26
When I turned twenty-one, my birthday was on a Friday and it was my first summer living alone downtown in the city. Finally, I would be able to have a drink with Jazzy and Maya and not worry if the place was carding or how I could wash the underage stamp off the top of my hand so I could score a Bud Light from anyone willing to buy me one.
I had my first drink that day around 9:00 a.m., when I arrived at the place I was interning for the summer. When my supervisors found out it was my twenty-first, they determined shots before the morning production meeting were necessary. After that, they took me to Happy Hour around 5:00 p.m. Then I stumbled home for a quick outfit change in preparation for my nighttime plans, which included barhopping with Jazzy and Maya through all the trendy neighborhoods in Chicago and telling every single person I passed, “It’s my birthdaaaaaaay.”
That night when I got home, I managed not to vomit but didn’t quite escape unscathed—I drunk-dialed my high school sweetheart and passed out wondering if the world would ever stop spinning.
Then, I woke up the next day and did it all again.
And again that Sunday.
And when Monday came around, I felt like toxic waste—but totally okay with it.
That’s how I’m feeling today, like I partied a little too hard, zero-regrets style. The only difference between clubbing and floor-managing is that my high school sweetheart was not part of the equation, which is a good thing considering I don’t have to spend my first and only day off during the week (because the restaurant is closed) apologizing to someone I haven’t seen in eight years.
I woke up sometime around 11:30 a.m., which sounds late, but by the time I finished the books and completed the few pieces of sidework that went undone, I didn’t get home and to sleep until after three in the morning. So despite clocking a solid eight hours of rest, I am still very, very exhausted and am only just starting to pay off the immense sleep debt I’ve racked up.
My entire body aches, down to my pointer finger thanks to the serious workout the YeltonXT gave it. Angela said she’s going to order stylus pens for us asap so we can still manage to have fingerprints this time next year.
I checked my Fitbit when I got home last night and saw that I clocked something like 100,000 steps this weekend alone. Lapping the restaurant, leading covers to their tables and just generally trying to stay one step ahead of the chaos constantly nipping at my heels beats anything I could have done on the treadmill. Apparently, this is how restaurant insiders stay so skinny despite being surrounded by rich food and a plethora of wine all the time.
Walking, and coffee...which I still don’t like but everyone at the restaurant has conditioned me to believe is the only thing that snaps you out of feeling like a zombie extra on the set of The Walking Dead. So I dig out the coffee maker I bought from Goodwill for Benji and plug it in. I fish around for a filter and grab the canister of ground-up beans I bought him from a boutique coffee shop in Bucktown. I open it, inhale and let its one redeeming quality—the smell—remind me I’m alive and I survived the opening weekend of a big-shot restaurant.
I’m not sure yet how I take my coffee—hey, there’s nothing to add to a Diet Coke but ice—but without sugar or cream in my fridge, I’ll be preparing this morning’s cup black.
I climb on a chair to reach the mugs I’ve stored on the highest shelf in my cupboard since I don’t ever use them. In fact, Benji was the first and only person living in this apartment to tap into the collection of hand-me-downs, though the whole set of thick beige mugs has sentimental value: they’re a relic from my parents’ wedding registry circa 1982.
I rescue a mug from the top shelf, feeling oddly warm and fuzzy about this ugly blob of porcelain my mother picked out so long ago. But those feelings are dampened when I realize how filthy this thing is.
It’s not just dusty or unwashed either. There’s a thick black ash, almost like tar, caked to the bottom. Sure, Benji smoked in the apartment, but he always ashed out the window. That means this is residue from a far more sinister habit, a dirty, ugly thing I never allowed through the door—not knowingly anyway.
The thoughts that have been kept at bay by weeks of preparation and a weekend of hard work suddenly wash over me all at once. Though I haven’t seen or heard from him in almost forty-five days, Hurricane Benji comes in for landing with crushing force. I’ve been too busy to keep my defenses up like they should have been, and now I’m completely overwhelmed by the realization of what went on within these walls. It’s a violation only someone who has suffered a home invasion can relate to, but worse.
Worse because I know exactly who did this. I had sex with this person. I told this person I loved him. I actually did love him.
I make the choice to be angry, not sad, and spill the entire pot of coffee down the drain. The steam billows up and condenses on my face for a moment, stinging my eyes. I climb back on the chair and pull down every last mug from my parents’ set as I fill the sink with half a bottle of Palmolive and scalding hot water. If they didn’t have sentimental value, I’d throw them all down ten floors to the bottom of the trash chute and wash my hands of another piece of my past with Benji. But that’s not an option right now, so I take a deep breath and focus on keeping it together. After all, I owe it to my parents and their thirty-odd years of marriage not to let these become collateral damage from the storm.
