Hot Mess
Heaven. Pure heaven.
Even though there’s no negative feedback to report to the kitchen and everyone is stuffed, I can tell people are saving room for one more culinary delight.
They want to see Benji Zane.
Put it this way: sure, the tenderness on the squab was on point. And yes, the scoop of gelato was spherical as fuck. But as rock-star as his dishes may be, these people are here for something else entirely. They’ve ponied up to get up close and personal with Benji Zane and not just because he’s easy on the eyes. To them, this is the Reformed Addict Show. It’s their chance to witness firsthand if he’s turned over a real leaf this time, or if he’s just moments away from the downfall more than a few food bloggers think is coming.
My money is on the former.
Does that make me a naive idiot? Maybe. But these people don’t know Benji like I do. The one thing I’m sure of is that I am Benji’s number one supporter. If I waver from that, I know the chances of a slip are greater, so it’s not something I’m willing to do. Especially not since we live together. I mean, you try staying ahead of the curve when your roommate has a kinky past with cocaine.
“Benji?” I say, cracking the kitchen door open a few inches. “Can you come here a sec?”
He puts down his knife roll and heads to the doorway, tapping Sebastian on the way over and telling him to take five.
“What is it? Everything good?” I can see the anxiety in his eyes. Whether it’s an audience of one or a roomful of skeptical diners, Benji cuts zero corners when it comes to his cooking. He wants tonight to go seamlessly and if he’s not pulling a huge profit in the end because of some dealer drama, well, then, his reputation among these unsuspecting people needs to be the thing that comes out on top.
“Everything’s great,” I whisper. “But are you going to step out? I think people want to applaud you. They loved everything. Honestly, it was the perfect night.”
Benji’s not shy. Not by a long shot. But I can tell he’s delayed making his cameo until I offered up the reinforcement that people really are waiting in the wings like Bono’s groupies.
“Really?” he asks.
“Really. Look at table eight. Bunch of food bloggers who wet their panties when they ate the deconstructed squash blossoms. I’m pretty sure they’ll have a full-blown orgasm if you just come out and wave to them.”
He peers over me to check out the guests. Table eight is all attractive blondes with hot-pink cell phone cases who must have taken a thousand photos so far. I’d worry, but when your reckless love story has been chronicled on every social media platform since its hot and heavy start, that makes it pretty official: Benji Zane is off the market, folks. Has been since the middle of May.
“Alright, fine. Give me a sec.”
Benji ditches his apron and grabs my hand. Together, we walk into the dining room and all chairs turn toward us. I feel a bit like the First Lady, just with a trendier outfit and a more tattooed Mr. President by my side. I bite back the urge to wave to our adoring fans.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming out tonight. I hope you enjoyed the food. It was my pleasure feeding you. Feel free to stick around and enjoy the view or see Allie for a cab if you need one. Good night, everyone.” Benji holds our interlocked hands up and bows his head.
The crowd goes wild—well, as wild as forty diners who have all just slipped into a serious food coma can go. It’s a happy state, the place Benji’s food sends you. Kind of like how you feel after a long, passionate sex session. When done, you’ve got a slight smile and glow on your face, but just want to lie down for the foreseeable future and possibly smoke a cigarette.
I spot my father standing in the back, filming on his phone as my mother claps so hard, her Tiffany charm bracelet looks like it’s about to unhinge and fall into what’s left of her dessert. Seeing them both smile proudly across the room at who their daughter has wound up with warms my heart. It’s been an uphill battle, but I’m confident we’ve won them over.
Benji whisks me back to the kitchen and before I can congratulate him on a successful evening, he pushes me up against the walk-in fridge. His tongue teases my mouth open and I am putty in his hands. With his right hand, he pulls down the collar of my romper, exposing my black lace bra. He frees my breast and kisses my nipple. My neck turns to rubber and my eyes roll back.
“Benji,” I pathetically protest, very aware that all that separates us from a roomful of people who are currently picking a filter for a photo of the two of us holding hands is a swinging door that doesn’t lock.
He continues kissing my neck, my breast still exposed. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you, Allie.”
“Oh, really?” I say, recognizing that the natural high he’s on is most certainly fueling whatever is happening here. He slips a hand up my thigh.
