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.
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