doubt he’s got the “hot and up-and-coming chef” thing down: tattooed, confident, exhausted and exhilarated. Hard to believe this isn’t a casting event for Top Chef.
Harder to believe this is the man I get to take home every night.
“FUCK! Are you kidding me, Sebastian? Where the fuck is the lid to that thing?” Benji’s words effectively snap me out of the trance I was in danger of being lulled into. It takes me a minute to realize what happened: his sous chef, Sebastian, has pressed Start on a Vitamix full of would-be avocado aioli, except the lid to the blender is nowhere to be found. Green schmutz has gone flying, marking up Benji’s pristine apron like the start of a Jackson Pollock piece.
“Sorry, chef. I got it on now.” Tail between his legs, Sebastian gets back to work as Benji furiously wipes at the streak with his bare hand. He’s making it worse.
“Benji. Breathe.” I grab his half-drunk can of LaCroix and pour a little onto a clean kitchen rag. While tending to the stain in the hot kitchen, I look directly into those deep brown eyes and give him a reassuring smile. He smells of cigarettes and sweat, garlic and onions. It’s intoxicating.
“I know, Allie. This is just...huge for me. Huge for us. The press is going to be here tonight.” He wipes some sweat off his brow.
“And my parents,” I whisper.
“Oh god, them, too.” He releases the tension by cracking the bones in his neck. A poor substitute, I imagine, for his true preference: a shot of whiskey.
But even a slug of 120 proof wouldn’t take the edge off the fact that Benji’s pop-up dinners are the new It Thing. People salivate at their screens just waiting for him to tweet out the next time and place he’ll be cooking. Why? Because he’s the hottest chef in Chicago and you can’t taste his food at any restaurant. So when he announces a dinner, it’s a mad, server-crashing race to claim one of only twelve spots at the table. And when everyone wants to see how the reformed addict is faring, they’ll cancel all their plans for the day on the off chance they’ll be one of the first to submit a reservation request, followed by prompt prepayment—which all goes to me, the fan-favorite girlfriend of Benji Zane.
I can’t blame his followers for the obsession. Our flash-in-the-pan love story was covered by the most-read food blog earlier this spring, and since then, there have been myriad articles chronicling his love-hate relationship with hard drugs and high-end cooking. Between his unlikely relationship with me, his checkered past and his unmatched kitchen skills, Benji’s managed to divide people like we’re talking about health-care reform or immigration.
Half see him as a prodigy in the kitchen who was given a second chance when some no-name poster child of millennial living suddenly inspired him to get clean. The other half of Chicago views him as an all-hype hack who uses the media attention to rob his patrons of their hard-earned money so he can get his next score.
Fuck those people. Because the Benji that I know, that I live with...well, he’s a stand-up guy whose brunch—and bedroom—game happens to be on point.
“Listen, babe,” I say. “What did I tell you? I’m not going to let you down tonight, okay? I’ll pace the seating however you need me to. I’ll greet the press and spot the critics, too. We got this, okay? I believe in you.” And I do.
I don’t always agree to help Benji at his pop-ups—usually I just accept the reservation requests and keep the books straight. But tonight is different. Benji told me yesterday that he’s got an outstanding dealer debt to pay off and so he’s oversold the dining room by about twenty-five chairs to try to make a little extra cash. Without me here to help host a guest list of this size, this highly publicized dinner would look and feel more like a dysfunctional family reunion. Something I’m sure the piranha-like press would love to write about.
I wanted to be pissed about this little “oops” moment. How careless could he be? Now, by over-inviting a horde of geeked-out foodies, and in the past, by racking up a $2,000 coke bill. But he assured me it’s just one of those things that needs to be handled in order for him to move on with his sobriety. And that’s what I signed up for by being his girlfriend: unconditional support and a back that would never turn on him.
He’s even arranged for Sebastian to be the one to hand over the cash tonight after the last diner goes home. Consider it just another example of how hungry people are to work alongside Mr. Zane. The same set of hands is willing to debone fifty squab and pay off gangbanging drug dealers from the South Side, all in the same night.
I don’t blame Sebastian, though. There’s something about Benji that makes you want to strap in for the ride. It’s like rushing a sorority: you’ll do what you need to do to get in, because ultimately, you end up part of something bigger than yourself. I just don’t think any of us know what that something is yet.
At least that’s the way I see it from my vantage point, which is currently the groin area of a brand-new apron that was marked with an unsightly stain until I stepped in.
“See, babe?” I say. “All clean.”
Benji pulls me in for a kiss, his hand cupped around the back of my neck. With my French twist fragile in his palm, I feel the stress in the kitchen disintegrate. I’m no superhero, but if I were, my power would surely be managing to make it all okay for him, every time. It doesn’t even matter that there’s garlic burning in a sauté pan, my lipstick is now smeared, or that my work email is probably blowing up with a hundred notifications an hour.
“You’re my rock, babe,” he tells me, tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ears. I love hearing that I’m doing a good job, because it’s not always easy.
“Okay, so here’s the final guest list,” he says, getting back to business. Benji hands me a piece of paper from the back pocket of his charcoal gray skinny jeans. At the top, Aug. 20 Pop-Up is underlined in black marker. I give the list a quick once-over.
“So seating begins at seven, tables are set as rounds and the largest group is a party of six. Simple enough,” I say.
“Well, it’s more than just ushering people to their chairs.” He tenses back up. “After everyone’s seated, I’ll need you to run food and bus tables if we get in the weeds.”
“Weeds?”
“Busy as shit.”
“Ah. Okay.”
“And water. Constantly. You should be carrying the pitcher and filling any glass that’s lower than two-thirds.”
“Got it.”
“Pay attention to what people are saying. Any issues, come find me immediately.”
“Obviously.”
“And as we’re wrapping, make sure you call a cab for anyone who’s too drunk to drive. The last thing I need is bad press about a deadly DUI from someone I fed.”
“Anything else, your highness?” I jest to lighten the mood. I get that he’s on edge, and rightfully so. So am I, to be frank. This mini-romper won’t be forgiving in the derriere area should anyone drop a fork while I’m rehydrating them. I also barely know the difference between kale and spinach, and am about to play hostess to a room full of people who are jonesing to fire off a photo or two of this year’s culinary celeb couple to their judgmental social sphere. It’s a lot.
“Very