“You made everyone out there have a good time tonight.”
“I know,” I playfully agree. He pulls my panties to the side. I know where this is going.
“And now it’s my turn to get in on it.”
Before I know it, he’s inside of me and we’re officially having sex against a cooler with forty people standing fifteen feet away, two of whom are my doting parents.
Sex between me and Benji has always been explosive. It’s like he knows exactly what I need and where to touch me without me having to give a lick of instruction. Sex has never been like this in my entire life. Granted, I’ve only got about five solid years of experience, but nothing rivals what Benji has introduced me to in the last three months. There’s virtually nothing I’ll say no to with him. Pornos, toys and now public places. Who am I?
I’ll figure it out after I get off. A few hushed moans later, and I’m there.
“You did so good tonight,” he whispers in my ear as he helps adjust my outfit. “Now I need you to go back out there and get everyone to leave so I can fuck you again over that balcony with the view of the lake in the background. Okay?”
I come back down to earth and reply, “Yes, sir.”
Back in the dining room, I brush shoulders with Benji’s sous chef, who’s on his way back to his station. I give Sebastian a nod and return to my post, trusty water pitcher in hand.
There are a few stragglers left in the dining room, including my parents, finishing the last sips of their BYO selections. From what I can tell as I clear empty dishes and put the tips in a billfold, people liked dinner. They really liked it. The average gratuity being left on the prepaid meal is about fifty dollars cash per person.
After subtracting the dealer’s cut, it’s looking like we’ll walk with about $2,000 cash for ourselves and I can’t help but feel like a bit of cheat. I know nothing about this world—this high-end foodie club that I got inducted into overnight—yet people are emptying their wallets of their hard-earned cash to show their gratitude for what we’ve done. Do they realize just hours ago, the black squid ink from course two was being stored on ice in my bathtub? Regardless, we need the money. Benji may have kicked his expensive habit, but I’m the only one with a steady job right now and being a social media manager for Daxa—yes, the organic cotton swab brand made famous by Katy Perry’s makeup artist on Snapchat—isn’t exactly like being the CEO of Morgan Stanley.
“Excuse me, where is the ladies’ room?” a tipsy guest asks. Benji might not have taught me how to sous vide a filet mignon, but he did tell me you always walk a guest to the bathroom when they ask. I promptly put down the dirty glasses and the wad of tips and walk the boozy babe to the loo.
Upon my return, I nearly collide with another guest, this one quite a bit soberer.
“Allie.” The prim-looking thirtysomething woman with a bleached-blond pixie cut says my name matter-of-factly. I stand up straight; this chick has CRITIC written all over her face.
“Yes, ma’am. Can I help you? Do you need a taxi?”
“No, thank you. I just wanted to give you a tip.”
“Oh, that’s so kind of you. You can actually just leave a gratuity on the table.”
“No, I meant, like, some advice.”
I tilt my head to the side and try not to lose my grip on my smiley service. She’s five foot nothing, but her demeanor is as bold as her bright red lipstick.
“I’m not sure Benji would be cool with you leaving a billfold with what I’d guess is about $2,000 in it just sitting on a table in a room full of drunk people who don’t know that it’s time to go home. It would behoove you to keep an eye on your shit.”
She jams the billfold into my chest and proceeds to walk right past me to the elevator bank.
And just like that, I’ve officially been felt up twice in one night.
2
It’s been two days since the pop-up and I’m meeting my girlfriends, Jazzy and Maya, for a very belated birthday celebration they arranged at Tavern on Rush, a glitzy Gold Coast eatery whose only meal I can afford is this one: Sunday brunch.
I’ve known Jazzy and Maya since high school. We ended up going our separate ways for college, but stayed in touch through thousands of group texts and visits home over the holidays. The four years flew by and it was no surprise that we would all wind up back in the city after graduation. The two of them live together in a cute two-bed-plus-den walk-up in Bucktown. They asked me if I wanted in on the lease but the could-be third bedroom was more like a Harry Potter closet and by that point I had determined my days of trying to hook up with a guy on a twin-size mattress ended the moment I was handed my bachelor’s degree. So that’s how I wound up solo in a studio in Lincoln Park, but it’s all good—especially given how things shook out with Benji.
