It's never what -- but whom -- you know

Years ago, in an effort to encourage customer loyalty, the owners of my miserable restaurant created the "I Know the Owner" card (or....the "IKO" card, as it's affectionately called by the dozens of loud-mouths who waive it in the air like a stray ball from a Cubs game). 

Nothing makes the bile build in my stomach like serving an IKO card holder. The card makes the following provisions for its lucky owners: 

1) Immediately move to the front of the wait list regardless of the wait time for the other angry customers 

2) Receive a free dessert if the check averages out to more than $20-per-fat-ass 

3) Remind your server as often as you want that you know the owner and therefore expect the best service possible at a low-end Mexican restaurant where the staff is practically panting for a bloody revolution against the customers.  

The other night I had the pleasure of serving not one but two respective groups of IKO card-holders. The first was Bud, an awkward high school teacher who only dines at the restaurant when a discount and modest tip are involved. Bud is usually joined by his bizarre wife, who can go from civil to Sybil in a matter of seconds. 

They split an appetizer and two cocktails, meaning their check was several dollars short of the necessary $20/person to receive a free dessert. 

Bud and "Sybil" did not ask for a free dessert. They demanded a free dessert. 

"Don't you think, as often as we come here, that they should give us a free dessert regardless?" 

Riiiiiiiiiiiight, because the sale of one appetizer and two cheap drinks is what's keeping the restaurant afloat Bud. 

"Sorry, I don't make the rules. Wish I could help. Here's your check." 

Bud and Sybil one-up'd my triumphant display of indifference by calling over one of the owners. They were granted their free dessert and marked their territory by leaving me an even lower tip than usual. 

Thirty minutes later I was treated to a triumvirate of meatheads, one of whom held the sacred IKO card. I observed as they approached the host stand and asked about the wait. The poor hostess, new to the job and still polite, had never heard of the IKO card. The lead meathead deftly explained, in a mix of monosyllabic words and grunts, that he was to be sat stat. 

Naturally, their path lead to my section. Our exchange began with the usual joke that IKO-card-holders regale in telling:

"Hey bud, I Know The Owner, so you'd better be nice to me! Just kidding." 

My glare must have put the kibosh on his sense of entitlement, because I didn't hear about the card again. 

Until... 

He ordered his steak with "a little bit of RED in it." Not pink. Not brown. Red. That, to me -- a seasoned server with a knack for getting things right the first time for the sole reason of avoiding the customers -- spells medium rare/medium. 

Thus his steak arrived, "with a little bit of red in it," and our VIP customer was not happy.  

"There's not enough red," he said. 

"You asked for a little red. Did you want it rare?" 

"No. I wanted it the way I ordered it." 

So I had the kitchen cook up a bloody ribeye. 

"Now there's too much red." 

"Would you like something else? There isn't a lot of wiggle room between the two shades of red I've brought to the table." 

"You know...since I have this card, why don't you send one of the owners over and see if they can't fix this?" 

"(Sigh) Gladly." 

Minutes later, our owner brought out a different ribeye with the exact amount of red as the first steak I delivered to the table. 

"See, now that's a little bit of red," he said with the glib satisfaction of a 4th grader who just solved his first Encyclopedia Brown mystery. 

You can imagine the smile that crossed my face when I realized that his ribeye actually was the first one I delivered to the table. Even owners have a sense of humor.