I’m not a big meat-eater.

But neither am I a vegetarian.

The problem is that I’m rather persnickety about how my meat is cooked.  Apologies in advance to all of you chefs out there, but I like my meat well done.

Well, not well done.  More like WELL DONE.  Capital letters, black, emphasis on WELL.

I don’t order meat in restaurants very often because I know I’m opening myself up to disappointment.  Chefs, cooks, waitstaff, by-and-large, don’t actually believe these words:  I’d like it split-open well done, with no hint of pink.  Please. (I always think the please will seal the deal.)

Hamburgers are the worst.

I haven’t figured this out, exactly, because a burger is certainly small enough and flat enough to cut in half to make sure it’s WELL DONE, just as the patron (that would be me) requests.

So Saturday afternoon, as Barry and I headed into the brand-spankin’ new Red Robin in town (Warwick, RI), home of the promised “Gourmet Burger”… I was excited, but scepticle of My Nemesis, My Hamburger.

The Red Robin was waiting-room crowded, filled with people who must love Red Robin burgers.  I began to feel confident that “today” was My Darling, My Hamburger.

We were soon seated.  The atmosphere was alive and happy.  Our waiter was friendly.  Our fries and our drinks were “bottomless.”  We liked that.

The menu was extensive and varied, but I had come for my elusive burger, so I ordered:  I’d like it split-open well done, with no hint of pink.  Please.

Our waiter explained that at Red Robin the burgers are ordered one of two ways… PINK or NO PINK. There’s some sort of conveyor belt system that the burgers are prepared on, and WELL DONE is not an option.

Hmmmmmm.  OK.

I’ll take mine NO PINK, then.  Please.

Bolstered by burger confidence, I didn’t feel the need to quadruply explain my split-it-open-to-check-for-no-pink-PLEASE speech.

The burgers arrived.  I cut my in half.  What did I see?

PINK. As in PINK on the RED side of PINK.

Barry’s burger was perfect, of course, because he loves PINK.  He ordered his PINK.

Now, I’m not one to make a fuss.  Especially about burgers.  I’ve learned that ordering My Nemesis, My Hamburger is a crap-shoot.  It’s gonna be split-open-please-perfect oh, about 10% of the time.  The other 90% is my other standard line:  Do you mind having this thrown back on the grill for a few more minutes.  Please.

No sense getting upset.  No sense getting anyone else upset.  Burgers just don’t come WELL DONE.  It’s kinda like asking the guy at the milk store to make sure my lottery ticket is the winner.  It ain’t gonna happen.

So, I sat there playing with the paper that my pink burger was wrapped in, figuring that I’d grab something to eat when we got home.

One of the managers must have spotted the lady (that would be me) playing with the paper that the pink burger was wrapped in.  She came to the table and asked if there was a problem.  Very friendly.

My head was all full of if this is NO PINK, then why tell this nice lady that I want WELL DONE, which doesn’t exist anyway.

That’s when Barry stepped up to the burger plate.  He kindly explained what was going through my head.  He’s good like that about reading my mind.

The manager immediately smiled and said that she would personally supervise my new burger and whisked my pink burger away.  She sent our waiter back with new fries and more iced-tea and lemonade while we waited.

The new burger arrived.  Split-open.  NO PINK.  Perfectly fixed with raw onions and mustard.

And it was delicious.  DE-LICIOUS.

Ah. My Darling, My Hamburger.

The manager further made my burger complimentary and said that she wants her patrons to leave happy and to come back.

I was happy.  I will go back.

And that’s outstanding customer service, Red Robin!

(But I’m wondering if the next time I visit, I can actually say, I’d like it split-open well done, with no hint of pink.  Please. ‘Cuz I know it can be done!)