LEADVILLE, CO – Server Stacey Jones at Well Done My Good And Faithful Servant steakhouse winced as her customer at table 47 ordered the $54 Filet mignon plate well-done. From her previous experience at other restaurants, she expected there to be a riot in the kitchen when she rang it in. But little did she know that the grill cook on duty, Mark Harrison, would be breathing a sigh of relief. “Unlike the mediums and below, I don’t have to keep my eye on it and worry about forgetting it and letting it overcook,” says Harrison, “I can just set it and forget it while I work on, you know, the 37 other things going on at the same time. It just takes a little of the pressure off.” Mark has noted that he has never had a well-done steak sent back because it was overcooked. Furthermore, he notes he does not get anxious watching it continue to cook under the heat lamp, unlike the medium-rares, which are usually medium by the time they actually leave the kitchen (thanks food runners). “Everyone thinks us chefs hate seeing a perfectly good filet mignon go to waste being cooked to well-done. But at the end of the day, I’m not the one paying money to eat it, so why should I care?” Reports say the customer was disappointed in the steak, saying it was “dry”, “chewy” and “took longer for us to be served than the table next to us, who ordered the fish and chips”.
HERE, MY STATE -- I woke up this morning, like all mornings, on the couch in my parents’ basement with a hangover that could put Bacchus down for the day. I know I have a limited amount of time before work, only enough time to watch Failure to Launch twice in a row while crying into my favorite morning after breakfast: Instant FUCKING Ramen. So I roll off the futon I call home and army crawl my way to the kitchen: a microwave placed directly on top of a mini-fridge next to the toilet. The most efficient way to get Instant Ramen, ambrosia of the line cooks, to its final resting place. And guess what I see?! NO FUCKING RAMEN!! So here I am, praying to the porcelain god to release me from this hangover and this nightmare that is being without my ‘men. And I know, in my heart of hearts, I know that one of those dick-less wonders I work with stole it. They must have thought this would be a great fucking prank to play on me. Sneak into my parents' house after I’m passed out drunk and eat what is rightfully mine, even if my parents do still pay for all my groceries. And the assholes didn’t even make it right! There’s broken noodles all over the floor and futon. There’s even some in my hair for christ’s sake. How big of a dumbass do you have to be to fuck up Instant Ramen. You literally just pour water in it and throw it in the microwave. And I will fight any pervert that tells me they heat up the water before pouring it in. Not all’s lost, I guess; at least they left me the chili spice packet. My adderall script ran out the other day.
HERE, MY STATE -- Alright first things first idiots, Iiiiiiii’m drunk. That’s not all. I’m pissed. Can, can we just, can you all just let me just rant for a fucking second. Cause it’s gonna happen whether you like it or not. So you can all either just glance over what the fuck I’m gonna say, or settle your dicks down and listen to what I’m about to preach. And I’ll have you know, it’ll awaken your mind to a problem that is not getting addressed by the lame-stream media. So here I am, part of the blame-stream media to let you all know, and to let the world know, Instant Ramen cups are full of lies. I put in a solid 10 hours at work today. Five on the clock, 5 spent drinking and socializing with my cohorts. You have to make sure you’re all friends after that bullshit, you know what I mean. I might not, but hopefully you do. So here I am, a certain amount of sheets to the wind, on my way home, pretending I don’t smell like booze and cigarettes so maybe the Uber driver won’t notice; just seriously considering my options. What Instant Ramen cup am I going to ultimately fail, but try to sober myself up with? A question that has racked the brains of the mightiest of our times. Aristotle, Einstein, Bezos, and Burnham, all the greats of our time. So there I am, scrolling through the galleries of Ramen pictures I have in my phone as the ultimate foreplay to a late night snack; drooling like a sorority girl over Marshmallow Fluff, smelling my own breath, and wishing I didn’t have to work in the morning. Fully expecting Top Ramen to have my back, but knowing that Chef’s Table is going to be the only inspiration for my late night cuisine. Mustard in pasta: "Fuck it! What do you have to lose?" Only about 98 cents. You have another one, try buffalo sauce next time; and pretend you’re the offspring of Gordon Ramsey and Guy Fieri’s wet dream. It’s a dream of a cream. Wink Wink. But now the problem is: you have to wait 3 minutes. What the literal fuck? I thought it said “instant”. Last time I read it, it said “instant”. So here I am now, 3 in the fucking morning, digging my hands through the kitchen trash, trying to excavate this fucking empty styrofoam cup that I threw away like a goddam idiot. You can literally cook the pasta in the cup, you don’t need to pour it into a bowl. What the fuck was I thinking? I sure as shit wasn't going to pre-boil the water and pour it into the Cup like some kind of pervert. The only people that do that exclusively watch incest porn. I guarantee it. So you know what I did? I ate that shit raw. That's right, I said to myself: "Fuck it, we're doing it live," and just dug into that motherfucker. Ya it was crunchy, and it cut the fuck out of my mouth, and it reminded me of the time I tried to eat a spoonful of cinnamon in 2nd grade and I threw up at lunch. True story. That actually happened. I have no idea where the fuck the cinnamon came from but I grew up upper middle class so we had excess money for shit like extra cinnamon. Call this a latent cry for help, a commentary on childhood nutrition, a good old time; I don't care. Just know that: square pizza is best pizza. I don’t know where I’ve gone with this article but goddammit I hope you do. p.s. I know news articles don’t have post-scripts but fuck it, here you go: If you ever really need a bump, or a snortski of adderral but nobody is providing, pro-tip: do a line of that chili ramen spice. It’ll get you to where you need to be.