Admittedly, it’s taken longer than it should for our little friend group to get together and celebrate my big quarter-of-a-century milestone, but I’ve been...well, I’ve been with Benji. Regardless, today we’ve got reserved patio seats looking out onto an area of town called “The Viagra Triangle” and the change of scenery, no matter how perverse, is welcome.
There’s no direct route from Lincoln Park to this part of town, but the people-watching is worth the public transportation shortcomings. Everywhere we look, there are men sixty years and older valeting drop-top Bentley convertibles and ushering around girls my age with tight bodycon dresses and fake tits. What these ladies will do for a Chanel purse the size of a dog crate is...well, come to think of it, pretty similar to what people do to get near Benji. I just hope no one petitions us for a foursome while we’re sitting out here.
“Thanks for putting this together, you guys,” I say as a montage of mimosa flutes and Bloody Mary tumblers connect in the center of our table.
“Cheers to twenty-five!!” they harmonize back.
“Oh, wait. Keep your glasses like that,” I say. “This is a great Instagram.”
I pull out my phone to get the bird’s-eye shot: Jazzy’s champagne flute angled slightly toward Maya’s Bloody Mary tumbler. Fresh pastel-colored gel manicures and just a hint of the robust bread basket overflowing in the lower left corner. It’s perfect for my Sunday morning social streams.
Too bad I’m not actually taking the picture. I’m really just checking my phone to see if Benji has tried to reach me. I know if I pull it out at the table and start texting, the girls will give me major shit about the fact I can’t go two hours without looking at it.
But what they don’t understand is how tough it really is to leave Benji alone knowing he doesn’t have a pop-up to prepare for this week or a bank of trustworthy friends of his own to hang with at the moment. I worry that the boredom may lead to something more sinister. Alas, there are no new messages from him, which could actually mean he’s at an NA meeting. I take a calming breath at the thought and strive to be a little more present at my special birthday brunch.
“Did you get it? My arm’s getting tired,” Maya says.
“Oh, damn, my storage is full. Let me delete some photos and we’ll try again when our food comes.”
The three-egg veggie omelet on the menu catches my eye. Sometimes, the simpler the dish, the better when Benji isn’t around. Because when he is, it’s always something like evaporated pancake mix with bacon jam. Delicious? Yes. Swoon-worthy? Totally. But filling? Hardly. And even though gourmet is my new normal, I enjoy the simple throwbacks, especially when they come with a side of home-style hash browns. When it’s time to order, I make a game-time decision to go sweet instead of savory, locking in the cinnamon brioche French toast and a promise to go for a jog by the lake later.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever,” Jazzy says as she hands her menu back to the server, who trots off to put in our orders. I can’t tell if she’s peeved that I’ve dropped off the radar a bit, or just stating a fact. “I have bangs now.”
I love how Jazzy is using her bold hair choices as a milestone for our hangouts. From now on, I wouldn’t be surprised if we refer to things as “BB”—Before Bangs—and “AB”—After Bangs—which coincidentally aligns with Before Benji and After Benji. Either way, they suit her well. But when you look like Padma Lakshmi’s little sister and work as a buyer for Nordstrom, how could a trendy haircut betray your already perfect sense of style?
I think back on when the last time we all got together actually was and realize it was for our book club meeting a few months ago. It was my turn to host and Benji was only about a week sober at that point. I hadn’t yet told the girls he was living with me, nor had I filled them in on any of the gory details about his addiction, but I couldn’t cancel on them the day of. I also couldn’t tell Benji to get lost for a couple hours while we girls drank half a crate of wine and discussed periods, recent blow-job mishaps and a little bit about the book Gone Girl. So I explained that I was having friends over to talk about a book we were all reading and would try to hurry it up.
“You don’t have to rush because of me,” he immediately said. “If these girls are important to you, they’re important to me.”
“I know, but there will be wine. A lot of wine.”
“There will always be wine, babe. It doesn’t tempt me anymore, though. So why don’t you just sit down, relax and let me make you ladies some canapés.”
Before I had a chance to answer, my doorman was calling up to my unit to let me know my first guests had arrived.
