“That wasonetime—”
“You hired Jacks in thirty seconds.”
“Jacks is great, and he’s super cute.”
“Cute is not part of our hiring criteria, you neanderthal. And Jacks is a golden retriever in human form who didn’t know what a jigger was.”
“He’s learning.”
Morgan cleared her throat. “Hi. I’m here for the bartender interview?”
I plastered on my professional smile. “Morgan. Thanks for coming. I’m Finn.”
Morgan was everything her resume suggested. She was competent, professional, and experienced. She worked at The Guild for five years, knew her way around craft cocktails, and had proven she could handle high volume. She answered my questions with the kind of practiced ease that came from years of experience.
She was perfect.
But she was also boring.
Not in a bad way, just in a “this would be aperfectlyfine working relationship with zero personality” kind of way. She was qualified and seemed reliable.
But something felt like it was missing.
I thanked her, told her I’d be in touch. She left at 2:45.
David Kim showed up at three on the dot. He was good, too, with four years at a sports bar in Clearwater. He talked about his previous job with enthusiasm and asked good questions about our concept, our clientele, and our plans for growth.
He was alsoperfectlyfine.
Andperfectlyboring.
By the time he left at 3:45, I was starting to panic. Twoperfectlyqualified candidates and neither of them got me excited. Neither of them had that spark, that personality that would fit with the chaos of Barbacks and the energy of our growing team.
“Stop overthinking,” Mark said when I slumped against the bar between interviews. “They were both good.”
“Good isn’t great.”
“Good is employed and capable of mixing drinks without setting anything on fire.”
“But do they fit? Do they get what we’re trying to do here? Will they ‘wow’ our customers or simply deliver what they order?”
“Finn, they’re bartenders, not life partners.”
“They’re going to be working with us every day. Personality matters.”
Mark opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. “Okay, fair point, but you can’t expect every candidate to be perfect.”
“I’m not expecting perfect. I’m expecting—”
In that moment, the door didn’t just open; it exploded inward as though someone had kicked it in, which—based on the guy walking in carrying two iced coffees and what looked like a skateboard tucked under one arm—might have actually happened.
“OKAY, so I’m not late. You’re early. There’s a difference!” He announced this to the entire empty bar. “Also, I brought you coffee because interviews are boring and everyone deserves caffeine. I didn’t know how you take it, so I got one regular and one with like seventeen pumps of vanilla. Pick your poison.”
Benji was Korean-American, maybe twenty-five, and wore a vintage Nirvana T-shirt that was from an actual concert in 1993 and therefore cost more than my rent. His black jeans were ripped in places that seemed structural rather than fashionable. His neon green Converse hurt to look at directly.
And his hair was pink.
Not dyed pink in a salon.
