“What’s your name?” Catherine O’Hara asked me, leaning forward in the booth. “What’s your story?”

I was standing in a swanky restaurant in New York City wearing a black dress short enough to satisfy management, my hands clasped behind my back in case a manager appeared. I had just broken the most important rule of the job: Never acknowledge a celebrity.

Three months earlier, I had dropped off my resume anywhere I could in hopes of securing a job that would supplement what my $35-a-week publishing intern stipend wouldn’t get me, which was, of course, everything but my subway fare.

I was hungry in every sense of the word. By the end of the day, I was offered three serving jobs and took them all. One was at this legendary restaurant continuously full of rock stars, Oscar-winning actors and models.

During my interview, the manager had ignored my flimsy (both in substance and content) resume and assessed my body instead. My waist. My chest. My legs. He said they had a place for me as a cocktail server in the private lounge where the windows were tinted, the tables were low and loungy, and the only clientele allowed in were ultra-wealthy patrons and celebrities.

The manager told me to show up later that night for my first training shift and emphasised that the dress code was all black, dresses only, hemlines not to exceed the end of my fingertips when my arms were hanging by my sides.

“We prefer the skirt to graze your first knuckles,” he said, making a fist and pointing to the ridged top of his hand to make his point.

I was 22, fresh out of college, and ready to do whatever it took to become a writer. If I can make it here… I thought.

When I walked in for my first shift, I was surprised to see a friend from college working at the host stand. Back in Colorado, he’d been a boisterous theater kid — lanky with bright blue eyes and flamboyant energy. Now he looked hollowed out — dark under the eyes, less “youthfully thin” and more underfed. He seemed tired and nervous, and his eyes flicked around as if we might get in trouble for hugging.

The server I was assigned to shadow approached the host stand to retrieve me. She was gorgeous, waifish, and in place of the air of sadness my college acquaintance had, she’d built a bitter bubble of sarcasm around herself.

She walked me quickly through the labyrinthine back-of-house, dodging catcalls from her co-workers and managers deftly. She listed off rules as I struggled to keep up. Three of them stuck out.

1. We were required to try everything on the menu, which perked me up as a hungry, broke person used to only eating family meal slop before a shift.

2. We were a “pooled house,” which meant the managers gathered and then divvied up our tips (after shaving a cut).

3. We were not allowed — under any circumstances — to reveal that we recognised a celebrity. We were to treat everyone as an anonymous guest. Asking for an autograph, a photo, or even announcing that you were a fan of anyone famous would result in immediate termination.

Perhaps this last rule sounds easy enough to follow, but during my first training shift, Jay-Z, Adam Sandler and Mariah Carey were among our guests.

I lasted one month at this restaurant. Long enough to eat my way through the menu and gather enough celebrity run-in anecdotes to last a lifetime. My cocktail party stories suddenly involved run-ins with Bill Belichick, Jon Bon Jovi, Jonah Hill and Josh Hartnett, among many, many others. But not even these exciting encounters could make up for the depleting atmosphere of working in a place where every staff member was a hopeful singer, model, actor or artist.

After my first shift, I witnessed the server who was training me earn over $1,000 in tips — then walk out the door with only $220 after management’s cut. When I asked about the tip breakdown, my manager was finishing a line of cocaine in his windowless basement office. His explanation made little sense, but he laughed at my confusion, and I left his office feeling dejected and violated.

However, what really convinced me that I couldn’t survive there long was when I realised that my co-workers all seemed to be struggling with disordered eating. Years earlier, after my dad had died suddenly of a heart attack, I’d developed my own eating disorder — a coping mechanism that came with consequences. I’d slowly healed in college, partly thanks to a tight circle of wonderful friends. Now, without them and being surrounded by behaviours that I instantly recognised as potentially damaging, I felt my anxiety rising in a new — though disturbingly familiar — way.

During my work shifts, my trainer-server and I worked through the restaurant’s menu, each night picking something new for me to try, and we’d sit on the back staircase (there was no break room) while she explained the dish to me. No matter what it was — tuna on crispy rice, a black truffle pizza, half a roast chicken on a mountain of garlic mashed potatoes — she refused to have 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 attempting to make it as an actress, I still began to leave food on the plate, uneasy about doing so, but also worried she might have a point. She was putting her goals first. Hunger as discipline. Emptiness as a badge of ambition. Maybe fed girls didn’t make it in NYC.

