about how I don't appreciate all the work she put into it, or how no one asks how her day is going. All she does is take my order and relay it to the kitchen. Half the time, someone else brings the food out anyway and I don't see my server until she comes back to ask if I want a refill (which, to her credit, she did). So, I quietly ate my more-well-than-medium steak. At least they brought the bread with it. We had one family dinner where I ordered a steak sandwich and had to ask for the bread. "How is it a sandwich without the bread?" Seriously. But that's another story.
Deep down in the scary frightening recesses of my subconscious, I believe 99% of my restaurant selection is based on what I want for dessert. The main course isn't the draw for me. I can get meat anywhere, and I really can't tell the difference between steak or ribs at Montana's, Boston Pizza, etc., but the dessert is the deciding vote. I was in the mood for probably one of the best non-ice cream desserts available, the Chocolate Explosion.
Normally, I'm all about portion size, but this little culinary masterpiece is plenty rich for its size (think Donald Trump as a midget). Moist chocolate cake, chocolate mousse, white chocolate chunks, and a few other excuses to squeeze in more chocolate. Don't judge me, I had the side salad to offset dessert. And yes, that's how it works in my world. I figure the steak is neutral, so the healthy salad cancels out the chocolate. That line of reasoning may be the reason my new pants don't fit...
Thankfully the food arrived faster than the server. On a scale ranging from 'still moving' to 'burnt offering', isn't medium supposed to still be pink in the middle? Fear of starving to death prevented me from asking if they can uncook it or something so it's less brown and a little more pink inside. Then I started to wonder why do I worry about making the server feel bad if our food isn't done quite right? It doesn't make sense, but most of the time it still stops me from saying anything. It's not like she's going to break down in tears about how I don't appreciate all the work she put into it, or how no one asks how her day is going. All she does is take my order and relay it to the kitchen. Half the time, someone else brings the food out anyway and I don't see my server until she comes back to ask if I want a refill (which, to her credit, she did). So, I quietly ate my more-well-than-medium steak. At least they brought the bread with it. We had one family dinner where I ordered a steak sandwich and had to ask for the bread. "How is it a sandwich without the bread?" Seriously. But that's another story.
Deep down in the scary frightening recesses of my subconscious, I believe 99% of my restaurant selection is based on what I want for dessert. The main course isn't the draw for me. I can get meat anywhere, and I really can't tell the difference between steak or ribs at Montana's, Boston Pizza, etc., but the dessert is the deciding vote. I was in the mood for probably one of the best non-ice cream desserts available, the Chocolate Explosion.
3 comments:
Brent did taxes for someone and they gave him a Keg gift card. Our steaks were also overdone and we pointed it out. They gave us a whole new dinner (after we ate the rest of the food waiting for the steaks)and they were overdone again. Our dinner was free. Brent, the most frugal person you'll meet, tried arguing with them. He has been kind of stingy with tips, but when our dinner was not how we wanted he tips generously out of guilt over complaining. What a guy.
But I think they said our meal would be free even before they realized they botched round 2, so if you can wait for the steak to be done right, if you have something else to keep you from starving to death, go ahead and let the know that's not what you asked for and it might disappear from the bill. Besides, you are just letting the server know, and it was the chef who didn't cook it properly. Which I guess means we shouldn't stiff her on the tip if she did her job well.
I think the picture alone made my pants not fit. Gary Gary Gary!
mmmmmmm...that looks really good!
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