A Ribeye's Fate

Creeping quietly through the back door of the restaurant I work at last Saturday afternoon, I did not anticipate the excitement I would have over cooking a ribeye - I thought it was just another ordinary day. That was until the waitresses with hushed voices gathered, whispering intently over something. That was the first hint that things were different. I could only guess at the meaning, catching a few words here and there such as "Lopez" and "here".  As an individual that attempts to retain the guise that I do not eavesdrop, I ignored the distant chatter and maintained an outward aloofness that seemed to be somewhat convincing. 

Outward aloofness maintained, I found myself face to face with my boss, Chris, who generally updates me on particular details for my shift.  I could tell that he too, was acting aloof. 

"The Lopez's are staying here tonight." He said distinctly.  I'm sure there were any number of Lopezs in the world, so I gave him a questioning glace as if to say "And? what of?" 

"The George Lopezs" he clarified. 

Jaw drop. 

"Yes, that one." He said almost triumphantly, all aloofness gone. He continued with various details, leaving me somewhat awestruck.  He warned that they probably wouldn't order, but if they did they were to have a room that they wouldn't be gawked at.  Images of shocked red-necks and cowboys gulping and saying "Howdy" flooded my mind.  Yes, we certainly didn't want them gawked at, and Sanpete was one of the few places that wouldn't be able to avoid doing so. 

Following through with our daily preparation was an unusual thrill of excitement, especially after the ten seconds it took for the entire staff to inform each other when they returned. That was when my preparations took me to the back room (I believe due to frozen chicken retrieval) and upon my return to my generally steaming, cooking, and bubbling kitchen, I walked into a hush of silence. The only one moving was my boss, who was cutting a lime with precision, observed by non other than the celebrity in question! 

  

Yes, there was George Lopez, who seemed to be taller than I expected (but then who isn't?) and in good shape, patiently awaiting his lime slice. Could I help it that I found myself secretly smiling as I absently stirred my pot of creamy potato soup? Definitely not. There was George Lopez in my kitchen, not five feet away. He was standing in my kitchen, surrounded by things I see nearly every day, taking part in a very normal activity; yet somehow the snapshot seemed inconceivable (I do not think that means what you think it means!).  I mean, how is it that George Lopez, the George Lopez of comic and TV fame could be standing in my kitchen surrounded by sinks and dirty dishes and steaming food? I have no answer to you, but I do know that as soon as Chris was done, the George Lopez walked out, taking his lime slice with him.  

That was when Chris and I stared at each other, (and mind you, we don't exactly see eye to eye all the time) both of us grinning like children who have just been promised a holiday from school.  Thinking back to it now, it almost ridiculous the way that our smiles appeared simultaneously in an almost grinch-like movement. I keep wondering if I fabricated such a particular moment, but it did indeed happen.  Chris and I starred at each other, grinning from ear to ear, not even having to comment on the moment of George and the Lime, for we both understood the depth of unbelievability and giddiness that moment brought involuntarily. 

The Lopez family did decide to have dinner a few hours later, and I was required to actually cook the meal, which despite Chris' warning that I better do good, he showed enough confidence by allowing me to take grill and tongs in hand and properly cook that tender piece of meat. 

For those who have ever wondered if someone likes your cooking, something the restaurant has taught me is that you can never judge by someone's first bite, instead you judge by how their plate looks like after the meal is over.  This was why I was almost shaking with emotion (alas, I'm not an active enough emotional person to be fun to write about, because I wasn't really shaking) when the plates were returning - most of which the prime rib* was left uneaten. Oh burn.  Such an insult, because our prime rib really is pretty tasty (especially with horseradish and anjou sauce). Two plates, then three, then four (their party had six people) and finally...an empty rib eye plate. Deep breath.  The plate was returned and George had properly devoured the much thought over piece of cow. 

That was my brush with fame. Truly, parts of it are nearly unbelievable, but the excitement still lingers. Days pass and as I use my cooking utensils once again and I find myself thinking back to that day and the fate of that small, yet juicy, ribeye.

*To those of you confused about prime ribe verses rib eye, these are separate things, two members of the party ordered prime rib, and because their plates came in first I was worried that no one had liked their food, but George ordered rib eye, so I had to wait until his plate came in to see if he ate it all, which of course he did! :P