By the time I walked in for my last training shift on a Sunday night, I was thinner, my spirit was beaten down, and I was worried about the road I seemed to be headed back down.

I was also still broke. I’d trained for seven shifts at $10 an hour, and I was relieved when my trainer asked me to take this shift alone. The managers were nowhere to be found, as usual, and she wanted to meet up with her boyfriend — a musician who was always cheating on her. The restaurant was slow, she told me I now knew what I was doing, and, best of all, she would let me take all of the tips I made home.

At nearly 9 o’clock, three women walked in: two women I’d never seen before and the one and only Catherine O’Hara. I froze. My mind flashed to O’Hara’s squiggly sideburns in “Beetlejuice.” Her iconic “Kevin!” in “Home Alone.” The dozens and dozens of times my sister and I had watched “Best in Show.” All of the characters she’d played that shaped my sense of humour. My sense of joy. How could I possibly serve her without telling her I loved her?

They sat in a window booth with Catherine in the centre. When I went to greet her party, her friends enthusiastically interrupted to tell me they were taking her out for her birthday. She shook her head sheepishly, embarrassed and amused.

“We’ve been friends forever,” she told me. “They don’t let me get away with anything.”

As a writer, I try to avoid cliches, but reader, her eyes truly sparkled with life and kindness.

Soon, they were my only table. I folded napkins a short distance away from them and watched the three friends enjoy each other’s company — and one of everything from the starter section, plus a burger, the tuna and the chicken. They shared a bottle of wine and giggled like girls.

Over the course of their meal, I realised that in just a few weeks, the restaurant I stood in had distorted what success should look like, but no one could extinguish the aura of true success that radiated off Catherine. She had “it” — that thing I’d come to NYC to prove I had, too, and “it” wasn’t thinness or ambition at all costs, or even talent, though of course she had that, too. 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.

By the time I dropped the chocolate soufflé off, their table held the last lit candle in the restaurant.

I placed the dessert in front of Catherine, and then I took a breath.

“I’m not supposed to bother our famous diners,” I said, “but I just have to tell you how much your acting means to me and my sister. ‘Best in Show’ is our favourite movie, and your character is my favourite.”

“Me?” she said, genuinely incredulous. “Your favourite!”

“I’m sorry to bother you. I just had to say something. Happy birthday.” I quickly turned away, mortified.

“Wait,” she called after me, “What’s your name? What’s your story?”

She insisted that 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 her spoon toward me, her mouth full of birthday soufflé, and the trio’s attention now fully, yet comfortably, on me.

I told her all about my dream to be an author and about the short story I was working on.

“What if one of the characters dies?” she riffed, delighted.

Were we collaborating? I could hardly breathe.

I was glad to have refused their offer of a bite of soufflé because the manager suddenly appeared from his basement lair, and I immediately popped out of the booth.

“I’ll just grab you the check,” I said, with my arms behind my back again, in an attempt to look professional. She winked at me as I walked away.

She paid the bill herself, though her friends tried, and though my tip out didn’t reflect it, she left me 100% on their $400 bill 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.

Catherine 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 that feel impossible.

I never went back to the restaurant again after that night. I left before the thinness of the place convinced me I had to disappear to deserve a future. There were plenty of other workplace cultures ahead of me that would also try to normalise 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.

Sammi LaBue is the founder of Fledgling Writing Workshops (“Best Writing Workshops,” Timeout NY) and basically obsessed with the feeling of having an idea and writing it down. Her latest project is a recently finished memoir written in collaboration with her mom titled “Bad Apples.” Some of her other essays can be found in BuzzFeed, Slate, Literary Hub, The Sun, Glamour and more. To follow her writing journey and find opportunities to write with her flow, visit fledgling.substack.com.

Do you have a compelling personal story you’d like to see published on HuffPost? Find out what we’re looking for here and send us a pitch at pitch@huffpost.com.