chicken guaranteed to get you laid.” Thirty minutes later, some teenager whose parents live in the building dropped off the keys to the penthouse floor. It never ceases to amaze me the things people will do just to feel like they have a personal connection to the Steven Tyler of the food world. Alas, here we are.
I push on the balcony door handles fully expecting they’d be locked. But they pop down with ease and the warm summer wind hits me in the face. I grab the railing, close my eyes and suck in that city air.
I don’t breathe enough. Not like this, deep and alone. I have to admit that being Benji’s girlfriend sometimes feels like sitting in the passenger seat as he drives 110 miles per hour on the freeway in a jalopy with no seat belts. It’s easy to get overwhelmed, but I remind myself that Benji came into my life for a reason. Every douchey, going-nowhere guy I dated before him was worth it because they led me to him: a beautiful genius who knows exactly who he is and what he wants. A guy with talent, charisma and nothing but pure adoration for me. So what if he had a flawed start? All that matters is that I stopped the top from spinning out of control and now we’re good. We’re really fucking good.
Just then my phone, which I have stashed in my bra (hey, no pockets, okay?), buzzes with a text. I dig around in my cleavage and read the message from Benji.
2-top off elevator. It’s time, babe.
* * *
My feet are aching and I’m sweating, but as far as everyone can tell by the smile on my face, I’m having a grand old time filling water glasses. By now, we’re more than halfway through the service and so far, Benji’s only used the bottle of bourbon in the back for a caramel-y glaze on the dessert course, not to ease the kitchen chaos. In fact, in the ten or so times I’ve popped my head in to check on him, he appeared to be keeping his cool entirely.
“And how are you two enjoying your evening?” I say, hovering over a couple at a round-top table I haven’t checked on yet.
“There she is.” My dad wipes his mouth as he stands up to give me a hug. My god, he’s wearing a wool suit and a silk tie. Overdress much?
“What do you think of the food?” I ask.
“It’s outstanding, Allie. Say, can we get another one of those Sriracha Jell-O cubes?”
“Goodness, Bill, don’t embarrass me like that. Just ignore him, Allie. Although, yes, the Sriracha cube was...” My mom, Patty, closes her eyes, puckers her lips and explodes an air-kiss off the tips of her fingers. I think that’s mom code for amaze-balls.
“I’m really glad you guys could make it,” I say. And I mean that. It’s not easy to accept the fact that your daughter is dating the most talked-about, tattooed chef in the Midwest, let alone show your support by attending a BYOB makeshift dinner party on the far North Side.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. And hey, I couldn’t figure out how to get the flash on this dang iPhone to work, but I took a bunch of pictures,” my dad says. “You’ll have to explain later how I’m supposed to send them to you.”
I’m positive they will all be blurry, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Is Benji going to come out?” my mom asks, playing with the pearls on her necklace. Her question captures the attention of strangers sitting across the table and now everyone’s eyes are on me.
“We’ll see,” I say, knowing that answer isn’t good enough. Not for anyone in the room who paid to be here. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to keep checking on other tables. Love you guys.”
As I make my rounds, everyone seems to be gushing over the fifth and final course of the night: grilled fig panna cotta with a bourbon, honeycomb drizzle over vanilla bean gelato. I hear one person whisper it was better than Alinea’s dessert. Another says she just had a foodgasm. At that, I set down the water pitcher and offer to clear a few dirty plates back to the kitchen. When no one is looking, I dip my pinky into some melted gelato and run it through a glob of the bourbon honey before quickly licking it off my manicured finger.
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