No joke, I went to a restaurant, ordered a steak, and was given a butter knife to use. When I asked for a steak knife, the waiter offered to take the steak into the kitchen to have it cut up for me, to which I stood up and started gathering my stuff. The waiter objected, saying I couldn't walk out on my bill. I replied 'feel free to call the cops, but if Mommy's going to cut my steak for me, she can eat it too.'
Long story short, the cops were indeed called, and had one of the employees come out to inform me that I wasn't welcome on their property again. He waited for the employee to go back inside, shook his head, and noted there was one less restaurant on his list to try, as it was the stupidest policy he ever heard of.
What part of the country was “Mommy’s Restaurant” in?
While stationed in Havana, we used to patronize “paladares,” private homes permitted to open up as privately operated restaurants. When we visited our favorite, overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, we had to bring our own steak knives for the pork they served; they were only allowed to use butter knives for their guests.
If I had to pay for the steak, I would have got my money’s worth for their stupidity. A little dinner theater would have brought fun to the occasion: I would have picked that steak up with my hands, chomped into it with the appropriate dog growls and slobbering sounds; and dripped steak juices all over the table and carpet. Then I would have feigned a chocking sound making sure it sounded identical to someone in the act of throwing up. If the table was free standing I would have dropped on the ground and continued to writhe on the floor, chocking like a hog and knocking the table over. Then for the coup d’ grace, I would have spat a well chewed piece of steak out in the air, hoping it fell onto the maitre d’ head.
Of course, I would never be so over the top, but it would be tempting.