I could barely breathe. I went to their offices on Sixth Avenue. There were giant posters as you walked in — Bobby Flay, Mario Batali, and Emeril, smiling down at me as if to say, “Cole, you live in the greatest city in the world, and anything can happen.”

My first task was to type up a job posting for an audience warm-up comic for Emeril’s new show, Emeril Live. Instead, I applied for the job. And the same people who took a chance on a man who threw cayenne pepper at stews with his bare hands — hired me, a woman with zero experience.

I couldn’t believe this was happening. The first time I met him it was like meeting one of the Muppets. He asked me my name. “Cole,” I said. “Like Cole Porter?” he asked. Yes. From then on, that’s what he called me. Backstage before shows, he’d jump up and down to get revved up, and say, “You ready, Ms. Porter?” Ready, Emeril!

But it turned out that audience warm-up is a real skill — and I didn’t have it. I’d come out into the audience and say, “Who wants to meet Emeril?” and the audience went crazy. But that was kind of the extent of my material. I’d bullshitted my way into this job and I was already sinking.

During the commercial, the director told me I needed to do better. How?

Emeril took pity on me. He came out with me. He leaned down and whispered in my ear, “We need to kick this audience up a couple of notches, Miss Porter.” It felt a little sexy, him whispering in my ear like that. But also, I thought, Oh my god, he really talks like that! Kick it up a couple of notches! He slipped something cold into my hand. A packaged ice cream sandwich. He had a whole box of them, and he started hurling them into the audience. They went bananas, diving to catch them, jumping out of their seats. They were sufficiently warmed up. Emeril had saved me.