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Wednesday, September 03, 2003


Wednesday, September 03, 2003 By , No comments

Manager (holding a mid-rare filet mignon): Stacey, do you mean table 44 or 45?
Me (confused...and yet so very articulate): Huh?
Manager (looking at me with derision): Where. Does. This. Steak. Go.
Me (more confused): All of my tables are already eating.
Manager (getting pissed that I'm taking up so much of his time with my utter nonsense, he finally pulls the recook ticket out of his pocket): Yes. This is the recook. The first steak was too done.
Me (looking at the ticket): Oh, this isn't mine, I -
Manager (interrupting, and raising his voice): Then why is your name on the ticket?!
Me (looking at him steadily): [Name deleted], this ticket is two hours old. It's for a ribeye, not a filet, and the side item should be a loaded baked potato, not a sweet potato. This is not my steak.

Manager throws the item back in the kitchen's heat window and stomps off.

Me (quietly, and to no one in particular): How is that my fault?


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