The fact was, though, I'd never heard of this guy before walking in the
door. Not a thing. Sure, he got a 24 in Zagat's, but that was about it. It
was all I knew of the man! To lie . . . to flatter now . . . when everything
was going so well—it could be a fatal mistake.
So I decided to take a shot at the truth.
Proudly, with what I later realized must have seemed to be nearly idiotic
pride, I answered the "What do you know about me" question with
complete honesty. I stared back into the owner's eyes, smiled, and with
forceful determination and complete candor, answered as breezily as I
could, considering my heart was pounding in my chest: "Next to
nothing!" I said.
It was not the answer he was looking for.
Both owner and manager gave me tight, shocked smiles. They might
have been impressed with my balls, but this was clearly outweighed by
an instant appreciation that I was not going to be the next chef—nor
would I ever be. I'd got it wrong somehow.
Oh, they laughed. They were even amused. A little too amused, I
thought, as they tidied up the stack of résumés, signaling the interview
was over. In what seemed like seconds, I was being politely if quickly
escorted to the door, being handed the pro forma kiss-off of "We have
other candidates to interview before we make a decision."
I was halfway down the block, already in a full flop-sweat from the
August heat and the wringer these guys had put me through, when I
realized my mistake. I groaned out loud, practically bursting into tears at
the foolishness of it all, as I realized, exasperated, what this proud Scot
had actually asked me. This steakhouse owner—whose end-of-week
sales reports probably constituted at least 90 percent meat sales—hadn't
been asking me what "I knew about me . . ." He'd asked a more