I never, ever...send anything back to a restaurant cook. I either eat the food, or I don't eat it. I learned this many years ago.
In a neighboring city once upon a time, a guy sent a steak back to the kitchen three times because it was undercooked. After the third attempt at cooking it, he ate part of it and put the rest in a doggie bag. After arriving home he became violently ill. Eventually he sent the remaining steak, via the police, to the state crime lab. It tested positive for urine and methamphetamine.
Of all restaurant patrons, nobody is more suspicious of cooks than the police. During my career, I busted my share of cooks. I picked my restaurants carefully. Eating in uniform gave the enemy a distinct advantage. Now those days are behind me and I can generally relax. I wear gaudy clothes, biker stuff sometimes, and I have even pierced my ears. I moved to a much bigger city. I would grow a ponytail if I could. The point being- is that nobody mistakes me for any kind of cop now.
So it was, the other night, I ordered fajitas at a South of the Border restaurant in Boise. When the fajitas came out, the sum total of steak in this particular dish was a 2 inch by 2 inch piece of meat. For fifteen bucks, I was underwhelmed. I mentioned it to the waitress who is a personal friend of mine, who mentioned it to the manager. The manager came out and said that they would cook an additional piece of steak. You know what I was thinking. Ugh. I had opened my mouth and set this chain of events into motion. Special sauce for yours truly. I have never eyed a piece of steak more warily than I did the one that came out of that kitchen 5 minutes later. Having survived, I will never go back to that restaurant. Which brings me to the subject of this piece...
Years ago, one of my best friends who is now the Chief of Police in Moonbat Valley, ordered a sandwich at a local sandwich shop in uniform. It was a slow day. The only kid working at the restaurant was a kid we had busted a couple of times for drug offenses. As my friend sat down and ate his sandwich, he noticed that the young man behind the counter kept staring at him as he ate. As soon as the kid wasn't watching, my friend opened up the sandwich and discovered pubic hairs and discoloration on the inside of the bread. It appeared as though the employee had simply wiped the toilet rim with the crust of bread. (A year or two later- my friend ordered at a local McDonald's drive thru, saw who prepared the food, and threw the whole to go order in the trash. That is a veteran move.)
Shortly thereafter, that restaurant/sandwich shop went out of business. Imagine that. That was many years ago. Since that time, I have often remarked to my friend from Moonbat Valley- that I have never been able to find a good pubic hair sandwich. To this day, I read every deli menu very carefully even while traveling. If I ever do find a good pubic hair sandwich I assure him- you'll be the first person I tell.