Crabmeat Cheesecake

Memory portals. That’s the phenomenon where songs and movies can transport us back to a favorite time in our lives.

I love the movie Twister, likely for the memory portal it opens up for me. I’m talking about the original from 1996, not so much the new version. I was living in Myrtle Beach for the summer between college semesters, interning for a newspaper, and just soaking up every new experience. It was a life-changing summer. Not only was I tan but I was also getting paid to write. Those aren’t things every introvert writer gets to say.

There’s a line in original Twister where Bill (Bill Paxton) tells Jo (Helen Hunt) that he thinks there’s an issue with the pack of sensors they’re trying to send up into a tornado.

We’re two-thirds of the way through the movie at this point and I’m like, “What?!? A problem!? You think there’s a problem??”  That was my unspoken reaction sitting in the movie theater with my summer roommates, my cousin and his girlfriend (who would eventually become his wife).

But Helen Hunt simply says, “Too light?” She’s curious and interested as she stirs a lineup of coffees for her team members. And then with the same calm demeanor she says, “What can we do about that?”

That scene taught me a better way to react. (You learned better behavior from a movie? Of course I did. Who doesn’t? And seriously, I say any time you can pick up pointers from Helen Hunt, go for it. She’s strong and smart and blazes her own trail.)

Anyway, flash forward; I’m waiting tables in yet another state, circa 15 years ago. I take a table’s order, send it through the computer system then walk into the kitchen for Sous Chef Eddie to tell me there’s a problem: The crabmeat cheesecake is 86’d.

(Yes, crabmeat cheesecake. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Don’t think sweet. Think savory, think pecan crust, Dijon mustard, and baked to perfection. It’s an experience of an appetizer.)

Anyway, the first thing you do when you arrive on any serving shift is check the 86 board to see what dishes are sold out. I did that; crabmeat cheesecake was not listed. But that doesn’t matter. This is fine dining. We don’t suggest items if we’re out of them.

I look at Eddie and the line from Twister pops into my head. “What can we do about that?” I ask calmly. At this point, my boss, who’s been listening in the corner of the kitchen, makes an astonished sort of hiccup sound. But Eddie gets me. He knows from my tone that I’m not being rude, just asking if this situation can be changed and what part I can play in that. Eddie asks for a couple minutes to see what he can do. I thank him and cross my fingers.

I go back out to the serving floor, deliver some drinks, take another order, clean a table, and start getting nervous about the time. I was going to need to face the music soon and tell my guests we were out of their appetizer after all. I stop in the kitchen to check with Eddie one last time and there, under the warmer, is one dish of crabmeat cheesecake.

Eddie had been baking a new pan at the time of our first conversation. When it was baked enough to cut, he took out one serving and continued baking that separately so it would be done before the rest of the pan. I thank him profusely. He totally saved me.

But none of this would have happened if I hadn’t channeled my inner Helen Hunt and asked a daring question. Imagine if I’d gone in, guns blazing, and yelled, “Problem!? What problem??” And honestly, if the Sous Chef had known me to be a demanding, sulky, entitled person who never said thank you, he likely would not have helped me. Instead, he knew that I didn’t ask for special treatment on a daily basis, so on the one day it mattered, a favor was granted.

Which makes me think: Every day counts. The way we treat one other every day counts. It all adds up.