hand through mousse-stiffened hair and strode confidently to the
interview table. Firm handshakes all around, and I sat down, looking as
crisp and cool as an ex-junkie skell with a culinary degree could look.
Initially, the interview went well. The owner, an affable Scot with a thick
brogue, handed my résumé to his aide-de-camp, an American, who
immediately smiled with recognition at some of the places I'd worked.
"So . . . Supper Club . . . How they doing now? You worked for Marvin
and Elliot?" he asked, all smiles now. "Those were crazy times," he
reflected, a dreamy look on his face. The guy was letting me know that
he too had gotten laid a lot back in the '70s and '80s and done a lot of
cocaine.
We moved on, the American casually inquiring about various periods of
my employment history, thankfully missing the fudged parts, the
missing months, the long-dead restaurants that I'd helped to bury.
"You worked with Jimmy S.?" he inquired, chuckling and shaking his
head. "He still wear roller blades in the kitchen?"
I nodded, laughed, greatly relieved at this trip down memory lane.
Clearly the man had also suffered under Jimmy at one point in his
career. We were bonding!
"Haven't seen him in years," I replied, separating myself deftly from my
one-time mentor as fast as I could. "Ha ha . . ."
I continued to smile warmly at both owner and the American manager,
listened carefully, with a serious, yet calculatedly pleasant expression on
my face as the owner began to fill me in on the history, philosophy and
long-term aspirations for his steakhouse. There were a few questions
from each of them, which I knocked down easily. I could see from their
expressions that things were going well. I was acing every question. I