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“He’s been clean for years. Get your facts straight.”
“I heard he powders their doughnut holes with cocaine.”
“I’d let him powder my doughnut hole with cocaine.”
Okay, so he may or may not be the Charlie Sheen of the culinary world, I thought to myself. But despite his sordid past, he clearly was a fan favorite. Whether people were loving or hating on him, the one thing that was inarguable across the board was that Benji Zane came with an obsessive following.
But at the first mention of a drug problem, I tightly closed the lid on my digital crush. There’s always a catch with guys in Chicago, right? Just as I finished x-ing out of all the tabs I had opened about him, he tweeted back at me—well, Daxa I mean.
See America? Even @DaxaSwabs knows I’m clean LOL
Yes, he went there. #Awkward.
I wanted to say I was shocked, but something about the frequency at which he was firing off random thoughts of 280 characters or less told me he wasn’t the kind of guy who’d ignore attention from a major brand—be it America’s favorite cotton swab or Calphalon—when he could spin it in his favor.
It was never my intention to allude to his could-be sobriety in a tweet, a subject that was well over my head for sure, but according to my job description I needed to continue to engage with him. Daxa’s social media policy states that when engaging with an influencer, we should never be the ones to drop the conversation—let them tire, get distracted or sign off. So I cracked my knuckles and got down to business trying to steer this conversation into more neutral territory.
Hey @BJZane, we got your back. But mostly your ears.
@DaxaSwabs if I can get your tongue, U R welcome 4 dinner at my resto anytime. #NotAPervyTweet #JustTryingToBeNice
As we bantered back and forth behind the safety of our respective avatars, I began to find him palatable. Where was the big, scary addict dude that everyone was gossiping about on the blogs?
That’s when the fantasy I had of meeting him got the best of me and I did something typically frowned upon in the Daxa social media handbook. I reached out to him from my personal account, introducing myself as the voice behind the cotton swab conversation.
He replied right away and said I was really funny. And hot. Funny and hot? I’ll take it.
We spent the rest of the day exchanging DMs. I even forwent a company lunch outing to stay back at my desk and keep the flirt fest going, telling everyone I had a mini crisis with a user who had a swab stuck in his ear. A couple hours later, he had to leave for a restaurant meeting. But not before he publicly tweeted, Everyone go follow my new friend @AllieSimon—she’s a real cool chick.
Wait. Really?
A few days later, Benji sent me a direct message. He said he had only one night off from the restaurant and if I wanted to meet him, now would be the time and a little dive bar in the Logan Square neighborhood would be the place.
I didn’t respond right away.
Did I want to meet him?
It’s not that I had other plans. It’s just that I hadn’t actually thought about crossing the IRL threshold with him. It’s a lot easier to converse with a tattooed guy who may or may not be addicted to drugs when you have the luxury of thinking about what you’ll say next as you hide behind your double monitors from the comfort of a cubicle.
So, for the time being, I resolved I’d table the in-person option and just ignore his ask.
Thirty minutes later, he sent another DM, one that couldn’t be ignored: It’s now or never. Are you meeting me tonight or not?
On one hand, he seemed aggressive. A little too intense for me. On the other, it was intoxicating that this quasi-celebrity chef dude wanted to hang out with me so badly, he had to wave a limited-time-only offer in front of my face to get me to act.
Another fact about me: I’m not one to pass up a good deal.
Yeah, I’m in, I coyly responded back, even though I was terrified at the thought of stepping out of my comfort zone.
Good choice, he typed back.
A few hours later, I put on some eyeliner and walked over to the meeting place with zero expectations. When I saw this rough and tough hottie sitting at the counter drinking a generous serving of neat whiskey, I knew I was in for more than I bargained for. I probably should have run before he had a chance to see me. I could have easily DM’d him, said my bus broke down or I got stuck at work. But I just couldn’t turn away.
“There she is, Miss Allie Simon, everybody,” he said along with a slow clap.
I looked around and there was no one else in the bar, which made his intro of me both silly and sweet. I could feel my nerves dialing down a notch.
“Hello, Benji,” I said, putting out my hand for a shake. He grabbed it, flipped it and kissed the top of my hand.
“Hi, Allie.”
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, putting a cocktail napkin down in front of me.
