Friday, August 21, 2009. 12:02 pm. Nordo and I had scheduled a business lunch to discuss his upcoming venture in Seattle. Moments before we were to begin the walk to his apartment, he informed me that he had a quick employee interview to conduct. I tried to excuse myself, but he insisted I stay. He sat me on the couch, instructed me to tell the interviewee to sit opposite the desk, and left out a side door. Two minutes passed before a young man, no more than 22, entered. He wore a white shirt, black tie, and black slacks. He held his hands nervously and eyed me, obviously wondering if I were Nordo. “He said he’d be right back. Take a seat,” I said and gestured toward the chair. The man fumbled his hands over one another and sat.
Nordo must have been listening. He promptly entered, sat at his chair, and eyed the young man.
“Can you fit me in your mouth?”
“What?”
“Can you fit me in your mouth?’
“What exactly do you mean?”
“It’s a culinary koan.”
Nordo looked down at his papers and scribbled something with a pencil.
“Coddled or over hard?”
The young man could barely contain himself. His hands violently rubbed the other. “I’m sorry but I don’t know what you want?”
“I advise you to answer. Not answering will not get high marks. Coddled or over hard?”
“Uh, coddled.”
Nordo wrote.
“Peep or cluck?”
“Peep?”
Nordo raised his left eyebrow. “Ahhh,” he intoned and wrote again.
“Pick or Peck?”
The young man went to answer, leaned forward, hesitated, sat back, went to answer, hesitated, and said as he leaned forward again, “Definitely peck.”
“Are you sure?’
“Yes. It is peck.”
“Okay.” And Nordo jotted a long line of words as the young man fidgeted in his seat.
“In what direction do you move around a table?”
“Counterclockwise…”
“That’s anticlockwise.”
“What direction is that?”
“Anticlockwise.”
The two men eyed each other in a silent contest. The young man broke first.
“Do you want to see my resume?”
“No.”
“You do have a position open, don’t you?”
“Yes. Don’t talk too much.”
“Okay.”
“Rule #1. Senseless talking causes indigestion. Questions cause diarrhea.”
“Okay.”
“This next section is very important. I suggest you answer with your gut reaction. Don’t hesitate. No flinching. Ready?”
“Yes.”
“Are you over 180 degrees?”
“Yes, I am done.”
“Good. Are you brined?”
“Only in kosher salt.”
Nordo shot back.
“Can you spread your wings?”
“Everyday.”
“What are fluorescent lights?”
“I’ve never seen one.”
At this point Nordo is nearly spitting on the young man.
“Free Range and Grass Fed.”
“Why the chicken crossed the road.”
“Yes. Nice. Nice.” Nordo triumphantly bobbed his head up and down. “Nice. You have promise. Come back next Tuesday at 2pm. Can you do that?”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“Tuesday? At 2pm?”
“Yes. Yes. It will be surprise. Think ‘Salt’.” Nordo spoke the word with a lilt and a flick of his wrist.
The young man planted his hands on the chair and stood wearily. Confused he motioned toward Nordo, but retracted when he noticed that Nordo had returned to his papers, ignoring him. He tripped over the chair and bumped into the sofa before turning back.
“Do you want my name?”
“No. Later. For now you are ‘New Guy’.”
“Okay.”
And the young man left gently massaging one hand with the other.
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