Billy vs. The Frozen Balls

I spent my last two years of high school working at a pizza place where I developed all my horrific eating habits and stuffing my face with free pizza and soda every work day. That was the huge drawback to this job. The positives were my sweet minimum wage paycheck that allowed me to spend my weekends playing poker, buying Maxim magazines and eating McDonalds, and it helped me developed an enormous amount of respect for people in any form of the food industry. I feel sympathy for anyone that has to deal with food, or deal with people ordering food. It can be a horrendous experience as you work with impatient people that want their food a certain way. I felt similar sympathy for our waiter at a popular chain restaurant last weekend. I don't want to give away business for them, so let's just say the place was called "Thank Goodness It's Thursday"

My friend ordered their new meatball sandwich, and it came out fairly quick. In fact, all the service was really impressive that night for the most part. Until of course, my friend actually went to EAT the meatball sandwich, and discovered two things:

1) The meatball didn't taste like a traditional meatball. It tasted like something that had died a slow and painful death under a sink two years ago. It had a distinct texture of sand and tasted like a fungus of some kind. Flat out not edible.

2) The meatballs were straight up frozen on the inside.

Just rock hard. I do not get how that happens. I don't get how that gets served. Needless to say, my friend flagged the waiter down and explained the situation.

Now, whenever something went wrong at the pizza place, I would usually take the blame. Even if it wasn't my fault, it was an unspoken law that you just don't throw someone under the bus if they fucked up. The cooks have enough to worry about, and while it IS their fault, you've become the face of the place and it's your fault. That's just how things are. Until our waiter took a stand.

"Are you serious? I'm sorry, Our chef is just fucking terrible tonight."

Awkward silence for a few seconds. The waiter clearly realizes he has crossed the unspoken line, and we realize we can't jump on board the hate train, or it could lead to food with several kinds of personal chef liquids inside it. The waiter broke the silence and offered to get him a new meal on the house, which he did, and the meal went on without incident. We tipped the waiter fairly well, because we felt bad and we were impressed with his honestly, but it also taught us to never trust ice cold balls ever again.