I scrub until the mugs are clean and my hands are red and cracked. With each rinse and repeat, I start to feel a little better.
Now that my coffee plans are foiled, I go back to basics and order a large Diet Coke and a Turkey Tom sandwich from Jimmy John’s. While I wait for the delivery, I scan the social-sphere and see what I’ve missed while I’ve been running things at Here.
I may not work for Daxa anymore, but I certainly remember all the tricks of the trade. I set up a search to comb Twitter for any and all tweets related to the opening this weekend. My results push back a whopping 866 tweets, including retweets and replies, which automatically order themselves top-to-bottom based on how much clout the message’s author has. Basically, I’m eavesdropping in the cafeteria, listening most closely to what the kids sitting at “the popular table” have to say about Here.
Zane out. New chef in. Thought it’d be a disaster but...top-notch. Insanely good foie gras at @HereRestaurant. Tweeted from the Chicago Sun-Times.
Job well done on an incredible opening @HereRestaurant! Place looks amazing, @AllieSimon & @ChefTab! #Foodie #Chicago. Tweeted from our friends at Paragraph.
Thought @BJZane was the chef of @HereRestaurant? Who’s the chick in the back that made my dinner? Still yummy tho! Tweeted from a wannabe food blogger who apparently didn’t read the press release we blasted out. Disregard/block.
My waiter is seriously the hottest thing ever. Totally getting his number. #HereRestaurant #Chicago. Tweeted by a cheerleader for the Chicago Bulls. I click into her profile and make a mental note that she and Andrew would actually make a beautiful couple.
While I appreciate the fanfare, I just know that at least one of these tweets has got to be less than flattering. I scroll on, just waiting for the bad one to rise to the surface like a game of whack-a-mole.
So Allie Simon is the AGM at @HereRestaurant? Pretty clear who she was blowing to get that gig. #dumbslut. Tweeted by an anonymous user with a cracked egg in a frying pan as his avatar.
Ouch—that one hurts. And not because I’m being cyberbullied by a nameless, faceless dickhead, but because I fear there are more cowards behind the computer screen who are just frothing at the mouth, waiting to call me out as the new laughingstock of the Chicago food scene. Let’s just hope that was a one-off.
How come no one is talking about the fact that @BJZane has been MIA and failed to open yet ANOTHER restaurant? #LOSER. Tweeted by some random foodie chick who, as it happens, totally has a point.
And finally, before I force myself to look away, Did @BJZane and @AllieSimon break up? #sayitaintso. Tweeted (and retweeted 26 times) by the same dating blogger who said we were “relationship goals” not too long ago.
All in all, the feedback is good. Besides a few people who failed to get the memo that Benji was no longer running the back-of-house and his maybe-ex-girlfriend was now running the front-of-house, people generally stayed focused—and complimentary—on the things that matter most: the tasty food, the expensive decor and the overall aesthetic appeal of our service team.
Not bad. Not bad at all. I take a screenshot of the top tweets and email it to Angela.
By the time I sit down with my mercifully fast delivery and unwrap my first real meal in three days, Angela has already replied with links to actual journalistic responses to our effort. Apparently the Chicago Tribune completed their review of the opening and posted the article online.
I click the link embedded in Angela’s email and have to consciously stop my hands from shaking as the article loads.
SERIOUS HEART IN ‘HERE,’ the headline reads.
My heart skips as I read the first few sentences.
Nestled on a stretch of Randolph Street previously occupied by a dilapidated concrete box, Here from the outside is all intrigue. Hints of motion could be seen through the street-side frosted windows as I vacated the taxi. I could tell already that my taste buds were gearing up to dance.
Inside, past a simple but well-stocked bar, is a dining space adorned with metal-bead curtains, vintage-bulb café lighting, and other visual tricks that make you feel like you are dining at a renowned architect’s home. Hoity, no. Haute, yes.
I was seated amidst a packed dining room that looks as good as any of its neighborhood counterparts. Modern, yet comfortable. My nattily dressed server left me with a menu as she fetched my cocktail. Maybe there is something to this new kid on the block, I thought.
Too nervous to read the piece in full, I skim the article looking for anything alarming or unusual.
What was odd, however, was seeing Tabitha Johnson listed as Chef de Cuisine at the bottom of our gold-leaf menu card. Wasn’t it just weeks ago that Chicago’s culinary whiz kid, the erratic Benji Zane, was awarded the role? Regardless, the bait and switch was much appreciated, as Chef Johnson’s roasted beet salad is the best in the city and not to be missed.
