I’d been keenly attuned to the pressure buildup for the last half hour, my eyes drawn to the site occasionally, like a magnet to metal. In my mind I could hear the Jaws theme—duunn duunn duunn duunn—then I would silence the mental music and concentrate on the questions.

I’d prepped for the usual “Tell me about yourself,” and “What strengths would you bring to this job?” and asked questions of my own—the number of shifts per week, the pay rate—making it clear that I was flexible with scheduling and agreeable to the starting hourly rate. I was relieved when he laughed at my reply to, “Tell me about a failure in your current job.”

“Not one of my finer moments,” I said, about losing my temper one day and dumping a milkshake in the lap of an aggressive customer who harassed me for a date every time he came in. “I tried to make it look like an accident. Also a failure.”

“And what did you learn from that experience?” He seemed satisfied when I admitted that, of course, I should have stepped away to control my temper, or let my manager handle the issue if the customer continued to be a problem.

I knew that complete honesty for “Why do you want this job?”—the extra money—would not be prudent, nor would it be wise to allow any hint that my primary interest in food was to satisfy my own appetite, regardless of how it was presented. Instead, I answered with what I hoped was a convincing delivery of my prepared answer: I planned to study culinary arts at college and felt that making the leap from my current diner job to this much more upscale restaurant would give me excellent practical experience in all aspects of food preparation and presentation.

Near the end of the interview, my eyes flicked down again. Past the double chin oozing over the shirt stretched over the ample belly, the middle button hanging by a more precarious thread each time I’d hazarded a glance.

When he heaved himself up from his chair to see me out—duunn duunn duuunnn duuuunnnnn—Mr. Burton’s button lost the struggle against its impossible task with an audible pop. A zing as it shot past me, ricocheted off a filing cabinet and fell with a tiny last-gasp click-click to the floor beside me.

Trying to silence the Jaws theme still playing at the back of my mind by clenching my own jaw, I kept a neutral expression as I picked it up and handed it to him. “Mr. Button, your —” and at that, I utterly lost the battle against laughter and presumably at any chance at getting the job. “I’m so sorry!” I finally managed. “Your button, Mr. Burton.”

When I arrived for my first shift two weeks later, he was wearing a shirt several sizes larger. “Mr. Burton,” I said, “thank you for this opportunity.”

“You’re welcome,” he said with a hint of a smile. “And it’s Mr. Button to you.”

And so, I take my first step into the world of Culinary Arts!