The sweet strains of a Puccini aria cut through the Saturday night clatter of the busy Italian restaurant in New York City, but it wasn’t coming from the aging voice of the Sicilian baritone, who was hired to belt out favorites such as “Funiculi-Funicula.” It was a soprano whose crystal-clear voice filled the room. Within moments, all the ambient noise was silenced. Diners stopped eating and talking, busboys stopped clearing tables; the cooks even came out of the kitchen.

Singing on the tiny stage was the skinny moon-faced waitress from Ohio. The Sicilian heard she studied opera, so he invited her to join him, but what began as a duet ended in a solo as he too was mesmerized by the beauty of her voice. When she finished, the place thundered in applause and I saw tears of gratitude glistening in her eyes. She had hit each note perfectly.

If only she had done that when she auditioned for the Metropolitan Opera. But she choked and flinched, allowing a seed of doubt to creep into her consciousness and thus her voice.

She told me her story over a couple of beers after work. It was the fall of 1984, and I was a fellow waiter at the restaurant, just another struggling artist in the city that never sleeps. She explained that she got nervous during her audition and couldn’t hit the high notes. She would get one more chance to audition, but she would have to wait an entire year.

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