Benji may very well be doing coke by a rusty Dumpster somewhere on the far West Side, but at least the press is handling his absence well. I scroll down and read some more.
At the helm running the floor is seasoned fine-dining manager Angela Blackstone. Though this is her first stint in the city, she handled the razzle-dazzle of the big show quite well. The same cannot be said—yet—for her counterpart, Allie Simon. With zero restaurant history (that we know of), Simon flubbed a simple recommendation for a crisp white wine and instead wobbled away like a baby deer in a pair of high heels to pass the baton to the sommelier. Though charming and full of potential, she will have to realize that a bright, white smile won’t be enough to cut it on Randolph Street.
Damn.
I remember this table. They started their night at the bar with Moscow Mules. I had a hunch they were critics, which is why I scheduled them to be put with a captain. Once they were sat in Jessica’s section, I figured it would be smooth sailing from there. But when I stopped by to welcome them and see how their meal was going, they tested me on a wine reco. I thought I was doing the right thing by tracking down the sommelier and getting a professional opinion. I guess they wanted me to have all the answers, right then and there.
And alright already with the heels, okay? Working sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, doesn’t lend itself to a quick trip to the mall for practical footwear. I’ll get to it.
At least the article ended on a high note, awarding us three out of four stars and recommending the city make their way to the West Loop, if only for Tabitha’s house-made bleu cheese dressing.
Bzz, bzz.
A text interrupts my research at my makeshift mission control center. It’s Jared.
Cupcakes n conversation. 2pm. Molly’s in Lincoln Park.
I wipe the mayo off my fingers, realizing how quickly I’d forgotten how good a simple sandwich from a chain restaurant can taste, and text him back.
Don’t judge me if I order 2. Been a helluva wknd.
* * *
The last forty-eight days have been dedicated to Here. The four months before that I was with Benji, the ball and chain. I never strayed too far from home base, not even to grab wine with the girls or sneak an eyebrow wax unless he knew I’d be home soon and have access to my phone the whole time. So the fact that I’ve just left my apartment and am now on a leisurely stroll through Lincoln Park heading to a cupcake shop is just bliss. Pure bliss.
“There she is. How many Michelin stars have you won already?” Jared pulls me in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek, a gesture I’m not quite ready for. I’m sure he feels how stiff I am in his arms, because he pulls away fast but tries to cover by kicking at something invisible on the ground.
“Oh, please. It’s more like how many prescriptions for Xanax have I filled. Man, no one ever tells you that opening a restaurant is going to be the single most anxiety-ridden, backbreaking thing you’ll ever do.”
“Yeah, those ice fishers on the coast of Alaska have nothing on opening a fancy-shmancy restaurant on Randolph Street, do they?”
Maybe it’s just my close association with Angela this past month and a half, but I have a new appreciation for people who keep it real. And Jared does just that, letting me know he understands the struggle but also has perspective. His support is genuine but subtle. I like it.
The cool thing about Molly’s Cupcakes—aside from the actual cupcakes, of course—is that they installed three seats near the counter that are swings. Usually, a free spot on one of them is unheard of. But at 2:00 p.m. on a Monday when most normal people are working normal jobs, the swings are vacant. So we post up there and order four delicious calorie bombs.
I watch Jared cut through them, creating a proper taste-test setup. Just like the first few times I’ve seen him, today he looks different again. Today, it seems like he looked himself in the mirror and gave himself the thumbs-up before he headed out to meet me. A black-and-red buffalo plaid button-down, slim-cut black jeans and what looks to me like a fresh haircut from Floyd’s barbershop all contribute to him being the cutest guy in all of Lincoln Park, I’m sure of it.
I dig into the cupcake platter, and crumbs immediately plummet to my lap. Thank god my skinny jeans are dark enough to mask any chocolate that decides to melt itself into the fibers.
“This one is really good. It tastes like a Butterfinger bar. Try it,” I say as I point with one hand and wipe my mouth with the other.
“Nah, I’m not a chocolate guy,” Jared replies.
I give him a death stare, though his smile tells me to go easy. “That’s like saying you don’t like dogs,” I tell him. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
He puts his half in his mouth, chews and replies, “I’m totally kidding.”
Crisis averted. However, a new problem presents itself: I’ve been out of the game for a while and I think a cute guy might actually be trying to flirt with me.
“So can I ask you a question?” he says.
I know where this is going. It doesn’t bother me. Hell, if anyone in my circle was dating a semifamous drug addict, I’m sure I’d want to know just how close it was to a real-life episode of Intervention, too.
