Medium rare
What do you do if you order a restaurant steak and it's not cooked to your taste? I ordered my steak medium rare at lunch today and it arrived well done.
Well woopty doo, my youngest son would have said. I know what he means. For no more than a nanosecond I thought about sending it back. That's all it took to take a grip of my senses. I'm no shrinking violet. I don't mind making a fuss. But I'm not going to make a scene about an overcooked steak that, had it been returned, would have gone to waste.
Some would argue that to tolerate poor service is to condone a culture of second best. Maybe it is. But I don't want to live in an intolerant society. I don't want to upbraid the railway guard for the lateness of the train or the shop assistant for the faulty product. I don't want to chew off the call centre operative for a mistake that probably has much more to do with cheese pairing employment policies in the face of cutthroat competition.
I don't want to scream at the parking attendant writing a ticket to fill an unrealistic quota (I do actually, but must restrain myself). I don't want to send back a new shirt because it's missing a button. I don't want to demand a refund because a page is torn in the book I've just bought. It's OK about these things. I have buttons in a box and if I can read the words the book is fine.
Every day I count my blessings that I was fortunate to be born in to one of the world's wealthiest societies where we can enjoy the luxury of muttering about slow service or tutting over some slightly ripped packaging.
The steak was fine. I would have enjoyed it more had it been pinker in the middle. Just now, however, I'm wondering what those Senegalese refugees ate yesterday as they huddled together in their leaking open boat, risking everything for just one chance to have one tiny fraction of what I have.
Well woopty doo, my youngest son would have said. I know what he means. For no more than a nanosecond I thought about sending it back. That's all it took to take a grip of my senses. I'm no shrinking violet. I don't mind making a fuss. But I'm not going to make a scene about an overcooked steak that, had it been returned, would have gone to waste.
Some would argue that to tolerate poor service is to condone a culture of second best. Maybe it is. But I don't want to live in an intolerant society. I don't want to upbraid the railway guard for the lateness of the train or the shop assistant for the faulty product. I don't want to chew off the call centre operative for a mistake that probably has much more to do with cheese pairing employment policies in the face of cutthroat competition.
I don't want to scream at the parking attendant writing a ticket to fill an unrealistic quota (I do actually, but must restrain myself). I don't want to send back a new shirt because it's missing a button. I don't want to demand a refund because a page is torn in the book I've just bought. It's OK about these things. I have buttons in a box and if I can read the words the book is fine.
Every day I count my blessings that I was fortunate to be born in to one of the world's wealthiest societies where we can enjoy the luxury of muttering about slow service or tutting over some slightly ripped packaging.
The steak was fine. I would have enjoyed it more had it been pinker in the middle. Just now, however, I'm wondering what those Senegalese refugees ate yesterday as they huddled together in their leaking open boat, risking everything for just one chance to have one tiny fraction of what I have.
Labels: employment, intolerant, medium rare, nanosecond, overcooked, quota, railway, Senegalese, shrinking violet, steak
posted by Richard Donkin at
6:58 PM
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