We're Gonna Need Another Minute

There are few things in life I consider so horrible that I wouldn’t wish them upon anybody else. One of them is the loss of a loved one. Another is a stubborn cold where you can’t breathe properly for a week and you realize how much of a luxury breathing is. A third, and perhaps worst of them all, is the arduous struggle of figuring out my family’s order at a high-end steakhouse.

“We’re gonna need another minute,” my mom said to the waiter. The waiter politely nodded and left to tend other tables.

“Now he’s never gonna come back!” shouted my dad too loudly, turning heads.

“Do you know what you want?” my mom responded.

“I want steak.”

“No shit, Carl, but there’s a bunch of different types of steaks and they’re to be shared.”

My dad let out a loud groan, correctly predicting that we had a long road ahead.

There were five of us. My mom, my dad, my brother, my sister and me. And we had to figure out the Rubik’s-cube-like complexity of matching everyone’s preferences with what was on the menu.

The options were: NY Prime Strip, Bone-In Ribeye for Two, Bone-In Ribeye for Three, T-Bone for Two, Porterhouse for Three, Steak Frites, Filet Mignon, Beef Wellington for Two and throwing our hands up and saying, “I give up, let’s just go to a diner.”

“Let’s start off simple,” my mom began, “how does everyone like their steaks cooked?”

“Medium-rare,” said my dad.

“Medium-well, said my sister.

“Medium,” said my brother.

“Rare,” I said.

For some reason we all raised our hands as we answered. Not only was that embarrassing, it confused every waiter in the restaurant.

“You’re not ordering a steak rare, you’ll get sick!” shouted my mom, disgusted.

“That’s how you’re supposed to order steaks at the high-end places,” I said.

“You’ll get E. coli! My friend’s mother, God rest her soul, ordered a steak rare and then guess what? She died.”

“I thought she choked,” chimed in my dad.

“I can’t remember.” My mom saw the waiter nearby and got his attention.

“Do we know what we’ll be having?” asked the waiter.

“Quick question, how do you recommend we order the steaks? Medium?” asked my Mom, adding in a hint of the answer she wanted.

“Personally,” he put his hand to his chest, “I like my steaks rare.”

“We’re gonna need another minute,” she said coldly.

The waiter politely nodded and left to tend other tables.

“Well that just reduced his tip.”

“If you chew properly you’ll be fine…,” said my dad, waving his hand.

My mom scoffed. She hated when my dad belittled issues and said things like “you’ll be fine…” Honestly I’m surprised my dad hasn’t picked up on that and banned the phrase from his lexicon. Instead, he opted to use it as often as possible.

I turned to my sister and said, “Great, this dinner’s going downhill already.”

After way too long a silence, “What?” she responded. She was texting her boyfriend. I noticed that whenever things got the slightest bit tense, my sister would turn to her phone for escape. It reminded me of that tree in the woods expression. If you’re at a painful dinner with your family, but you’re enthralled in your phone the whole time, did the dinner even happen?

“Regardless, no one wants rare so you’re not getting rare. I like my steak medium-well so Eve and I will be steak-buddies. And you three can be steak-buddies.”

“Please don’t say steak buddies,” I said. I thought I heard a guy from a neighboring table chuckle. I guessed he was in his high teens—the age where you laugh at the expense of others.

“Great, it’s settled,” said my dad. “Ribeye for three. Medium-rare.” He smacked down the menu.

“Is that the fatty one?” asked my brother.

“Yes, it’s delicious.”

“I wanted the filet.”

“Filet? Filets are for fruitcakes.”

“Dad!” shouted my sister, without looking away from her phone. She can’t hear casual conversation, but somehow out-of-place homophobia came in at a higher decibel level.

“The fat’s too chewy on ribeye. I just chew on it and chew on it forever like it’s gum and then I have to spit it out in my napkin,” said my brother.

“Just cut around it, you’ll be fine.”

“Stop telling everyone they’ll be fine!” shouted my mom.

“Yeah and don’t spit chewed fat into napkins in front of me,” I said. “If that happens I’m throwing up on the table.”

“No one throw up on the table!”

“I don’t even want steak,” said my sister.

“We’re at a steakhouse, you’re getting steak,” snapped my mom, not wanting to open that can of worms.

“Let’s just get the porterhouse for three, it has ribeye in it so you can just have that part,” said my brother.

“No, porterhouse has filet and sirloin,” said my dad.

“I thought porterhouse is filet and chuck,” I added.

“I’m looking it up,” said my brother.

“No! No phones at the table,” hissed my mom.

“Eve’s been on her phone the whole time!”

“She’s an exception. I have no control over her.”

“There’s no need to look it up,” said my dad. “There’s a guy right here.” My dad raised his arm, fully extended, elbow locked into place, and snapped his fingers three times.

I could have died. I swear to God I could have died from shame. How are these my parents? Who raised these people? And they raised us! Who let them do that? This dinner validates every single one of my issues. If my therapist were here she’d be like, “Oh I totally get it now, it is all their fault.”