But sitting across from Jared, contemplating why on earth I can’t stop thinking about what this hazelnut buttercream frosting would taste like if I kissed it off his soft, full lips, I realize I don’t want to talk about Benji. He might be just another character whose exploits are recorded in the morning edition to most, but he’s a real person who brought real chaos and real heartache into my life. I’m hoping we don’t have to go there right now.
But of course I don’t say that. It’s too early to demonstrate the baggage I carry. Instead I say, “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“I obviously know who you are. I mean, everyone in the industry knows who you are, even if it’s just by association.” Sad, but true. “So are you still...with him?”
Jared’s gaze is fixed on marbled frosting as he asks. He sweeps his finger through the chocolate-and-vanilla swirl, scoops up a dollop and licks it off. I can tell he’s embarrassed to have asked about my relationship status and won’t lock eyes with me again until I somehow let him know it’s okay.
“What, you couldn’t figure it out from Twitter?”
“I’m not on Twitter...” he says.
“Never mind, I’m just joking. But the answer is no, I’m not.” I pause for a second, wondering if he had some sort of a bet going that Benji and I weren’t going to last longer than six months after the FoodFeed article came out. I hate how self-conscious this relationship has made me. Especially of industry people.
“God, I feel like such an idiot. I don’t even know why I just asked that. It’s really none of my business, is it? I’m sorry. I’m sure it was a rough breakup.”
“No, it’s okay. It actually wasn’t really a breakup at all. He sort of just...left. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“Wow, so you actually had the perfect breakup! No awkward ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ conversation,” he says, clearly trying to backpedal us out of super-awkward, vibe-killing conversation territory.
“You could say that, I guess. The only downfall is I’m eating substantially less glamorously these days,” I banter back.
He gestures to the myriad cupcake crumbs and colorful icing on the plates in front of us.
“I beg to differ,” he says.
“Touché.”
There’s a beat of silence as we both take our next bite.
“So if he’s out of the picture, why do you still want to run his restaurant?” Jared asks.
“It was never his restaurant,” I say with what I sense is a hint of pride. “I spent my life savings to open Here.”
“How old are you again?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Barely able to rent a car.” He smiles. “So I get that you’re part owner, but explain the AGM thing to me. People work their whole lives trying to trade the apron for a suit and work the floor. Did you just kind of fall into it?”
More like plummeted off a high dive with ankle weights on.
“We had some unexpected staffing issues at the last minute that forced me to take a more active role. Otherwise, I’d risk this being a complete financial failure.”
“Got it. So you’re busting your ass to recoup your investment.”
“And sleeping at the restaurant most nights of the week to make it happen.”
“Wow. Allie-freakin’-Simon. You are an even bigger enigma than I thought.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I announce.
“Go for it,” he says, leaning a little closer. “Or I can give you a better one. You’re smart. And gorgeous. And holding your own at the helm of the most-talked-about new restaurant in the West Loop...all while under the scrutiny of an industry made up of gossips and assholes who want to see you fail just so they can feel better about themselves. I’m pretty sure you’re Wonder Woman, and frankly I’d let you fly circles around me any day of the week.”
I’m not exactly sure what I’d let Jared do around me any day of the week, but I’m certain it would involve a lack of pants and a bottle of pinot noir. At least, that’s the gut feeling I’m getting as it dawns on me that he is flirting with me and that I’m attracted to him.
There, I said it. I’m attracted to him.
And what am I supposed to do with that? What can I do with that? There’s no room in my life for a man right now unless he’s a server asking me to comp a dessert at Here. And even if Angela let me break rule-number-whatever-it-is that says I can’t date a vendor, I’ve got massive walls up from being burned by Benji. Walls that will require a few sticks of dynamite to even make a dent. I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m damaged goods, I’m just...temporarily eighty-sixed. I should pump the brakes here before one of us suggests watching a movie at the other’s apartment next.
“Maybe not Wonder Woman,” I say, returning us both to earth. “But yeah, I do what I can to make people want to come back and keep spending hundreds of dollars on tiny portions of really tasty food.”
“So if Here wasn’t your first career choice, what’s your real dream?” Jared asks.
“You mean if I had another $30,000 to blow?” When I say it like that, it doesn’t feel quite like this investment was one of the worst decisions of my life.
“Yeah, if you found $30,000 taped under your swing right now, what would you do with it?”
I check, just in case this is a massive setup from the Publishers Clearing House. Nothing. Jared grins at me.
“I’d probably buy every single cupcake this place has for a month straight.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking, too,” Jared says.