As they filed in, I glossed over the introduction and explanation of Benji. He waved and smiled and looked hot in his apron while whipping up some hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. The girls took their seats around the coffee table in my living room as I fetched a wine key from the utensil drawer.
“Sorry, babe,” I whispered as I grabbed the bottle opener from the drawer next to him.
“Stop apologizing, Al. Enjoy yourself. Please.”
On my tippy toes, I reached up to plant a kiss on his lips. That’s the first moment I realized I had it all.
A half hour later, Benji walked into the room with a tray of snacks. I know the girls were expecting some crackers and brie, but when he placed the canapés that could be on the cover of Plate magazine in front of us on the coffee table, everyone took their phones out and started Snapchatting like crazy.
“Holy shit. Does he cook like this all the time?”
“Oh my god, is this for real?”
“Did he just whip this up for us?”
Yes, yes and yes.
As the night went on, so did the culinary surprises from Benji. Deconstructed elotes featuring yellow corn, homemade mayo and parmesan cheese. Crispy cucumber slices with fresh-made garlic hummus and dehydrated cranberries. Mini toast points with guacamole made from avocadoes that were sitting on my countertop earlier that day. All of these treats came from ordinary groceries I happened to have in my fridge and pantry.
I soon recognized the infamous Benji Zane food coma coming over my girlfriends. At that, a few excused themselves by way of an Uber, leaving Jazzy, Maya and me to sit and chat while Benji cleaned up the kitchen and fixed himself dinner with the leftovers. That’s when I decided to tell them about my new living arrangement. I figured doing so after they’d experienced the Benji Effect firsthand would lessen the judgmental blowback that comes with telling people you’ve reached a major relationship milestone seemingly overnight.
Jazzy: “He’s living here now? God, you’re so lucky.”
Maya: “Agree. Maybe book club should morph into supper club, and permanently be at your place.”
Me: Mission accomplished.
“Sorry, it’s been crazy,” I say, returning to our brunch conversation. It’s minimal, but true.
“Speaking of crazy, can we talk about this?” Maya flips her wavy red hair over her shoulder and holds her phone my way. Her gap-toothed smile gets bigger by the second. I squint to see what’s lit up on her screen but before I can make it out, Jazzy grabs it from across the table for a better look of her own.
“‘Hot in the Kitchen,’” she reads. “‘Zane Stuns at North Side Pop-up.’”
“No way,” I say. “Gimme that.”
“Oh yeah, your face is all over FoodFeed,” Maya confirms, spiraling a curl around her pointer finger.
She’s right. FoodFeed—the quintessential dining-out blog of Chicago—has posted their review of Friday’s pop-up and chosen a photo of Benji holding my hand and bowing as the article’s hero image. Damn, we look good together.
Skimming the post, I see that FoodFeed approves of everything from the courtship to the courses. I scroll down to the comments and aside from one that says, “The fuck is she wearing?” in what I assume is in regards to my romper, it all seems positive. I text myself the link from Maya’s phone before giving it back to her.
I never used to care what FoodFeed had to say, mostly because I never knew what FoodFeed was. But since Benji’s name is as common on there as a photo of a doughnut on Instagram, I figured I had better familiarize myself. Not to mention, they’re the ones who broke the news we were dating in the first place.
When I hear the ding from inside my bag, the link to the article isn’t the only new message I’ve received. I’ve somehow missed five texts from Benji in the last few minutes.
Hi.
How’s brunch?
When R U coming home?
How do I go from TV to DVD with this remote?
Hello???
I picture him on the couch struggling to figure out how to put on Little Miss Sunshine but the directions are too much to type without being rude to Jazzy and Maya. So I quickly forward him the article in hopes that it distracts him long enough to realize he can probably just find the flick for free OnDemand.
Moments later, our brunch order arrives. The food runner places my French toast in front of me and our server follows behind him with a plate of ricotta pancakes.
“You’re Allie Simon, right?” he asks.
“Yes, why?”
“I knew it.” He puts the plate down and smiles proudly.
None of us ordered the short stack, but the fluffy pillows of perfection with their golden-blond hue look and smell delicious.
