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There were glitches with the printers; the kitchen was losing orders ("Your order was sent; No, it wasn't sent; It was sent twice."); there were no to-go containers for anything liquid, so the guy who wanted his soup to go, got it in a leaky cardboard box; Bobby effin' Flay was annoying audiences everywhere on the flatscreen tuned to the Food Network; and, slightly more important, Mazio's kitchen, confessed a manager, "was crashing and burning."
But when my food finally came, which it did, in fits and bursts, over a 70-minute period, I perked up. The gumbo, bobbing with crawfish, shredded, smoked chicken and andouille sausage, was deep, dark and delicious, and the herb-roasted rib-eye sandwich, two thick triangles of buttered Texas toast, stacked with caramelized onions and paved with comte cheese and horseradish, tasted a lot better than most everything else I've eaten this week.
And, hell, it's only the first day.