Chapter 7
Finn
“You didn’t put everything on your resume,” I repeated, trying to keep the skepticism out of my voice.
“No.” Rod settled back in his chair, relaxed. “I figured if I listed my actual experience, you’d think I was overqualified and pass me over.”
Here we go, again, I thought. He worked the line in the jail cafeteria? Or maybe he’d watched an entire season of Top Chef and thought that qualified him to cook.
I could feel the bullshit coming. It was just that kind of day.
“Try me,” I said, crossing my arms and cocking my head.
“I trained at the Instituto Culinario de Caracas. After graduation, I worked in fine dining in Miami for ten years—La Perla, Cielo, Casa Vera. I made it to head chef at Casa Vera before I burned out and moved to Tampa for a fresh start.”
I blinked.
My mouth opened, then closed, then opened again.
“You were a head chef at Casa Vera.”
“Yes.”
“The Casa 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 for three 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 he wanted to 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 work somewhere 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.
Arepas stuffed with pulled pork.
Empanadas that 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 Tropicana Tostones. People like that shit—it feels local, feels like it’s theirs.”
“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 echoed throughout 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, staring at 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.
Me: Did you know Rod Silva used to be head chef at Casa Vera?
Mark: Maybe.
Me: MAYBE?
Mark: I knew he cooked at some fancy places. Didn’t want to bias you.
Me: You could have mentioned he was a literal professional chef.
Mark: Where’s the fun in that? Did you hire him?
Me: Yes.
Mark: See? You didn’t need me to tell you. You figured it out yourself.
Me: You’re infuriating.
Mark: But helpful.
Me: Occasionally.
Mark: I’ll take it. Dinner tonight to celebrate?
Me: Can’t. Have to update my spreadsheets now that we have a chef with a budget for a sous chef.
Mark: You’re going to make spreadsheets on a Friday night?
Me: Yes.
Mark: You need a life.
Me: The bar IS my life.
Mark: Fair point. See you tomorrow?
Me: See you tomorrow.
I pocketed my phone and glanced around the empty space one last time. The afternoon light was streaming through the big windows, illuminating dust motes and about a thousand things that still needed to be fixed.
But I could see it.
For the first time since Mark had offered me this partnership, I could see it.
The bar would go here, running the length of the room.
Booths along that wall. High-tops near the windows.
TVs mounted in the corners—enough to watch the game, not so many it felt overwhelming.
The kitchen in the back, Rod working his magic.
The smell of food, the sound of laughter, the feeling of home.
We were building something real.
Something that mattered.
My chest felt tight, but not in the anxious way it had all week. This felt different.
This was excitement.
Anticipation.
The feeling of standing at the edge of something big and knowing—really knowing—that you were about to jump.
I walked to the door, keys in hand, ready to lock up.
Then I stopped and looked back again.
My whole body hummed with energy—good energy—the kind that made me want to get up early and stay up late and work until my hands ached.
I flipped off the lights, locked the door behind me, and headed to my car.
Journey was playing on someone’s radio as they drove past. “Don’t Stop Believin’” echoed against the nearby buildings. I found myself humming along.
Okay, I wasn’t a small-town girl, and Tampa wasn’t a lonely world, but the sentiment was the same.
I slid into my car, still humming, and drove home with the windows down and the Tampa evening air warm on my face.
And I couldn’t stop smiling.