Writing exercise

Pen Dragons meeting, April 15, 2008. Yes it's old. I'm trying to consolidate my past self-publishing.


"I want to see your manager!"

The words carried throughout the entire establishment, but Donald stayed out of sight until the waitress bore the bad news to him personally. He hated to deal with unhappy customers, the worst part of running a high-scale restaurant, and right this moment longed for his hash-slinging days. He glanced out the window. A perfect spring day, just right for fishing, and he was stuck here dealing with irate customers.

"It's the Garret party," the girl informed him. "The big wedding rehearsal dinner." Of course, it had to be.

"What seems to be the problem?" Don asked the disgruntled diner. Seated at the head of the long table (actually a series of short tables hastily pushed together), in the "father of the bride" position. Which meant he was paying for all of this, which probably meant that Don was looking at a loss of profit for the entire party's dinner.

The man explained at the same volume that had begun his tirade. "This steak is the problem!" he shouted. "I ordered medium rare, this damn thing is bloody all through!"

Donald put on his best fake smile. "Of course it is, how could such a thing happen. Let me take care of this immediately, sir." So far, so good, Don thought. Maybe he could get out of this with a complimentary dessert.

Behind the swinging kitchen doors, another obstacle awaited. Robert ("Ro-BAIR, mah name eez Ro-BAIR") had attended culinary school in Paris and never let anyone forget it. Don approached the chef with the offending slab as one might a sacrifice for the altar.

"Robert, please put this back on the grill for a bit longer. The customer wants it cooked more," Don asked apologetically.

The chef took one look at the plate and exploded into a rant of his own. "He ask for medium rare, I geeve heem medium rare! Eet eez cook to pairfeck-shee-onne!"

Before Donald could answer, Robert continued. "And look! Eet eez smoth-aired in peppair, suffocated in salt, and zair eez KETCHUP on zee plate! KETCHUP!!! Non! I weel not cook for zis cretin!"

This was a typical reaction, and any other day Donald would have taken the trouble to smooth ruffled feathers. But today, the trout were singing to him from the lake, backed up by a chorus of catfish. The chef's tone and accent grated dissonantly in his ears against such music. Something in Donald snapped.

"Fine," he said, "Ro-BURT. Don't doo eet. You're fired."

And with that, Don stepped past his astonished ex-employee. With a practiced hand, he slapped the meat over the flame, for just long enough to brown the edges and still keep the middle pink. "Order up!" he shouted to the waitress.

In his mind, the trout sang a triumphant hallelujia chorus.