One of the most embarrassing moments in my restaurant career occurred while I was working as a cook at Fitzwillys. Fitzwillys was a trend setter that helped pioneer the yuppie look in restaurants. People referred to it as a fern bar because of the wood and plant motif but it was more than that. Opened around 1973 in Northampton, Massachusetts, Fitzwillys was jammed with colorful artifacts, memorabilia, antiques, and knickknacks so that wherever you looked there was something to catch your eye. What you 'd never see or hear in Fitzwillys were televisions, radios, or clocks. There wasn't even the name anywhere on the outside of the building. By the mid Eighties, much of that had changed as a television set was suspended at the end of the bar and gold leaf lettering proudly spelled out the name on the front window.

I began working at Fitzwillys in July of 79 as a prep cook. I was quickly promoted to line cook and then again to shift supervisor. One of my responsibilities as the night shift supervisor was to take a limited nightly inventory and to leave a prep list for the next day's shift.

The way Fitzwillys was set up was the main kitchen was upstairs by the dining room and the prep kitchen, walk-in refrigerator, freezer, and dry storage area were all downstairs in the basement. To get from the main kitchen to the basement you would go out through the back door, go ten yards across the parking lot, and then in through an outer bulkhead that led down to the basement.

Once downstairs I would put a roast beef and a corn beef in the conveyor ovens to cook overnight and then take an inventory of the walk-in. This particular night there was only myself and one other cook in the restaurant. She was on her first night and I had told her to just finish cleaning her area and then to go home.

Downstairs, I headed into the walk-in , turning the light on inside the large refrigerator and propping the door open as I always had. As I peered into the far corner I noticed the light growing dimmer. I looked up just in time to see the door swinging shut behind me. I had seen that door swing shut hundreds of times before but I had always been on the other side when it had. This time I noticed something that I had never seen before. There was no handle on the inside of the door. It had been removed.

I looked around hoping it had dropped on the floor but I couldn't find it. I pushed against the door but it didn't budge. Doors like this seal shut with an extremely heavy latch. It was not a question of strength, no one would have been able to push their way out of there. I was stuck.

I finished my inventory. We were very low on sliced cheese. I would tell the morning crew when they opened the door and let me out. I was starting to shiver. The walk-in maintains a temperature range of thirty six to forty two degrees and while I knew I probably wouldn't freeze that was of little comfort to me. I considered screaming for help and decided it would be totally futile. Then I screamed for help. It was totally futile. There was no one there to hear me. I then did the only thing a man can do when he's faced with this kind of hopeless adversity. I made myself a sandwich.

As I sat and ate my sandwich I saw something that gave me what I thought was a great idea. In the walk-in with me wasn't just food but there, sitting on the floor along the right side of the large refrigerator, were three kegs of beer. The kitchen was just about to close but the bar would be open for another hour. I thought that if I disconnected one of the kegs someone would have to come down to change it. I was suddenly full of hope.

I had never changed a keg before but it looked pretty simple. There was a big lever attached to a turnscrew connector right on top. I didn't realize that these kegs had a small pressure valve that had to be released before removing the nozzle. As I twisted on the lever beer came pouring out the top, soaking me in Bud Lite. Apparently there is something about getting drenched with beer in a thirty eight degree refrigerator that snaps my mind into instant clarity. I suddenly remembered that the three kegs that were keeping me company in the walk-in were hooked up to the auxiliary bar which was only used on the weekends. It was of little comfort to me to know that someone would be coming to replace that keg in four days.

I took a moment to reassess my situation. I had just eaten and had some beer. I was cold. I was wet. It was just about midnight and I faced the very likely prospect of remaining cold and wet for the next seven hours. I also faced a tremendous loss of prestige. On the bright side I was still on the clock and the overtime would come in handy.

All of a sudden my revelry was broken by the unexpected sound of someone calling my name. One of the waitresses, Beth, was down in the basement looking for me. I was about to be saved. Beth had put a last minute order into the kitchen that the new girl didn't know how to make. I owed my rescue to a young couple that had ordered a plate of cheese nachos.

As I realized that I was about to receive a last minute reprieve from my overnight imprisonment my mind skipped right over relief and gratitude and headed directly to extreme embarrassment. While I screamed as casually as I could, which is not an easy task, I quickly assumed the most relaxed, natural pose I could think of. When Beth opened the walk-in door I was standing there facing her. My left hand rested comfortably on my hip, my right hand was reaching out and leaning on the rack that held the sliced turkey and roast beef. Beer dripped from the tip of my nose.

It was painfully obvious from the look on Beth's face that my nonchalant stance did not make me look as debonair as I had hoped. What hurt even more was when I was told the next day that inches from where I had placed my right hand was the spot where the handle to the door was kept. It had been removed from the door and slid into the rack for safe keeping. To this day, I have no idea why the handle wasn't kept in the door for safe keeping.