"The cook's not gonna like it if you put catsup on 'em" the waiter whispered, nodding to my plate. I quickly replied that i was the one paying for it and I didn't care what the cook thought.
Bring me some catsup. Seconds later, as if a Hollywood central casting department were involved, a stocky fellow wearing white pants, a sleeveless undershirt covered by a semi-white apron, with
an assortment of stains, some of which sure did look alot like blood, arrived at my table. In one hand was a meat cleaver. The hand could have easily held a bottle of catsup. But it didn't. In
a not so friendly voice he asked, "Is there a problem?" Suddenly I realized I didn't need catsup after all. Would I go back there? You're darn right I would. The steak was good and those fries
were some of the best I've ever eaten. But more important, for years it has provided me with a story to tell.
