The ‘all-you-can-eat’ interview

By Elizabeth Henry

It’s three days before my 28th birthday and I’m worried about what I’m going to eat. It’s not a worry about whether the calories will stick to my hips or my thighs. No, it’s whether what I’m about to eat will cost me a job. Gone are the days where job interviews only happen in cramped offices with hard and uncomfortable chairs. Interviewers now want casual settings and food.

Can you go wrong with made-to-order sandwiches? Will a salad show I’m health-conscious? Vegan or vegetarian — what’s the difference again? My mind goes blank. Should I load my plate at the Americanized international station to show multicultural awareness? Or the Southern food station to show appreciation for the classic fried chicken and green beans?

Tacos. No one can hate tacos, right? But, hard or soft shell? Hard shells make noise but convey strength. Soft shells are non-threatening and won’t make crunching noises while answering questions.

Ground beef or ground turkey? Ground turkey is healthier, but the beef looks like it’s high quality. Cheese is a no-brainer. Sour cream, beans, lettuce — too much. Now the taco won’t be able to close without the insides squeezing out the back end like toothpaste. I have to move on and hope my gray slacks and floral-print blazer don’t end up flaunting this meal for the rest of the day.

Salad! Streams of four-letter words run through my mind as I stand before the salad bar. Why are there four different leafy-green choices? This part is supposed to be easy. Rescue comes in the form of a clear plastic tub delivering Romanian reinforcements. That must be a popular, safe choice so mixed romaine it is. Shredded cheese is a given. Bacon bits, croutons, blue cheese — my favorite and, between us, a slight indulgence. The thick red sweetness of the French dressing dribbles over the top of my now less-than-healthy mound before I can stop my hand. French with blue cheese? What was I thinking? Not sure how this is going to taste. I should have stuck with the tried-and-true choice of ranch.

The only aspect that doesn’t need any debate is the single plastic cup filled with chocolate mousse, topped with whipped cream and crushed Oreos that appears in my right hand.

Forcing my hands to be steady as I walk with my interviewer to her choice of table, I cannot help but think a single taco and side salad should not have taken so long to put together. However, she says nothing about this drawn-out process. Or, she’s good at hiding her seething judgment and relating my inability to feed myself to the quality of any work I might do.

My interviewer leads us over to a large round table, meant to encourage communal dining. Seated are two of my interviewer’s colleagues, who smile and shake my thankfully sweat-free hand. I mirror her actions, placing my plate and mousse cup down before an unoccupied seat. I pause for a moment, beating down panic when my interviewer unexpectedly turns around and begins walking away instead of sitting.

Is she abandoning me to the two individuals she just introduced me to, but whose names I have already forgotten? I watch as she walks back into the space of gourmet torture and picks up a glass.

Another stream of four-letter words flows through my mind. Now, I have to figure out the most interview-appropriate beverage.