Drenched in Memories

Nope, not the movie with the alcoholic antisemite.

Fuck that guy!

This is a short story of a funny day in what feels like a past life as an F&B’r.  I’d like to share as much of it as I can remember. I’m sure you’ve all had your fair share of crazy happenings as well.



| Image by S&W Las Vegas

On 3767  Las Vegas Blvd stood an enormous 3-story 600-plus-seat restaurant. 

A fortress of green and white hues, nestled next to the MGM Grand. Ugly and beautiful at the same time. 

For nine eventful years, I was immersed in its lively atmosphere, serving amidst the glitz and glamour, with memories as vivid as the neon lights outside.

This upscale steakhouse, with its premium prices and discerning guests, was where I refined my skills.

Dressed in crisp white shirts, green ties, and jackets, we navigated the fine line between elegance and expectation.

After a year or so, they asked me to switch to the grill. It was the more laid-back side, the overflow for the main dining area, open for lunch and late nights.

Still serving amazing steaks as well as other additions.

The grill was tucked in the front corner of the massive joint, right on the Vegas Strip.

Tourists shuffling by while we’re slinging steaks, and hustlers peddling cards with ‘nighttime companions’ plastered on them, just a few feet away. 

 We ran the grill like it was our own little restaurant within the restaurant. Working in pairs as front and back servers, a small close crew in and out of work.

As S&W was known for its great steaks we also had this killer sauce, thick and tangy it was so good we bottled it up and sold it to tourists.

When marking our tables we’d place a whole bottle of our signature steak sauce alongside the utensils.

On this particularly  busy day,

I found myself engaged in conversation with my table after serving their meal, and inexplicably, I reached for their bottle of steak sauce.

I proceeded to shake the bottle vigorously.

It’s possible that the cap was broken or not screwed on all the way, or maybe I’m just an idiot.

Probably just the latter.

Next thing I know, sauce is flying everywhere, coating everything in a ten-foot radius.

There’s this young man at the table, fresh baseball cap still with the tag on, downing his burger,

Oblivious or just pretending to be as the sauce is raining down upon him. It felt like slow motion. 

His cap’s brim is dripping sauce like a fountain, as I frantically try to mop it up with a napkin.

The table behind not aware that the entire back of his cheesy but expensive Tommy Bahama shirt is now brown with steak sauce.

I look over and my wonderful co-workers are laughing hysterically.

And with all the commotion I hadn’t noticed, that I am also covered from head to toe with steak sauce.

Dripping from my hair down my face to my shirt and shoes. 

My friend  Val goes “You look like Braveheart” 

 3 free meals for my customers and a new shirt from the store next to us and I was back to work ,

never to  pick up a bottle of steak sauce again.