“I had the kitchen make these for you as a thank-you. I was at the pop-up Friday. My girlfriend got us tickets for my birthday.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Did I? Pardon my French, but holy shit, your boyfriend can cook. I mean, seriously, I have been dreaming about those squash blossoms ever since our Uber ride home. Do you know when his next dinner will be?”
“No, I’m sorry, I don’t. It all depends on securing a venue. But if you follow him on Twitter, he usually announces them there.”
“Oh, I already do. And on Instagram. And on Facebook. And I follow you, too, actually,” he says, completely fangirling out.
“Wow, thank you for...all your support. And for the pancakes.”
I can feel my face turn as red as Maya’s hair. I’m used to attention when out with him, but the fact I’m now being recognized on my own takes the reality of this high-profile relationship up a notch.
The server scampers away, looking like he just got laid. I’ve completely made this guy’s day and I’m not really sure how.
“Unreal,” Jazzy says.
“You literally have the craziest life,” Maya echoes.
Yeah, I guess this ain’t too shabby, I think to myself as I forklift the top pancake and plop it onto my plate.
* * *
So how does a girl like me wind up even crossing paths with a guy like Benji? We don’t hang with the same people. We don’t like the same things. Before him, the hardest drug I’d ever been around was pot smoked out of a water bottle at a frat party. On the food side of things, I never knew what a Michelin star was, nor could I fathom a world in which people paid $400 for a single meal. Before Benji, I could be found shopping the Nordstrom anniversary sale with Jazzy’s discount, hanging at some lawyer-laden soiree with some of Maya’s coworkers or out fulfilling my quest to collect as many punches as possible on my frozen yogurt loyalty card. None of that lent itself to meeting a guy like Benji.
Well, as it happens, while manning the social streams for Daxa-related news one day, I saw a chef tweet a video of plating a really beautiful dish of food using tweezers and our very own cotton swabs. I clicked on the guy’s profile and realized he was someone with some social media worth, 16,000+ followers. According to his bio, he was the executive chef of a restaurant I hadn’t heard of in the heart of downtown Chicago and seemed to enjoy chronicling his every moment in the kitchen online.
So I did what Daxa pays me to do: I “at-replied” him and retweeted his picture with a cheeky caption. Cleans your ears, cleans your eats.
In the moments that followed, my professional responsibilities combined with my personal curiosity and down the Google rabbit hole I went. I punched his name into a blank search bar and was blown away by what I found next.
One of the first hits back was a YouTube video of him sitting in front of a computer with his feet up on a desk looking remarkably cool. The cameraman sneaks up behind him to catch a glimpse of what Benji’s watching on the screen. Surprise! It’s a porno. “So what’s on the menu tonight, Chef Zane?” says the person filming. “Cream pie?” Benji jumps, lets out a loud “Fuck you...” and the room explodes in cackles. Thank god I had my headphones on.
I then clicked over to the Images tab and saw no shortage of eye candy there. Hell, there were entire Pinterest boards dedicated to his glorious man-bun. Most of the pictures were candid ones of him cooking, but there were definitely quite a few—some in color, some in black-and-white—of him hamming it up for the camera.
I got stuck on one photo in particular. It was connected to a write-up in GQ titled “Knife Fight.” He was pictured standing with his shirt off holding a butcher’s knife that was covered in red pepper puree meant to look like blood dripping off the blade. He was tatted up to his chin with everything from olive tree branches to a pig being roasted over an open flame. Over his left knuckles, the word RARE. Over his right, WELL. Kudos for having a theme, I thought. His face had a wicked, smug stare on it as if he was thinking, “You can’t tell because the photo is cropped, but I’m getting an awesome blow job right now.”
He was hot—at least, I guessed that’s the word you’d use to describe someone who’s both intimidating and alluring all at the same time. Even though he wasn’t my usual type, a small part of me wondered right then what it would be like to walk into his restaurant, sit alone at the bar with a view into the open kitchen and wait to see if a girl like me could catch the attention of a guy like him as I sipped on a glass of wine.
I hit on a few more links that day and caught myself reading what others were saying about him in the comments section of some blog.
“Just what the city needs. Another druggie chef.”
“He’s not on drugs, you idiot.”
“Doesn’t he only cook while super high?”