“This is . . .” I was at a loss. “This is incredible.”
“This is what I want to do.” He pocketed his phone. “No foam, no flowers made from vegetables, and no ingredients that need a pronunciation guide. Just good food that makes people happy.”
I looked down at his application, then back up at him.
“When can you start?”
Rod blinked. “You’re offering me the job?”
“Unless you have a criminal record I should know about or you’re secretly terrible with knives.”
“No criminal record. Pretty good with knives.”
“Then yes, I’m offering you the job.” I extended my hand. “Welcome to Barbacks.”
He shook my hand, his grip firm and warm. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”
“I hope not, because I just hired a guy who’s been working construction for three years to run my kitchen.”
“It was the best decision you’ll make all week.” He grinned as he stood, then paused. “One thing though.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to need a sous chef.”
My stomach dropped. I didn’t even know what a sous chef was. “That sounds expensive.”
Rod laughed, a deep, hearty sound that echoedthroughout the space and make it feel less empty. “A sous is a grunt, the guy who chops vegetables, does prep work, and whatever I tell him to do. Think of it like your barback is to your bartender. Cheap labor, but necessary.”
“Oh.” I felt my shoulders relax. “That’s not as bad as I thought.”
“I’ve got a few people in mind, guys I’ve worked with before. They’re good with knives and reliable, hard workers.”
“Okay, but I want to interview them before we make any offers. No offense, but I’m not hiring someone I haven’t met.”
“Fair enough.” Rod pulled out a business card—actual paper, slightly worn—and handed it to me. “That’s my number. Text me when you want to schedule the interviews.”
“Will do.”
He headed for the door, then stopped and looked back. “Hey, Finn?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for taking a chance on me. I know my resume looks weird.”
“Your resume looks fine, and your food looks amazing. More than anything, Mark trusts you.”
He smiled, tipped an imaginary hat, and left.
I stood there in the middle of the empty bar, staringat the door he’d just walked through, my phone in one hand and his business card in the other.
We had a chef.
We had an actual trained chef who’d worked in restaurants I’d only read about in magazines.
And he wanted to work here.
I flicked my phone to life and texted Mark.
