Firstly, don't.
Secondly, if you do, you're an idiot.
Thirdly, if you do, you're an idiot who will presently be doing one of the following:
a) scuttling to the nearest washroom facility with a view to swiftly emancipate the recently consumed fare via a trembling anal passarge (Passarge not passage - it's how posh people say it, didn't you know).
b) gathering the chef's collar in the tight grip of both fists before violently introducing your forehead to the bridge of his nose for having the audacity to present you with such a soulless slab of flesh.
c) going cross-eyed, mouth dripping with a thick lather of saliva, howling blue-murder into the vacuum of pending insanity. One must factor in the very real possibility that your steak will comprise rabid soi dog remains, testes included.
Being incredibly stupid, I used to visit my local steak house in Isaan on a fairly regular basis. Regardless of the chef's previous bad form; infractions included misinterpreting 'medium-rare' to mean 'burnt', and the accompanying 'french fly' being issued in single figures - I'd enter the eatery with sanguine paces, certain that today would yield satisfaction come the cessation of the repast. After all, having one's sustenance intake limited to the repellent grain for a month makes a zinger tower burger meal look like a 17 course spread at the Savoy.
But this steak, this steak signified the end of the sadomasochistic fling I'd been having with this cold-hearted bitch of a restaurant.
I ordered the fillet. Medium well, please, and garcon, you may bring me a smoked salmon appetizer to be presented at least five minutes before the steak.
The salad was very tasty indeed; the chef exhibiting the knowledge of his profession by giving it a light dusting of dill.
Because my starter had been so good, I was quietly optimistic about the steak, and five minutes later it was brought to me by a sassy young waitress, her east Asian bust doing its best to implode.
On initial inspection the fillet looked innocuous enough, appetizing even.
However, my first mouthful had the taste and texture of a self-adhesive floor tile. It was literally inedible.
I beckoned over the server of small-breast fame and informed her of my plight.
Kortort, she said, looking at my plate with disinterest.
Kortort? Kortort doesn't negate the fact I've been dished up an 8oz lump of chewing gum for lunch, does it?
KFC. I cannot extol the virtues of a bargain bucket enough...