He laughed, and we kept shopping.
By Thursday, my inbox was filling up with applications. Some looked promising. Most didn’t.
One guy’s cover letter for the cook position was just “i can make good food hmu.”
No capitalization. No punctuation beyond that period at the end. Neither Priya nor I knew what ‘hmu’ stood for. We weren’t twelve.
Another applicant for the barback position included a headshot that looked like it was from a modeling portfolio and a resume that listed “looking hot” as a skill. He wasn’t wrong. He was devastatingly handsome, but a barback? Just no.
“This is going well,” I said to Priya that night.
“I am Indian. We season our food with sarcasm. Do not start with me, young man.”
I wasn’t in the mood to play and blew out a heavy sigh. “What if everyone who applies is terrible?”
“Then you will keep looking.” She was sprawled on the couch in her scrubs, eating Froot Loops for dinner because that’s what she did when she was too tired to cook. “You are catastrophizing again.”
“Catastrophizing? Is that even a word?”
She shrugged and shoved a spoonful of color intoher mouth. “I am a doctor. And I am from another country. I get to make up words.”
I groaned. “You’re not helping.”
“And you are being anxious.” She pointed her spoon at me. “Tomorrow, you are doing interviews. Some will be bad, maybe most will be bad, but you only need to find a couple of good ones, right?”
Of course, she was right. Priya was always right.
I had five interviews scheduled for Friday.
The first guy was applying for the barback position. He showed up twenty minutes late, reeked of weed, and asked if “the dress code was chill” because he “didn’t do uniforms.”
“Thanks for coming in,” I said. “We’ll be in touch.”
The second guy, also applying for barback, showed up on time but spent the entire interview talking about his DUI and asking if we’d be “cool about it” when he inevitably needed rides home after shifts.
“We’ll let you know,” I said.
The third candidate, Tamara, was applying for the cook position. I was shocked to find that shewas qualified—too qualified, in fact. She’d worked at three Michelin-starred restaurants and made it very clear she was only discussing a “bar job” until one of Tampa’s better restaurants earned a star and needed her unique talents. Then she asked about our “culinary vision” and seemed offended when I said we were planning on burgers and wings.
“I see,” she said, standing up before the interview was even over. “I don’t think this is the right fit.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t think so either.”
The fourth interview was also for a cook position. The guy seemed normal enough until he asked if we’d be okay with him “occasionally” showing up drunk because he had “a bit of a thing,” but it was “totally under control.”
“I don’t think this is going to work out,” I said.
“Your loss, man.”
By the time 4:30 rolled around, I was ready to throw in the towel. Maybe we’d just have to keep looking. Maybe the perfect candidates didn’t exist. Maybe I was being too picky, or not picky enough, or—
Someone knocked on the door.
I looked up from my notes to see a man standing in the doorway. He was stocky, with a muscular build, graying black hair in a neat fade, and a salt-and-pepper goatee. He wore a faded blackT-shirt that showed off tattooed forearms, jeans, and work boots that had seen better days. I wondered if one of his toes might make a run for it.
He looked like he’d just come from a construction site.
Which, according to his application, he had.