GRAND RAPIDS, MI -- Josh Grinnell heard his cell phone ringing for the third time today. He had promised himself he wouldn't accept any calls from work, but there was a deep nagging in him to do so. “Sweetheart, it's your first real vacation in 7 years,” Josh’s girlfriend reminded him, “the restaurant will still be there when you get back. Go spend time with your family.” Meanwhile, in hell, Peter Porter looked at the restaurant's phone dumbfounded. “He...he didn't pick up, I guess we should open or something.” It appeared to the staff that their family friendly diner had been somehow sucked through a portal into the place of eternal damnation. As the doors were unlocked and a sea of unholy demonic figures swarmed the restaurant, Josh felt a chill come over him and a bead of sweat make its way down his forehead. Peter sighs and lets out a final, “Man, I hate Sundays.”
WESTWOOD, KS-- The staff at Sk8r Poi, a local crust-punk-Hawaiian cuisine output, was incredibly upset when the managers cracked down on the “no drinking during shifts” policy. The rule had been on the books since the restaurant opened, but the original GM, Gregory Serrano, was a known alcoholic who regularly bent the rules to his liking. He held the firm belief that no employee could be expected to work an entire shift without even a single alcoholic beverage, and he was known to pressure underage bussers and hosts to drink with him (hence, he is no longer the general manager of the establishment). A new manager rose from the ashes, like a Mormon phoenix, to pull Sk8r Poi back together after the restaurant had received two strikes and currently faces the very real danger of losing its liquor license. “I’m cracking down,” said Rebecca Bunch at the staff meeting she called on her first day on the job. “I know how lax the rules about alcohol consumption have been around here, but that has not been good for us as a restaurant, as a team, and as God’s children.” One of the dishwashers awkwardly tried to hide the tall boy he had brought to the meeting, and a bartender, in the midst of pouring Jameson into a line cook’s mug as he handed her a sandwich, dropped the bottle on the floor. Miraculously, it didn’t break, but rolled excruciatingly slowly and loudly around the room, expelling its contents at everyone’s feet. Things became more difficult after that. Sure, ticket times got a little better and the front of house made fewer blatant omissions in their sidework, but morale had never been lower. The front of house staff gradually quit and were replaced by fresh faces who had no knowledge of or nostalgia for the good old days. The stalwart back of house, however, stuck it out. They knew things would get better eventually. They knew Rebecca Bunch would ultimately crack or forget about her stupid rules. They knew how annoying it would be to leave and try to find jobs elsewhere. Eventually, they came up with a new system. Josh Chan, the line cook chosen after a few minutes of hasty discussion because he was the most presentable-looking that day/the least disliked by FOH, sauntered up to the bar with a metal ⅙ pan. “Hey,” he said to the bartender at the time, a little too loudly but trying his best to appear casual. “Just getting some whiskey for the new special entree’s sauce.” He tried to maintain eye contact to gauge the reaction as he began pouring well whiskey into his container. The newly hired bartender Heather Davis, who had no reason to be suspicious besides Josh’s suspicious demeanor, shrugged and continued polishing glasses. “Okay, whatever.” Josh breathed a sigh of relief and hurried back to the kitchen with half the whiskey bottle in his ⅙ pan. A new tradition was born. A week later, the FOH staff was jokingly telling guests how much they enjoyed the Poi Boy special because of the amount of whiskey in the sauce. Josh did his panhandling ritual at the beginning, middle, and end of every shift he worked, and Heather informed the new bartenders she was training because of the continuously high FOH turnover rate that he was just getting whiskey for the sauce. “What’s going to happen when the special ends?” Sauce On the Side asked the BOH staff, after listening enraptured to the story up to this point. Josh Chan shrugged. “We’ll say the new penne needs a pint of vodka per order. Or that we started sauteeing everything with wine. Last week, we told everyone that our supplier ran out of sherry permanently. We always think of something.” We left the kitchen staff to their brainstorming and went out to the bar to interview Heather and her trainee of the day. “They don’t have to work so hard,” Heather said, rolling her eyes. “We know they’re just drinking everything they pour back there, we honestly just really don’t care. Ms. Bunch thinks we’re all idiots, so there’s no way we’d actually be blamed for letting that much alcohol go missing even if she finds out. I’ve just been writing it on the spill sheet, and so far she hasn’t batted an eye. That’s how dumb she thinks we are.” Last we heard, Josh and the rest of the BOH staff were still delighted to be pulling one over on their manager and the FOH. We’ll be following the story to see how long this lasts.