“Uh, how about a sauv blanc?”
“You’re at a whiskey and burger bar, babe,” the condescending bartender said back. “We don’t have sauv blanc.”
“The fuck you don’t.” Benji stepped in. “Go ask your chef what he puts in the mustard glaze. And bring an empty glass back there while you’re at it.”
The bartender gave us side-eye, realized it was Benji Zane shouting that order and grabbed a tumbler as he departed to the kitchen.
“Fucking idiots,” Benji whispered to himself as he took a sip of his drink. “So, how are you?”
He put his hand on my thigh as he asked the question—an action I would normally reject from a guy who wasn’t physically my type. After all, I was drawn to dudes who looked like they were sent home the first night on The Bachelorette. Clean-cut, maybe wearing a little concealer, just trying to be nice until we took things to the Fantasy Suite.
Like I said, walking, talking cliché.
Before I could answer, the bartender came back.
“Sorry, we don’t have wineglasses. But here’s your sauv blanc.”
“Well, cheers,” said Benji.
“How did you know...”
“It’s a burger place. They have mustard.”
“So?”
“I assume if they’re charging $15 for a basic hamburger, they probably make the mustard in-house, meaning there’s got to be a crisp white wine in the walk-in cooler back there or they wouldn’t be able to get the recipe right. He knew they had sauv blanc. He was just being a douchebag who was too lazy to walk ten feet and get it.”
I had been out with straitlaced stockbrokers sporting impeccably tousled hair who had held doors for me, brought me flowers for a first date and pushed in my chair for me at dinner. But no one in the last two months had ramped up my mojo as much as Benji had in that first five minutes. He stuck up for me—and my girlie drink order—all while showing off his culinary chops just a little bit.
From that point on, I knew he was going to be trouble. But I never imagined he’d become my trouble. Big difference.
Throughout the night, Benji excused himself a handful of times to go to the bathroom. Sure, a part of me wondered if he was doing coke in there, but I had to remember we both were drinking. I, too, would be in and out of the bathroom all night had I broken the seal earlier. Also, I had never done coke, nor did I know anyone in my social circle who had, so what was I looking for anyway? White powder to be coating his nostrils? A nagging itch at his nose? For what it was worth, neither of those things were happening, so I shrugged it off and stopped counting his trips to the bathroom. After all, I wasn’t in this for the long run, so what the guy did in the men’s room was none of my business. All that mattered was that he kept rejoining me back at the bar and picking up right where our scintillating conversation left off.
A one-night stand was inevitable. But by the time I realized the drug thing was real, and it was serious, we were way past just one night.
3
It’s late in the workday Monday when I get an email from my alma matter, Mizzou. It’s the quarterly journalism alumni update wherein they compile a list of about a hundred bullet points, all just quick mentions of who got hired where, which people have been promoted at their jobs and which of the former editors are now stay-at-home moms and freelance taste testers for Nabisco. Being three years post-grad and still happily working for an ear-cleaning company, this digest is basically my version of Page Six news.
Which is why I’m particularly shocked to see my name about a third of the way down the list.
Allie Simon is dating celebrity chef Benji Zane. They live together in Chicago.
Normally the chairman of the department solicits for these kinds of updates, and this is most certainly a blurb that I did not submit myself. So the fact that one of the best journalism schools in the country has scooped this intel straight from a popular food blog and finds my personal life newsworthy makes me feel like a goddamn celebrity, I must admit.
I don’t blame them for not including a word about my role at Daxa in the roundup. In fact, it’s kind of a shameful career choice considering I was at one point the managing editor of the school paper. But the truth is, I never wanted to be a reporter and by the time I pocketed my degree and moved back to Chicago, the way the world works had changed. People wanted to speak and read in bursts of 280 characters or less and Daxa, headquartered here in the River North neighborhood, was looking for someone to help them get in on a conversation of that caliber. Couple that with my need to pay bills and suddenly tweeting about cotton swabs became my calling. Or something like that.
It’s always a bit difficult to play catch-up on Monday mornings since we switch over to an automated community management system for nights and weekends. Unfortunately, the “NightHawk2000” has the personality of a bad first date and sometimes misses an influx of tweets if the system has to reboot itself—which it does, often. I want to say that today is no different, but it’s actually worse. Taking off last Friday for Benji’s pop-up set me back about 300 replies before 9:00 a.m.
