A Chance Meeting That Changed Everything
Catherine O'Hara leaned forward in the booth at a swanky New York City restaurant, her eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. "What's your name?" she asked. "What's your story?" For a young server who had been instructed never to acknowledge celebrities, this moment would become a turning point in understanding what true success really means.
The Restaurant That Promised Glamour But Delivered Exploitation
Three months earlier, I had desperately taken three serving jobs to supplement my meager $35-a-week publishing intern stipend. One position was at a legendary restaurant constantly filled with rock stars, Oscar-winning actors, and supermodels. During my interview, the manager ignored my flimsy resume and instead assessed my body—my waist, my chest, my legs. He offered me a job as a cocktail server in the private lounge, where only ultra-wealthy patrons and celebrities were allowed.
The dress code was strictly enforced: all black, dresses only, with hemlines not to exceed the end of my fingertips when my arms hung by my sides. "We prefer the skirt to graze your first knuckles," he said, making a fist to demonstrate. I was 22, fresh out of college, and ready to do whatever it took to become a writer in New York City.
A Culture of Depletion and Disordered Ambition
The restaurant operated under strict rules that created a toxic environment. We were required to try everything on the menu—a perk for someone hungry and broke—but worked in a "pooled house" where managers gathered and divided our tips after taking their cut. Most crucially, we were forbidden from revealing that we recognized any celebrity. Asking for an autograph, a photo, or even announcing you were a fan would result in immediate termination.
During my first training shift alone, Jay-Z, Adam Sandler, and Mariah Carey were among our guests. I lasted one month—long enough to eat my way through the menu and gather celebrity anecdotes involving Bill Belichick, Jon Bon Jovi, Jonah Hill, and Josh Hartnett. But these exciting encounters couldn't compensate for the depleting atmosphere where every staff member was a hopeful singer, model, actor, or artist struggling to survive.
After my first shift, I witnessed the server training me earn over $1,000 in tips, only to walk out with $220 after management's cut. When I questioned the tip breakdown, my manager was finishing a line of cocaine in his windowless basement office. He laughed at my confusion, leaving me feeling violated and dejected.
The Dangerous Normalization of Disordered Eating
What truly convinced me I couldn't survive there long was recognizing that my co-workers all seemed to be struggling with disordered eating. Years earlier, after my father's sudden death from a heart attack, I had developed my own eating disorder as a coping mechanism. I had slowly healed in college with supportive friends, but now, surrounded by damaging behaviors, my anxiety rose in a disturbingly familiar way.
Each night, my trainer-server and I would sample menu items while sitting on the back staircase—there was no break room. No matter what we tried—tuna on crispy rice, black truffle pizza, half a roast chicken on garlic mashed potatoes—she refused to take a bite. "No way. I'm trying to be an actress," she told me. "I wouldn't even eat a cucumber here. They put sesame oil on everything."
She joked about it: "I don't eat, really. None of us do." Though I wasn't pursuing acting, I began leaving food on my plate, uneasy but worried she might have a point. Hunger as discipline. Emptiness as a badge of ambition. The unspoken message seemed to be that fed girls didn't make it in New York City.
The Night Everything Changed
By my last training shift on a Sunday night, I was thinner, my spirit beaten down, and worried about the path I seemed to be heading down. The restaurant was slow, and my trainer asked me to take the shift alone so she could meet her boyfriend. Best of all, she said I could keep all the tips I made.
At nearly 9 o'clock, three women walked in: two strangers and Catherine O'Hara. I froze, remembering her squiggly sideburns in "Beetlejuice," her iconic "Kevin!" in "Home Alone," and the dozens of times my sister and I had watched "Best in Show." How could I possibly serve her without telling her how much her work meant to me?
They sat in a window booth with Catherine in the center. When I greeted them, her friends enthusiastically explained they were celebrating her birthday. "We've been friends forever," Catherine told me sheepishly. "They don't let me get away with anything." Her eyes truly sparkled with life and kindness.
Redefining Success Through Authenticity
As I watched the three friends enjoy each other's company—ordering one of everything from the starter section plus a burger, tuna, and chicken—I realized the restaurant had distorted what success should look like in just a few weeks. But no one could extinguish the aura of true success that radiated from Catherine O'Hara.
She had "it"—that quality I had come to New York City to prove I possessed too. And "it" wasn't thinness or ambition at all costs, or even raw talent, though she certainly had that. It was her sense of self—how she held herself and confidently, yet humbly, moved through the world—that no one could rival or take away from her.
When I brought their chocolate soufflé, their table held the last lit candle in the restaurant. I took a breath and broke the cardinal rule: "I'm not supposed to bother our famous diners, but I just have to tell you how much your acting means to me and my sister. 'Best in Show' is our favorite movie, and your character is my favorite."
"Me?" she said, genuinely incredulous. "Your favorite!" After wishing her happy birthday and turning away mortified, she called after me: "Wait, what's your name? What's your story?"
A Moment of Genuine Connection
She insisted I join them in their booth and asked what kind of artist I was. "Every server in this city has an interesting story," she said, gesturing with her spoon, her mouth full of birthday soufflé. I told her about my dream to become an author and the short story I was working on.
"What if one of the characters dies?" she riffed, delighted. Were we collaborating? I could hardly breathe. When the manager suddenly appeared from his basement lair, I immediately popped out of the booth. "I'll just grab you the check," I said, with my arms behind my back again. She winked at me as I walked away.
She paid the bill herself, leaving me 100% on their $400 check and a note that read: "I know your day will come. Keep writing." The manager wouldn't let me keep the receipt, but I didn't need it.
The Lasting Impact of Kindness
Catherine O'Hara had given me something invaluable that night. Her kindness has always stayed with me. She showed me a different way to be an artist—to be a person. She chose passion, curiosity, individuality, and humility in an industry that often made those qualities feel impossible.
I never returned to the restaurant after that night. I left before the thinness of the place convinced me I had to disappear to deserve a future. There would be plenty of other workplace cultures ahead that would try to normalize self-erasure as ambition, but years later, when I sat down to write this essay just days after Catherine O'Hara's death, I could still clearly conjure that moment with her.
Thanks to her, I still try to follow my appetite, to seek fullness, and to believe, even on my hungriest days, that my day will come. Her legacy reminds us that true success isn't measured by what we deny ourselves, but by how authentically we live and how kindly we treat others along the way.
