My usual spiel when people order goes something like this:
“We use hickory wood to smoke our meat so it turns all the white meat, such as the ribs and chicken, pink. Please don’t think it is undercooked, it’s just pink.”
I say this about 20 times a night. It is written on the menu.
Tonight was no different. Towards the end of the evening, I gave a woman my little song and dance and damned if she didn’t call me over in a panic to tell me the chicken was raw.
I asked, “Remember I told you we used hickory wood to smoke our meat and it turns the chicken pink?”
She said, “Yes, but this is pink. It’s raw and I can’t eat raw chicken.”
Well, fuck me. I can’t argue with that. I felt like ripping pieces of the chicken off her plate and stuffing them in my mouth, John Belushi style, but I’m not ready to lose my job this week.