I somehow make it through the day and am now standing outside my office waiting for the Route 22 bus up to Lincoln Park while group texting with Jazzy and Maya about tonight’s premiere of the new season of The Bachelor.
Maya: Starts @ 7. My Place?
Jazzy: Can BZ whip up some garlic hummus?
Suddenly, I’m interrupted by a tap on my shoulder.
“Babe! What are you doing here?” I pull my headphones out as Benji brings me in for a clammy hug. He clearly walked to my office, which is a good forty-five minutes at a brisk pace. He smells like a cigarette accompanied him and deodorant did not. Still, I’m happy to breathe him in, although I’m regretting the fact I haven’t touched up my makeup at all today. It may sound shallow, but in my defense, I’m not like Benji. I can’t just throw on a white Hanes V-neck with a sweaty man-bun and automatically look like I should be on the cover of People’s Sexiest Man Alive issue.
Plus, this is an ambush. He surprised me outside my work. Now, what for is the question.
“Remember how I told you there were a few VIPs on the dinner list at the pop-up? I circled their names on the sheet I gave you before service...” His eyes are big and intense. Kind of like how they always are, I guess.
I squint as I rack my brain. I don’t remember any one person in particular, but immediately panic wondering if they all got food poisoning or something.
Benji doesn’t wait for a reply.
“The guy who runs Republic, Ross Luca, invited us in tonight.”
Ross Luca is a Chicago restaurateur—an iconic one at that. I know this because FoodFeed loves Ross Luca. They seem to run a blog post about him daily. At first, I wanted to know who he was paying off for all the good press, but then I realized there’s a lot to cover about Ross. For one thing, he’s both a businessman and executive chef. In something like two short years, he’s managed to open everything from a kitschy Jewish deli to an over-the-top steak house and rotates cooking at them all, six days a week. It’s rare to find someone like that, who can fire from both sides of the brain. Who can be artistic in the kitchen and savvy in the boardroom. Everyone in the industry knows that Ross Luca is that prodigy. Hell, even a typically jealous Benji agrees Ross is the shit. Which is why his name was highlighted and starred on the VIP list—that I recall for sure.
While he may have just about every cuisine in this city cornered, Republic is Ross’s fine-dining spot. FoodFeed called it “an instant classic” when it opened about a year ago and the reservation list hasn’t dwindled one bit since then, despite the $150+ per person price tag. Which leads me to my next point: we can’t go.
“Well, that’s exciting. But...Republic is for very wealthy people.”
“Or for normal people pretending to be rich for the night,” he casually volleys back.
“Right. Either way, a $400 meal for two is pretty grotesque. Don’t you think?”
“I do.”
He’s not at all picking up what I am throwing down. The majority of our profit from the pop-up Friday has already been used for bills, groceries and drug debts, and I’ve set the rest aside for September’s rent since he hasn’t scheduled the next pop-up yet.
“Relax, Allie. It’s on the house. No charge for us.”
“Holy shit!” Yes, I’m a grown woman squealing in middle of the sidewalk. If people weren’t already staring at us, they are now.
“Wait, so let me get this straight,” I say. “Ross Luca invited you and me to eat free at Republic tonight? That’s so freaking awesome. What time’s the reso?”
“Eh, right now, actually. Sorry, I know it’s kind of early for multicourse dining but I expect we’ll be there awhile.”
The expression on my face sags a bit as I remember my plans to watch The Bachelor at Maya’s.
“Something wrong, babe?” he asks.
“No. Nothing.” I smile big to reassure him I’m so in for this.
“Great. Can I get the cash?”
Although having to ask your girlfriend for money to treat her may not feel like the most graceful display of chivalry, he knows the drill. That I’m the keeper of the cash. So I hand over a portion of the tips we made at the pop-up, our “fun money” as we like to call it, as discreetly as I can. In exchange, he grabs my chin and kisses me directly on the lips.
“Wait here, I’ll flag us a taxi,” he says, bolting to the curb.
