new york beef

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It's 10:30pm, and I've just walked into the men's restroom to take out the trash before I leave when I hear the phone ring.  I turn around and rush to answer the phone on the third ring.  "Thank you for calling Champps at Easton, Columbus' premier sports bar.  This is Craig; how can I help you?"  I hear a loud mumbling as I turn down the volume on the phone.  "I'm sorry?"
"Hello?  Can you hear me loud and clear?"
"Yes."
"You sound kinda muffled, son.  Speak up like you got a pair."
"Ok.  What can I do for you?"
At this point, I expect the man on the other end to laugh and tell me he's actually a Champps employee and ask to speak to so-and-so.  Unfortunately, this is not the case.
"I'm pissed off.  I just had some shitty room-service and I'm pissed, but that's not your fault.  What kind of steaks you got?"
I offer a steak from the standard menu, but apparently that isn't good enough.
"What's the most expensive steak you got?  I'm really pissed; I had some shitty room-service."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Not your fault."
"Let me get our steak menu.  One second."
After retrieving the steak/wine menu, I list the three most expensive steaks.  I begin to read the description for the third steak, trying to sound like I'm not reading from the menu, but I read too far.
"...Juicy and rich in flavor. (Oops.)"
"I'll have that...as long as it's rich in flavor."
"(Heh) Ok, let me make sure we can actually serve these steaks to-go."
Apparently, the man is just waiting for something to set him off.  He's been dying to flex his asshole muscles and dump his load of putrid shit on me.
"Dammit, I called the wrong place again! Fuckin' this, piece of shit that, etc...How long've you been working here, son?"
"A few months.  The steak menu is fairly new, and I've never had anyone order a steak from this menu to-go."
"I don't fucking care.  I'm from New York.  When I want something, I want it now.  When I order a steak, I want you to tell me it'll be ready in fifteen fucking minutes. Now, I want..."
Click.

I know it's the right thing to do, but I instantly regret saying nothing.  I would love to had said something along the lines of, "Sir, I'll give you whatever you want if you can answer one question for me.  Why should I give a fuck who you are or where you're from?  ...  That's what I thought.  You had shitty room-service because you're a fucking asshole.  I'm sure you're used to everyone in New York bending over and taking your shit, but around here, we treat people with at least some basic respect.  Have a good night, and go fuck yourself."  Click.
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urban-omnivore's avatar
yea, wouldn't it be nice to go back in time sometimes and just copy and paste those little thoughts into our sub-conscience? Oh well, don't worry- you'll get the next one.