Dude, Where's My Steak

I woke up Monday morning in Itaewon (Seoul) with swollen eyelids. While this wasn’t terribly noticeable to my unobservant company, it was rather disconcerting to me. This called for sunglasses indoors. After perusing through What The Book? (a fantastic book store in Itaewon that was so stock full of English titles that I nearly lost my pants), hunger set it. The consensus was that our hangovers weren’t in the mood for Korean. The Tall One’s pleas for Mexican were immediately vetoed by my lactose intolerance. The Shanster, who is even more of a Yes Person than I am, was patiently waiting for somebody else to make a decision. The Tall One and I finally decided that we should trek back to The Rocky Mountain Tavern, home of my Coors Light (my love of weak beer has been duly noted, thanks) and Caesar salad from the night before. I remembered being disappointed to learn that The Rocky Mountain Tavern thought that Caesar salad could exist without some form of bacon, but allowed the fond memory of Coors Light dripping down my throat to impair my judgment such that I thought returning was a fantastic idea. Oy.

The first of several servers that we would be dealing with that day approached our table to collect drink orders. The Shanster, who always orders Sprite, spit out her request immediately. I had the audacity to look towards the beverage menu. The server responded to this highly offensive gesture by immediately walking away. Interesting. A few minutes later another server returned to take our food orders, as the previous one was clearly under the impression that seeking knowledge as to what there is to drink is a sign that one isn’t terribly parched. The Shanster and I ordered steak and whatever-came-with-it. The Tall One is neither man enough for steak, nor did she receive the memo that it was Steak Time. She ordered chicken quesadillas. I managed to sneak an order of gingerale (more or less the best nonalcoholic carbonated beverage ever) on the end by making sure not to foolishly look at the menu while doing so.

Twenty minutes pass. The Tall One begins to get a little fussy. I ensure her that they’re taking a while because I requested my steak well done; I have a fancy for burnt food. The Shanster looks unconcerned, probably because she had tuned us out twenty minutes earlier. Just as the words of reassurance were spilling from my mouth, the server who took our food orders gingerly approached our table. With a post-it. And no food. He sheepishly leans on the booth and asks which of us ordered steak. The Shanster and I answer in the affirmative. Our server, who looks truly sorry to be a part of this moment, advises us that he is sorry. Terribly sorry. There isn’t any steak. The three of us exchanged stunned looks of disbelief before I flap my trap: “Dude, we’ve been waiting 20 minutes”.

Mind numbing.

In twenty minutes, with only two other tables to take care of, neither of the three servers or the cook thought to pass on the memo that there was no steak. How the fuck do you possibly drop the ball on that? I’ve been a server. You take an order, bring it back to the kitchen, and return to the kitchen when it’s ready for pickup. If there is a problem with the order, the kitchen immediately notifies the server. Absolutely nowhere in that line of communication, over the course of twenty minutes, did anybody stop to think: Dude, where’s the steak? What do you mean there’s no steak? I’m going to spend my next five months in Korea randomly asking people: “Dude, where’s my fucking steak?!” and nobody is going to get it. And nobody should. Because this is not something that one should even conceive of having possibly occurred. Blasphemy.

Our server looked rather ashamed and apologized profusely, before asking if we’d like to order something else. A brief team meeting brought us to the consensus that we were far too lazy to get up and go elsewhere at this point. The Shanster and I ordered chicken fingers. I figured at this point they’d screwed up so epically that things could only improve. This was kind of like that time I didn’t go to intro biology all semester long and thought that I could pass the course merely by skimming the textbook 6 hours before the exam. Or that time that I thought eating three tins of cheese balls over 24 hours was a good idea. Or any time that I’m found near the tequila. What seem like great ideas at the time, scream so obviously of imminent failure that only I would bother to take them for a spin. Your suspicion that I’m at least part idiot is not incorrect.

The Tall One forgot that we were too lazy to get up and go elsewhere and decided to run off and get a coffee at Dunkin’ Donuts down the street, in order to blow some steam off and hopefully suppress her desire to go postal on The Rocky Mountain Tavern. The Shanster and I waited for another ten minutes before they finally brought The Tall One’s quesadillas. Apparently it takes half an hour to cook chicken; that, or they had to slay a cat out in the back alley to conceal that there wasn’t any chicken either. A few minutes later, our chicken fingers followed. Saddened as I was that this was not steak, I was willing to make the best of it. I watched the Shanster chew her way through one without keeling over and decided that it was safe to proceed. I was horribly mistaken. One bite lead to the discovery that my chicken finger tasted a trifle strange and felt a little slimier than it ought to. One look determined that the chicken was pinker than pink. Uncooked chicken fingers; just the encore I was looking for after twenty minutes of No Steak.

All kinds of special.

Disbelief. Yet, still too lazy to leave the restaurant. Afterall, I had swollen eyelids and a sports injury to boot! After picking through all of my chicken fingers to confirm that it wasn’t my imagination, that their cook is in fact 5 years old, we called the server over to collect them. I absolutely abhor being rude to my servers. Thankfully I was simply too tired and mind broken to muster up words. Unable to look at him for fear of either screaming profanities or breaking into hysterical laughter, I handed the server my basket and said: “Not cooked. Not cooked!”

Eventually they brought me another set of chicken fingers. Oddly, I didn’t feel like eating at this point. I needed a bloody coffee. While the delivery of the coffee itself went smoothly, they dropped the ball on cream and sugar. Who drops off a coffee without offering cream and sugar? Once again, the server was gone before I could open my mouth with another request. This alone would normally be enough to stun me, but I was still struggling to understand what the fuck happened to my steak.

Seventeen dollars. Seventeen dollars for shoddy service, No Steak, black coffee, uncooked chicken fingers, and scores of lost brain cells that will never regenerate. The upside if that this has provided ample material with which to amuse myself for the rest of time. But seriously… where’s my fucking steak?