The order was ready except for the missing steak. George Frank, the supervisor, went nuts. He jumped to his left, flung open the silver fridge door, yanked out a dinner steak and threw it on the grill. Then, with a dogged, crazed look on his face—something like a hiker’s expression when killing a rattlesnake with a walking stick—attacked the steak with the heel of his hand with repeated rabbit punches until it spread to twice its normal length across the grill. Then he slammed a lid on top of it. The thinned-out meat would cook double time.
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"Classic"
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