I know it’s not the answer he’s looking for, though he’s politely playing along, so I hum a bit and look toward the ceiling for inspiration.
“I’d take my mom on an all-expense-paid trip to Paris,” I say. “She’s been a trouper throughout this whole restaurant thing.”
“Oh, I bet. Clipping all the articles and sticking them to her fridge? Telling all the neighbors to make a reservation and ask for ‘Allie’? Egging the house of the critic who said your shoe choice was subpar?” he asks.
“Yes. All that. And for not disowning me because of my horrible taste in men.”
“Hey...” he says, gesturing to himself. “It can’t be all that bad.”
“Very funny,” I say, not sure to play into or deflect the flirtatious fun. “I just think she deserves to be flown first-class overseas and then spoiled with room service, good wine, lots of cheese, dinner at the Eiffel Tower, things like that. I want to show her that I’m thankful to have her in my life and that she’s still proud of me no matter what, you know?”
“Oh, I know.” Jared stares at the crumbs on his plate, his voice taking on a more serious tone. “My dad passed away two years ago.”
“Really? How?”
I immediately regret asking, but then remember he brought up Benji. Apparently tough topics aren’t off-limits.
“Remember Snowmageddon two winters ago?”
“You mean when there was a sixty-degree temperature drop and two feet of snow in a matter of six hours? Yeah, that was brutal,” I say.
“Well, my dad was doing a last-minute delivery for a place on the South Side and skidded off the I-94 ramp into a car coming the other way. He flipped the truck.”
“Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Jared. That’s really, really awful.”
“He died at the scene. So did the other driver. Cops said they both died on impact, so I don’t think they suffered much. It was just...man, it was just tragic.”
I pause for a minute. I think of all the destruction that Benji caused and then realize something pretty simple: at least no one died. I know it sounds like a dramatic generalization of the rolling turmoil endured by being with him, but there’s perspective here that I appreciate. There were dealer debts I almost volunteered to go pay. My home address was given out and made the epicenter for drop-offs of all sorts. I ventured into the city’s most dangerous neighborhood for a casual look-around. The grip he had on me could get me to do anything. And somehow, through all that, I’m not just alive, I’m well. And at that, the care and concern goes back to the person who actually deserves it right now, Jared.
“God, I’m so sorry. How do you even deal with that?”
“Well, I suppose you could say he died doing what he loved, so I get some peace from that. The other driver I don’t know much about. I suppose I could find out more if I dug through all the old news coverage, but it was hard enough moving on from my dad. I know it sounds heartless, but I really didn’t feel like opening up a second wound, you know?” Jared sighs and pushes back in his swing. “I still can’t even believe my dad’s gone.”
“So I assume that’s when you took over? After the accident?”
“Yup. I mean, I never wanted to be a delivery guy or anything, but then again it’s a family business and I was his only son so I knew it was coming eventually. I just thought I would have more time before I’d have to take things over officially.”
“How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?” We’ve crossed enough boundaries already that I actually have zero qualms asking about his age.
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“Ah, an older man,” I say, trying to steer us back to lighthearted territory. “So then, Jared. What’s your dream?”
“I want to be a dolphin trainer,” he spouts off.
“Really?”
“No way, I can’t even swim.”
Our laughter seems to dissolve the buildup of gloom and sadness we’ve accrued in the last five minutes.
“I’d do what I was planning to before taking over Marcel & Sons—I’d become a high school history teacher.”
“At least you didn’t say math,” I say.
“Fuck math,” Jared says, clinking his plastic cup of water against mine.
Just then, I hear my phone ding with a new email.
“Sorry, that’s probably Angela. I thought I turned it to silent,” I say, reaching into my bag to switch the thing off.
“Don’t worry about it. Hey, I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick. Don’t let any bratty eight-year-olds take my swing.” Jared stands and looks at me. There’s a moment when it feels like he’s going to lean in to kiss me on the cheek or something, but it passes in an instant and he’s gone.
The feeling in my chest as I watch him walk away is...disappointment. Which switches to something else entirely when I see that the email I received is from someone claiming to be Benji’s new girlfriend.
I thought you’d be curious about Benji’s whereabouts. He is in rehab FYI. He’ll be there a while. It’s far away. Don’t try to find him, we plan on picking up where we left off when he gets out and moving out of state. -Hannah
I spy Jared coming back, which means the phone needs to be put away and the look of sheer panic needs to be stripped from my face.
But not before I fire off a frantic text to Angela.
Benji’s alive. In rehab. Has new GF, I write.
A second later comes her reply: Figures. PS. We need to up the order of paper towels.