I could call us an Uber from my phone. It would make trying to hail a cab during rush hour in River North a nonissue, but it’s linked to my credit card. And I can tell Benji wants full credit for this date so I let him hunt and gather while I text Maya that I won’t be able to make it to her place tonight.
Maya: It’s kind of tradition, A...
Me: Sry! Republic = MAJOR. Can we watch tmrw?
Maya: Jazzy’s already on her way. Can’t cancel.
Me: OK. Will watch online over my lunch tmrw. Next wk 4 sure!
I toss my phone back into my bag and cringe as I look down at my pencil skirt, flats and button-up shirt. I’m dressed like a district attorney. I dig around in my trusty Marc Jacobs tote for some lip gloss and a hair clip, then spend the rest of the ride over touching up my makeup and trying to pull my day-old hair into a decent-looking chignon. Before we get out of the cab, Benji uploads a selfie of the two of us to his Snapchat story, tagging Republic in the post. It’s been live for all of five seconds and I can already feel the notifications vibrating my bag.
“Welcome, Benji. Hello, Allie.” The hostess knows who we are without us having to introduce ourselves. I feel like a celebrity. “Follow me.”
As we trail the blonde hostess into the main dining area, I soak in the interior of the restaurant. Right away I see they run a silent kitchen—ten chefs, all with their heads down. Benji always says the quieter the kitchen, the more expensive the meal. Thank god this is getting comped.
We are led to a table in the middle of the dining room, close to the window nearest the entrance. It’s a strategic move on the restaurant’s part—so we can see everything and be seen by everyone. Once seated, we aren’t handed menus. When you’re a guest of the guy in charge, you eat what he cooks, end of story.
“Congrats on the FoodFeed review. Well done, Chef Zane,” the blonde says before walking back to her post.
It’s apparent she’s seen the article. Perhaps that’s how she knew exactly who I was.
The table attendant pours our water after ascertaining our preference for still. “Hey, nice going with the pop-up. FoodFeed said you killed it,” he whispers to Benji.
“So, has everyone in the industry seen this post?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm as I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap. Doing this promptly and coyly is something Benji once said separates the restaurant pros from the Friday-night novices. In fact, it’s a tactic I used while hosting the pop-up last week to measure the ratio of actual VIPs to slutty chef-chasers (1:5).
Benji takes a sip of his water and cracks his knuckles on the table. “Well, babe, we showed them what’s up. They fucking loved everything.”
He pulls out his phone, normally a faux pas at a fine-dining restaurant unless you’re quickly snapping a photo of some rare black truffles. I think it’s to check the number of views on our selfie, but he actually references the FoodFeed article for the hundredth time. I suspect he’s a little addicted to the good news, but that’s a vice I can handle.
“... From the high-end venue, to the bone-china soup bowls, it appeared that no corners were cut this time.”
“... Zane seemed remarkably poised despite a crowded dining room. Especially for someone who’s rumored to have a serious past with hard drugs...”
“... We’ll be dreaming of the bourbon honeycomb panna cotta dessert until the next pop-up is announced.”
As he reads the praise, I can’t stop staring at this man who I call mine.
“Don’t look at me like that...” He catches me.
“I can’t help it. You’re kind of incredible.”
“Only because of you, babe.” I smile at the credit given. “And I said don’t look at me like that or I’m not going to be able to wait until we’re home to fuck you.”
He may be blunt. He may be crass. But his matter-of-fact confidence in my feelings for him reinforces that we are working.
“Benji, Allie, good to see you both.” Ross graces us with his presence at the table. Did he hear Benji discuss his plans for me later? The thought causes my face to heat and Benji to smirk at me before getting up to shake Ross’s hand. I get up to do the same but Ross waves me back down. “Please, sit. Relax.”
All eyes in the restaurant turn like magnets in our direction. I remember Ross from the pop-up looking remarkably dapper for a fortysomething-year-old. His slicked-back brown hair contrasted his piercing blue eyes, not to be one-upped by the purple gingham shirt with a navy bow tie he was sporting. Tonight Ross is dialed down in a long, all-black apron and dressed to cook. It’s his turn to show off what he’s got.
I wonder if he feels like because he ate a good meal, he now owes us a favor—or if it’s more of a pissing match. A “you cook good, but I cook better” type of thing. Who knows? I’m just hungry.
