...I fell flat on my face.

...in front of the entire restaurant. Twice.

When you combine slick floors with wet food and rubber soles in a high-stress situation, it was only a matter of time before I ate shit. And I did.

And the food went everywhere.

And it was embarrassing.

And I burned my hand.

On the fillet steak cooked medium-rare with a side of mashed potatoes.

And (no surprise here) I started to cry.

And then I burned my hand again and cursed the gods for not providing me with harder callouses. And then I cried some more.

And then I got over it because when you trip in front of a party of 25 celebrating a gentleman's retirement party, you may acquire the party's sympathy. Sympathy, in restaurant-speak, means money.

And then I retracted my curse of the gods because if you're gonna make a fool of yourself, at least do it in front of 25 drunk men who want to help you up.