“Yes.”
“TheCasa Vera? The one with more awards than they hand out at the Oscars and a six-month waiting list for reservations?”
“That’s the one.”
“And you’re applying to flip burgers at a gay bar that doesn’t even exist yet?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Would you like to know why?”
“Oh, you know I do. I really do.”
“Because fine dining is bullshit.” He said it matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather. “It’s beautiful bullshit, sure. Delicious bullshit. But still bullshit. There’s no soul in the food, just tiny portions, pretentious customers, and chefs who think they’re artists instead of cooks. I spent ten years making food that looked pretty on Instagram and left people hungry. I’m done with that.”
“So you went into construction.”
“I needed to work with my hands, to build things. I needed to do something honest.” He shrugged. “But I’ve been helping Mark with his company forthree years now, and he told me about this place, about what you’re trying to build. And I thought, this could be good. Real food for real people. No bullshit. Just good cooking.”
“You know Mark?”
“I’ve worked on his crew for three years. He’s terrible at details but great with people. He’s a good boss.” Rod smiled. “When he told me he was opening a bar with his . . . friend? Boyfriend?”
“Absolutely not,” I said quickly. “We tried one date. It was a disaster.”
“Ah.” Rod’s smile widened. “When he told me he was opening a bar with his business partner, I asked if he needed a cook. He gave me your number.”
“Why didn’t he mention this to me?”
“Because I asked him not to. I wanted to apply properly, not get the job because I knew the boss.”
I studied him for a long moment. This man had trained at a culinary institute, an honest-to-goodness chef school. He’d worked in restaurants that I couldn’t afford to eat at even if I wanted to, and hewantedto cook in a sports bar in Ybor.
“What’s the catch?” I asked.
“There’s no catch.”
“There’s always a catch. You’re overqualified. You could work anywhere.”
“I don’t want to work anywhere. I want to worksomewhere I give a shit about.” He met my eyes. “Mark talks about you like you’re family. He says you’re the smartest person he knows and that you’ll keep him from burning the place down—literally and figuratively. That sounds like someone I want to cook for.”
Something warm settled in my chest at that.
“Okay,” I said. “What would you want to cook? We’ve been thinking burgers, wings, maybe some apps. Bar food, but good bar food. Nothing frozen and nothing from a bag.”
“I can do that.” Rod pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos. “These are some things I’ve been working on. Call it Venezuelan-fusion bar food.”
He showed me picture after picture.
A burger with plantains instead of a bun.
Wings with a guava-habanero glaze.
Tostones—fried plantains—served with different dipping sauces.
Arepasstuffed with pulled pork.
Empanadasthat made my mouth water just looking at them.
“Every dish is named after a Tampa sports moment or player,” he explained. “The Stanley Slider, The Brady Burger, The TropicanaTostones. People like that shit—it feels local, feels like it’s theirs.”