Our waiter came over, seemingly unbothered, but deep down I knew he must be offended. If he had any sort of social media, he’s making a video on this later alluding to the obnoxious people that he served today. It’ll go viral and the whole world is going to shit on us. I’ll have to comment in agreement to throw everyone off our trail. Make it look like it wasn’t us. The things I do for this family…

“Do we know what we’ll be having?” asked the waiter, politely.

“We have a question, which cuts are in the porter house?” asked my dad.

“Filet mignon and New York strip. Shall I put that in for you?”

“Do you consider those steaks fruity?”

“What?” said the waiter.

“The people that order them—”

“We’re gonna need another minute,” said my mom. Then she turned to my dad. “What is wrong with you, Carl!”

“What? I asked the man a question.”

“That guy’s getting so many followers later,” I said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What are we ordering?!” demanded my dad.

“How about this? As a compromise, we get the ribeye for dad,” I suggested, “but cooked medium-well for Jason so it’s less chewy. And even though I don’t want that, I’ll suck it up for the sake of survival.”

“We’re about to spend over five hundred dollars,” said my mom. “You will not be sucking up anything. You will figure out an order that accommodates everyone and be happy!”

“If Jason wants medium-well then he might as well be steak buddies with them and me and you can be steak-buddies.”

“Please stop saying steak-buddies,” I said under my breath. For the love of God, stop saying steak-buddies. I’m telling you, that same guy at the other table laughed again.

“Okay, here’s a first draft of the order,” announced my mom, whipping out a pen and paper from her bag. Then she took out her phone, turned the flashlight on and aimed it at her notepad, as if we didn’t have enough attention on us already. What we really needed was a beacon of light shining at our table. It felt like we were an exhibit on display at a museum, titled “dysfunctional family of idiots at a restaurant.”

“Porterhouse for three, cooked medium —” began my mom.

“I don’t want the porterhouse,” said my dad.

“Well you can’t always get what you want!”

“At a restaurant you can!”

“Not this one.”

“We’re here for my birthday.”

“Which I organized for you as a nice gesture! Appreciate it and shut up.”

I totally forgot we were here for my dad’s 70th birthday. My mom wanted to do something special for him. On paper, this is a nice gesture. But in reality this is equivalent to Chinese water torture. Worse—the college kid at the other table just laughed again. At least with Chinese water torture you have privacy.

“Porterhouse for three, cooked medium,” my mom began the rough draft again. “Eve and I will share the beef Wellington for two.”

“Is that with like the bread crust on the outside?” asked Eve.

“Yes, it’s adorable, I see it on Instagram all the time.”

“I’m gluten-free.”

“What? Since when!”

“Like two weeks ago, the doctor said I have an intolerance. I told you that!”

“Jesus Christ, Eve we can’t afford more wrenches in the mix,” I said.

“I have an intolerance! A lot of people do. It’s something America does with the wheat.”

“Yeah I saw a video on it,” said my brother. “Modern wheat isn’t anything like what wheat used to be. We spray-dry it with glyphosate for starters, which interferes with the enzymes. Plus all the additives, it’s crazy. All for extra profit. What corporate America does to our wheat should be criminal.”

“What the fuck are we ordering?!” shouted my dad.

“We’re going to have to re-think the steak-buddy arrangement,” said my mom.

My dad buried his face in his hands. The kid laughed again.

The waiter came over. “Do we know what we’ll be having?”

“We’re gonna need another minute.”

“I need a break,” I said.

I couldn’t take it anymore so I stood up and went to the bathroom. I shoved open the door, ran the sink and splashed water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror and put on a face of determination, like a man who’s about to give a presentation to a board of directors or someone about to go into battle where he’s heavily outnumbered, but must courageously fight anyway—

There was an attendant right next to me. We still have bathroom attendants? He was looking at me, confused. So I went to the urinal to fake pee. I waited seven seconds and then bounced up and down a little bit to really sell it. Then washed my hands. He held out a towel, still confused. He didn’t buy it. To him, I randomly walked into the bathroom, splashed water on my face and then fake peed. He’s probably making a video on it later.

I left the bathroom just as anxious as when I entered it. Plus I have to pee.

I heard my dad from across the restaurant, “I give up! I give up! Let’s just go to a diner.”

I got back to the table.

“We can’t go to a diner, we’ve been here for 45 minutes,” said my mom. “It’s embarrassing if we leave now.”

“We’re way past embarrassing, Diane. How about this? Everyone just gets steak for one. Everyone can get exactly what they want. Boom. Settled.” He threw down the menu again. But the situation was anything but settled.

“That’s not cost-effective, Carl! Look at the prices. Steaks for two are less than double the steaks for one. And steaks for three, less than triple. We’d be throwing money out the window.”

“I’m ready to throw myself out the window.”

We’re on the ground floor, but best not to mention that right now.

“I’m starving,” said my dad. I felt like he might cry.

“What’s t-bone?” asked my brother with poor timing.

“If you don’t know what it is, don’t order it!” snapped my mom.

