Cubed, Skewered, Chopped
Boisterous, done-up middle-age men wearing collared shirts. Tight-faced women in flowing maxi dresses, arms and necks dripping bling. Six of them, three of each kind. Drinking vodka. Then the seventh, this guy on the end of the table wearing flip flops, jeans, and a t-shirt, asks for a beer.
I get the drinks and begin to take the rest of the table’s order.
Everything is going fine, albeit with many modifications, substitutions, specificities, and the women keep interrupting one another, while asking questions about the menu, to continue a conversation they’re having, but I’m getting it all down, the moules frites (no cream), the salmon (rare), the chicken paillard (no garlic).
Then Mr. Flip Flop says, “I would like the steak—the kitchen needs to cut it into cubes and skewer it.”