Princess Consuelayowled.
“Coming, Majesty,” I called down the hall.
Chapter 32
Benji
Adrian had been dancing at Barbacks for three weeks.
The bar now had a waiting list on Saturdays.
A waiting list. At Barbacks. Seriously.
Mark had run the numbers. He’d appeared from his booth with his laptop angled toward Finn like a man presenting evidence to a jury and said, “Saturday revenue is up forty-three percent since the themed nights launched. The per-customer spend has increased by eleven dollars, driven primarily by cocktail orders and Rod’s menu. Adrian’s social media presence is generating organic traffic that I haven’t had to pay for, which is the best kind of traffic, because it’s free.”
“Free is my favorite four-letter F-word,” Finn quipped.
“Don’t let Chase hear you say that!” I said because I couldn’t stop myself.
Mark grunted. I interpreted that as a chuckle.
“Free traffic,” Mark continued. “His following shows up every Saturday. They bring friends. The friends become regulars. The regulars bring more friends. It’s a compound growth model, and Adrian is the catalyst.”
“The catalyst,” Adrian said from the bar, where he was stretching before his shift. “Tell myabuelaI’m a catalyst. She’ll name a new baked good ‘The Catalyst’ or add it to her Christmas card like another family member.”
Finn smiled at that.
Finn never smiled during revenue discussions, because Finn treated revenue with the solemnity that other people reserved for religion. But he’d smiled, and Chase had noticed, and Chase had put his hand on Finn’s shoulder in the way that meant, “See, it’s working. The thing you built is working.” Finn leaned into the touch for approximately half a second before returning to operational mode, which was his version of a standing ovation.
Tonight was Adrian’s fourth Saturday.
He arrived at 3:45 carrying his customary two bakery boxes, because his grandmother had decided that Barbacks was an extension of her kitchen and that feeding its staff was a non-negotiable element of the arrangement.
Rod had stopped pretending he wasn’t waiting for the boxes.
He appeared in the pass-through within thirty seconds of Adrian’s arrival, assessed the contents with a single glance, and took the guava and cream cheese box to the kitchen without comment, which was Rod’s version of a Michelin review with all the stars.
“Your cook took myabuela’s pastries again,” Adrian said.
“Rod,” I said. “His name is Rod.”
“Rod took myabuela’s pastries again. She’s going to start charging him.”
“Rod doesn’t pay for things. Rod accepts offerings.”
“Myabueladoesn’t make offerings. She makes investments. She’s already asked me if the cook is single.”
“Rod is married to Ruthie. They’re very happy.”
“She’s not asking for romantic purposes. She’s asking because she wants to know if he’ll come to Sunday dinner and teach her hismolerecipe. She tasted themolesauce on the short rib plate and called me at 6 a.m. to say, and I’m translating loosely here, ‘The cook at your bar understandsmoleat a spiritual level, and I need to speak with him directly.’”
“Tell yourabuelathat Rod would probably cometo Sunday dinner but that getting themolerecipe out of him would require an act of God.”
“Myabuelais an act of God. She’ll manage.”
By 8 p.m., the bar was full in the way that had become the new Saturday normal. Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder, and the noise level hovered where you had to lean in to hear someone and where the leaning in became part of the atmosphere. All this forced intimacy turned strangers into conspirators.
Jacks was behind the bar with me. We’d found the rhythm that years of working together had produced, the fluid, wordless coordination of two people who could anticipate each other’s needs without looking.
