Chateaubriande ala floor
I can't remember how to spell that correctly for now, but the story goes as such:
About twenty years ago, I was working in a restaurant called Delia's in East Aurora, New York. We served ceasar salads made tableside and cut shanks of filet and lamb chops and served them tableside. Chateaubriande takes at least 35 minutes to cook med to med well and even though every guest was warned, they often became itchy for their food as time went by, stopping us to check on the progress every few minutes.
One night, I picked up my food and headed for the service stairs to the upstairs dining room. The stairs were covered with tablecloths and napkins as the laundry bin was at the base of the stairs and bussers were too lazy to run them down, so they tossed them from the top of the stairs and they would land haphazardly all over. I had to negotiate this trail of linen and, of course, would occasionally trip. This night I did and the filet slipped off the back and rolled all the way down to the foot of the stairs. I screamed and Ron, the sous chef, came over, immediately saw the meat, picked it up and brushed it off with his dirty chef's rag and called to the kitchen to fire up more vegetables. Of course I served it. Hell, a couple extra minutes on the grill would kill anything and burn off any rug threads, right?
About twenty years ago, I was working in a restaurant called Delia's in East Aurora, New York. We served ceasar salads made tableside and cut shanks of filet and lamb chops and served them tableside. Chateaubriande takes at least 35 minutes to cook med to med well and even though every guest was warned, they often became itchy for their food as time went by, stopping us to check on the progress every few minutes.
One night, I picked up my food and headed for the service stairs to the upstairs dining room. The stairs were covered with tablecloths and napkins as the laundry bin was at the base of the stairs and bussers were too lazy to run them down, so they tossed them from the top of the stairs and they would land haphazardly all over. I had to negotiate this trail of linen and, of course, would occasionally trip. This night I did and the filet slipped off the back and rolled all the way down to the foot of the stairs. I screamed and Ron, the sous chef, came over, immediately saw the meat, picked it up and brushed it off with his dirty chef's rag and called to the kitchen to fire up more vegetables. Of course I served it. Hell, a couple extra minutes on the grill would kill anything and burn off any rug threads, right?
posted by manicgirl at 7:31 AM
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