“So, no allergies, right?” Ross asks.
“Nope, just...three months sober,” Benji says with a nervous laugh. Has it been three months already? Damn, now that’s something to celebrate.
“Got it, so we’ll hold off on pairings, then.” Ross’s tone is matter-of-fact. “Well, I hope you brought your appetites. I’m going to head back to the kitchen and get going on your first course. If you need anything, we’ve got Steve as the lead server tonight and Felix is his assistant.” Felix is the guy who got us our water. He nods in the background.
Ross departs and I spy a few rogue eaters awkwardly trying to make it look like they weren’t just taking a picture of us from across the room on their phones.
“To three months and a great FoodFeed review,” I say, clinking my water glass against Benji’s. “Proud of you, babe.”
Moments later, a plate arrives with a single tortellini on it. I grab my knife and fork and prepare to dig in.
“Whoa, whoa. Hold up,” Benji says. “That’s the amuse-bouche.”
“So?”
He swallows his portion and replies: “It’s a one-bite.”
From across the table, Benji uses his fork and shimmies my tortellini onto it.
“Open,” he directs.
I close my mouth around the tortellini.
“Now chew slowly. Take it all in. Let the taste hit your palate like a slow leak.”
Nothing like the manic addict telling me to slow down to show the world how far he’s come.
* * *
We’re six hours into what I can only describe as a food coma meets a red carpet event. The three-hour premier of The Bachelor has come and gone, and every half hour Steve and Felix have brought out some mind-blowing dish featuring food I’ve never heard of, and certainly never dreamed I’d be eating.
Our tenth course of the night arrives and by now, the restaurant rush is over and the dining room is starting to filter out. After all, it’s only Monday.
“I’m literally so full,” I whisper, trying my best to tap out.
“You have to keep eating, babe.”
“I can’t, I feel like I’m going to burst.” I’m a petite girl being suffocated by a pencil skirt, for crying out loud. Benji knows I’m struggling, especially since we’re still on the savory courses. He looks around to make sure Ross is nowhere to be seen and takes a forkful of venison from my plate, devouring it in one bite.
“Jesus. How are you still hungry, Benji?”
“I’m not. It’s just rude to leave food behind when they’re doing what they’re doing.”
“Showing off?”
“Basically.”
Ross makes his way back out to the dining room. As he approaches our table, he unties the knot on his apron, a sign that the white flag has been raised—no more food, thank god.
“How was it?” Ross asks.
“Fucking delicious, man. Everything was bomb. Seriously, dude.”
“Nice, that’s what I like to hear. I’ve got our pastry chef working on your dessert courses now. Figured I’d leave the sweet finish up to the pro in this case.”
I put my hand over my stomach like my food baby is kicking.
“Listen, Benji. If I don’t see you while I’m breaking down the kitchen, I just wanted to say thanks for coming in. I loved what you did at the pop-up last week and if you ever want to come in and stage, just hit me up. Cool? And hey, congrats on the sobriety, man. That’s killer.”
Benji gets up and gives Ross a hug. I follow. It’s the first time I’ve stood in several hours and my legs feel like jelly. I’m wondering if that’s because of the lack of blood flow or the fact that I’ve gained twenty pounds since being here.
Dessert is an orgasmic chocolate cake with little gold flakes throughout the ganache, served with a pot of gooey, warm caramel, which shockingly I manage to find room for. Afterward, Felix comes to bus our plates as Steve tells us the cake course completes the evening. He wishes us both a good night and departs to the back-of-house. That’s it. There is no check presented, no paperwork that shows we came, we ate, we conquered.
Benji stretches his arms and protrudes his food-filled belly forward. He must feel like a king right now. He digs into his pockets and proceeds to count the rest of the cash I gave him earlier.
“What’s that for?” I say.
“Kitchen tip-out.”
“Are you going to leave it all?”
Instead of verbally answering me, he puts the twenties down on the table one at a time like he’s dealing cards from a deck until there are none left.
Though it’s a bit hard to see him spend everything that’s left from what we made on Friday, I know it doesn’t cover a fraction of what this dinner would cost a regular patron.
But between everything I saw and tasted tonight, I’m now 100 percent convinced we are anything but regular.