It's IN the Meat...

A post from Pearl over at Pearl-Why You Little got me remembering my own time working in the food industry...

My worst nightmare as a server was people finding things in their food that should not be there.

Like the time my best friend Scary Sarah (yes, we shared the same name, but she got the moniker Scary while I was just plain Sarah, that tells you something, dunnit?) accidentally lost her bandaid while working the line at Burger King...and found it later on when a customer complained and came back in the store.

One evening I'm working my tables at the local Denny's diner. This was a silver monstrosity pieced together much like a huge Lego set, complete with black and white tiled floors that were more slippery than the bobsled tracks at the Olympics and featured glaring sparkly red and white upholstery.

I believe the thought was to make you feel as though you had walked through a time-warp upon entering, bringing you to the nostalgic times of the 50's when diners such as this were standard fair.

On this particular evening, I scooted over to my table bearing the loaded tray of food previously ordered, T-bone steak included. I hand the plates off and ask if everything looks okay, receive the affirmative nods, and zoom off to check on my other tables.

When serving, I tried to be diligent about coming back shortly after serving the food in case there were problems. This time they beat me to it, damn them.

I look over and I can see the slightly overweight middle-aged woman waving at me from across the smoking section. I briskly walk over and produce the Sookie-esque fake smile. "Is there something wrong?"
The woman holds up her husband's T-bone and declares loudly, "There's a HAIR in my husband's steak!"

I'm horrified but manage to keep from backing away. My thoughts immediately flash to the long-haired cook in back, the surefire culprit. I struggle not to think any of this, however, as my face is more transparent than a wet white t-shirt.

"I'm so sorry ma'am, we'll get you another right away," I say, trying not to panic even as I try to gauge her. Is she one of those people, the ones for whom nothing will fix it?

"No problem," she replies and my shoulders slump in relief.

They go right back up in incredulity, however, as she continues.

"It's not your fault, dear. I can see this hair is coming right out of the steak, I believe it was the food manufacturer's fault!"

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Surely she understands that a t-bone is not a hamburger? How can the hair be coming out of the steak? Unless that was one freaky cow, I believe Occam's razor is still in effect: All things being equal, the simplest explanation is often the correct one.

But I'm not about to argue with her, and I whisk the offending slice of meat off the table and a short time later provide a new one for the silent husband.

Nothing else goes amiss--they eat, pay, tip decently, and leave. We even had some fun small talk to share during the remaining part of their visit.

*whew* Disaster averted!

Come to think of it, I believe Sarah's BK customer also claimed they found the bandaid within the meat and therefore she escaped the blame...well, that, and the fact that a new bandaid found its way to her finger immediately.

Truly, however, in my experience this was the exception, not the norm. I have no problem eating out to this day...