I Had the Weirdest Job Interview Ever

I’ve been a stay-at-home dad for more than a decade, and I have to admit that trying to reenter the job market after so long has been even more daunting than I expected. I guess it should come as no surprise. The last time I held a full-time office job, Obama was president, I had a flip phone (yes, I was a late technology adopter, but still), and my interviewer did not ask me to pantomime ripping my heart out of my chest and displaying it to her like I was a gladiator in the Colosseum.

So much has changed in the last twelve years.

Admittedly, my experience with job interviews is not extensive. Although I’m on the depressing side of 40 now, I can probably count the number of in-person interviews I’ve had in my life on my fingers. And before my most recent interview, all of them had been mundane and uneventful. I always got the boilerplate interview questions about strengths and weaknesses, future plans, work history, and what I would do if I had a disagreement with a coworker or some other such nonsense. Prior to my interview last week, I had never once been asked to name my favorite meal to prepare or what I would do if a customer tried to bring a pet rat into the restaurant. I’ve never interviewed for a kitchen job before, though, so maybe that’s just how restaurant interviews go?

One nice thing about this unexpected interview was I didn’t have to dress up. I was pulled unceremoniously into the dining room from my kitchen where I was doing the New York Times Mini Crossword on my phone, snacking on chips and salsa, while pretending to unpack the dishwasher. I was clad in the same T-shirt and shorts I’d been wearing for a couple of days, probably, but it was fine because the interviewer was dressed in pajamas and her hair was a bit tangly.

She asked me to sit in a chair at the end of the scratched and paint-splattered dining room table and I pushed several dolls and a pile of markers out of the way to make space to rest my hands. I always get fidgety during interviews.

Things started out somewhat normally. My interviewer asked why I wanted to work at her restaurant, and I launched into a heartfelt soliloquy about my love of the culinary arts and my passion for customer service. I don’t know much about interview strategy, but I do know that stupid stuff like this is exactly what interviewers love to hear.

She looked pleased with my answer and wrote something down in the notebook that was splayed out on the table in front of her. I couldn’t tell exactly what she wrote, but from my vantage point, it most resembled a squiggly line.

Next, she asked what my favorite dish to prepare was, which if I’m being honest, was a very insightful question. I didn’t hesitate. I waxed poetic about my grandmother’s eggplant parmigiana and how I used to putter around at her feet when I was just a small boy and dream of one day creating magic like grandma did.

This was a lie, of course, but everyone lies in interviews. As far as I know, my grandmothers never cooked eggplant parmigiana, and I don’t think they were even Italian.

The interviewer cut me off after about ten seconds because she had heard enough but I still felt like I was nailing it. However, things suddenly took a dark and unexpected turn.

“Act like you’re pulling your heart out of your chest with your hand and show it to me,” my interviewer whispered to me.

From the change in the cadence and volume of her voice, I could tell she was breaking protocol, but she was clearly trying to help. Even though I was a bit taken aback by the request, I complied. Anything to land this job. I must feed my family.

I put my heart into it (quite literally), groaning a little to add some pizazz as I pried my chest cavity open and plucked out my heart. I held my hand out to my interviewer, presenting the symbol of my passion for restaurant and hospitality management.

I was expecting a positive response. I did not get one.

My interviewer looked shell-shocked. Her eyes went wide. I think she let out a small gasp. Then she took to her notebook with great intensity, scribbling away furiously.

Well, that’s it… I was finished. My hopes of landing my dream job were circling the drain. I might as well have torn my real heart out of my chest because I was pretty much dead anyway. I was about to slink away in shame and then…

“OK. Follow me to the kitchen. I’ll show you how everything works!”

My interviewer had finished writing her novel about my insanity and was looking at me again with an eager and not-quite-as-horrified expression on her face.

“Wait, I got the job?” I asked.

“Yes. Just no cooking eggplant.”

Deal.

I followed her around to the other end of the dining room table where the kitchen was. It was well-outfitted with a compact oven and a purple cauldron. Everything I needed to hopefully earn our humble establishment its first Michelin Star.

It was quite a rollercoaster of emotions. The interview process always is. I think?

But I guess the take-home lesson for any stay-at-home parent looking to get your career back on track is to be flexible. Go with the flow. Don’t be afraid to stretch the truth a little to highlight your unique experiences and skills.

And most importantly, if your interviewer asks you to perform a cardiectomy on yourself, just do it. What’s the worst that could happen? In late-stage capitalism, it’s work or die.

You might as well take care of it all in one go.