My Texas Roadhouse Interview: A Job Search Story in Cinnamon Butter

You can tell a lot about the job market these days by where you end up interviewing. Some people interview at tech startups with kombucha taps and beanbag chairs. Some go to Fortune 500s with lobby waterfalls and mission statements etched into the wall. Me? I interviewed at Texas Roadhouse.

Walking in, I already knew this wasn’t going to be your average “tell me about a time you overcame adversity” session. Peanut shells crunched under my shoes like corporate stress balls, neon lights buzzed like a honky-tonk casino, and the soundtrack was pure country music—loud enough to drown out any rational thoughts of “what am I doing with my life?”

The host gave me one of those vibrating pagers, which in a steakhouse usually means, “Your table is almost ready.” But here? It meant, “Prepare yourself for the most surreal interview of your life.” Ten minutes later, it buzzed, and I was escorted not to a conference room, but to a booth. That’s right—my fate would be decided in a vinyl seat surrounded by baskets of rolls, each one staring at me like buttery judges from The Voice.

The manager arrived with a handshake that could have cracked a walnut. No “walk me through your résumé.” No “tell me about your long-term career goals.” His first question was: “Can you line dance?”

Now, I’ve been asked about project management frameworks, conflict resolution, even how I’d improve quarterly KPIs—but never once has an employer required the ability to grapevine in cowboy boots. Still, I nodded politely and said something vague about rhythm, while mentally preparing for a flash mob interview finale.

But it got better. Next came the role-play. He asked me to imagine serving a table of eight. And suddenly I was pantomiming trays of ribs and baked potatoes like a deranged mime on open mic night. But I didn’t stop there—I went all in. I leaned down to an empty booth seat and said with my brightest server smile:

“Hi folks, welcome to Texas Roadhouse! Can I start you off with our legendary margaritas? They come in 18 or 22 ounces, but you look like a 22-ounce table to me. And for you, sir, maybe a Patron kicker on top—you deserve it.”

I paused, nodded, and even pretended to write on my notepad as if invisible Karen just ordered a strawberry swirl. If this had been corporate America, that level of commitment would’ve earned me a “we’ll get back to you in six weeks.” Here, it just got me a serious nod and: “Great energy. Love the upsell.”

Finally came the closer: “Why do you want to work here?” And while the honest answer was “Because I want unlimited access to these rolls without judgment,” I played it safe with, “I just love creating great customer experiences.” The rolls, of course, glared at me in cinnamon-buttery silence, unconvinced.

Spoiler: I didn’t get the job. Apparently my line dancing was too theoretical, and my invisible margarita salesmanship wasn’t Roadhouse material. But you know what? I left with two things:

1. A belly full of rolls (which, frankly, was already payment enough).

2. A newfound respect for anyone who actually does work there. Because being a Texas Roadhouse server means you’re part waiter, part dancer, part comedian, and part motivational speaker with a tray of ribs.

And here’s the real takeaway: sometimes job interviews aren’t about getting the job. Sometimes they’re about collecting the kind of story that makes you laugh later—when you’re not busy sweating through your button-down while fake-selling margaritas to ghosts.

So no, I’m not serving steaks at Texas Roadhouse. But I am serving this story, with a side of humor, and enough cinnamon butter wisdom to know this: in the circus of job hunting, sometimes the booths are more honest than the boardrooms.