Sunday, 6pm. At the bar of what appears to be the only non-chain restaurant open in all of Frankfort, Kentucky. One man is working behind the bar. Another man, wearing an apron and who appears to be a cook, is sitting at the bar drinking a beer. Both are watching the Cowboys-Eagles game. No one else is in the place.

Me: I’ll have the steak sandwich.

Bartender: OK. [looks at cook] Order? 

Cook: [distracted by the game] OK … 

Bartender: [impatiently] Don’t get up. I’ll do it.  

Cook: [snapping out of it] What? Really?

Bartender: I’m 50-years-old. I know how to make a goddamn steak sandwich.

Cook: [to me]: Uh, you OK with this? 

Me: [kind of amused and in agreement that steak sandwiches aren’t hard] I’ll let you guys figure it out. 

Cook: This outta be good. If he fucks it up I’ll go back and make you another one.

Time passes. My sandwich arrives.

Bartender: Look OK to you? 

Me: Yeah, actually it does. [Cook watches closely as I take a bite]

Cook: Taste OK? 

Me: Yeah. 

Cook: Really?

Me: Yeah, it does. Tastes great.

Bartender [to Cook, with no small amount of disgust] Told you I could make a goddamn steak sandwich. 

[Cook laughs his ass off; Eagles lose in ugly fashion to Cowboys]

That night at about midnight I woke up with a bit of an upset stomach but I don’t have enough evidence on which to base a judgment as to whether it was steak sandwich-related.