I didn’t know what this mysterious t-bone was either. But what if the t-bone was our saving grace and not just a term for car accidents? An option too quickly disregarded by emotion and contains some sort of magical combination of meat that would satisfy both Jason and my dad? With them out of the way, we can focus our full attention on Eve and my mom and finally get this order in before the restaurant closes despite arriving here at 5:15.

I spotted the waiter walking nearby and flagged him down.

“Do we know what we’ll be having?”

Obviously we don’t fucking know what we’ll be having, my dad’s about to cry, don’t you see that?

“Not yet, but I had a question about the t-bone? What’s that?”

“The t-bone is New York strip and filet mignon.”

“That’s what you said about the porterhouse,” said my dad, throwing his arms up in disbelief.

“Yes, I understand the confusion. The t-bone has a smaller filet and a larger New York strip. Really, a porterhouse is a t-bone. A good way to think about it is that all porterhouses are t-bones, but not all t-bones are porterhouses.”

“Ahh, got it, that makes sense.” That made no sense to me at fucking all. I never should’ve asked about the stupid t-bone. Why would anything ever work out? Nothing ever works out.

“We’re gonna need another minute,” said my mom.

“Fine, let’s get the porterhouse —”

“I actually like the t-bone now,” said my brother. “Smaller filet for me, and you two can have the strip, which is fattier.”

“Fine, the t-bone, I don’t care! I’d have the beef Wellington, I’d have the filet, you can put a raw cow dick on my plate and I’d eat it.”

“Don’t be so grotesque, Carl, we’re at a nice restaurant!” My mom returned to her notepad and the shining light coming from her iPhone. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. ”T-bone for three… shall I say medium?”

“Medium-rare.”

“You’ll do medium—“

“Medium and Jason has to go golfing with me on Sunday,” proposed my dad.

“No!” said Jason, “but I’ll fix your printer you’ve been complaining about.”

“Deal.”

“Guys I have some bad news,” I said, reviewing the menu. “The t-bone’s only for two.”

My dad could’ve punched the wall. My mom looked back at her menu to double-check. “He’s right.”

“From now on, we’re figuring out our orders two weeks in advance. No more waiting until the last minute,” I declared.

“This is why we should’ve done what I said earlier,” said my dad. “Can anyone just ever listen to me?! You and me be steak-buddies, and Diane, Eve and Jason be steak-buddies. Jason never belonged here!” That last line came out bizarrely harsh—as if he was telling us Jason was adopted.

“Seriously, please stop saying steak-buddies.” I turned to the college kid’s table. It was a reflex at this point. He was laughing. Hysterically. So hard he buried his head underneath his shirt to hide it, but the pulsating gives him away.

I couldn’t stand this fucking kid. Laughing and laughing and laughing. I don’t know what came over me and I’m not proud of what I did next. I turned to him and yelled, “Stop laughing! Some of us have really fucking crazy families that are a huge embarrassment to be around but we have to hang out with them anyway because family is everything!”

My family looked at me, mortified.

“What was that?!”said my brother.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, AJ? Are you insane?!” yelled my dad.

My mom flagged down the waiter. “Is it possible to do a t-bone for three?”

“Sorry, ma’am, the t-bone only comes for two. Also, if you don’t mind not shouting at the other patrons…”

“We’re gonna need another minute.”

“What did you think they were going to do, Diane, change the anatomy of cows back there?” said my dad.

“Shut up, Carl! Shut up! Do not talk to me that way!”

“Oh stop, you’re fine...”

Thank God we never ordered the steaks, because my mom would’ve taken the knife, lodged it into my dad’s chest and said, “Who’s fine now?! Who’s fine now?!”

“I think we should just go to a diner,” I said.

“That’s it! That’s fucking it!” shouted my dad, raising his hand.

“What are you doing?” asked my mom.

“I’m taking matters into my own hands.”

The waiter came over. “Do we know what we’ll be having?”

“As a matter of fact, we do. We’ll have the ribeye for two, cooked medium, and the porterhouse for three, cooked medium-well.”

“Very well, and for sides?”

Oh fuck we didn’t even get to sides.

“The butter roasted hash browns, creamed spinach and Brussels sprouts.” My dad tapped each one on the menu as he ordered it. I’m 99% sure he picked them randomly.

“I’ll go put that in for you.” The waiter left. We were all stunned.

“And that’s how you fucking do it.” For the third time, my dad slammed down the menu. But this time, it will actually be the last.

We all stopped arguing after that. The food came and everything was perfect. We shared the steaks as a family, no steak-buddy system, and no one complained. The Brussels sprouts were a strange choice, but no one mentioned it. Eve put her phone down and we enjoyed her presence. Jason agreed to fix my dad’s printer, I made plans to go golfing with him and my parents didn’t reach the point of shouting “we’re getting a divorce!” We truly enjoyed each other’s company.

I realized that we’ve reached an age where family dinners are more and more rare and it saddened me. I looked at another table. A young family with young children. So many family dinners ahead of them. I spotted another table of an elderly couple. Who knew how many they had left?

We all get so busy, that’s true, but how are the things that we’re busy with the priority? What can possibly be more important than this?

“We should do this more often,” I said.