Hot Mess. Emily Belden
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days, I really like sharing my space with Benji. But every once in a while, I start to feel a little claustrophobic. It could be the 500-square-feet cabin fever kicking in, but today is most definitely one of those days.
Last night, I was famous, he was sober, and we were more in love than ever before when we had amazing sex until two in the morning. Then come 9:00 a.m., I was sluggishly pushing out tweets about a cotton swab while wondering why Jazzy and Maya wouldn’t text me back about some stupid TV show and if my direct deposit will hit when it’s supposed to so my bills aren’t late. It’s exhausting going from cloud nine to nine-to-five over and over.
Again, not the time for an emotional audit. Not when I need to see what this email is all about.
Dear Benji, the email begins. Before I read more, I peek at the sender’s address: [email protected]. The email rings a bell, though I can’t quite place it.
My name is Angela Blackstone. I was a patron at last week’s pop-up dinner.
Bingo. It all comes back to me. I picture pasting her name and email into an Excel spreadsheet and recall her paying for two tickets to last Friday’s penthouse event.
As a fan of the Chicago food scene and industry professional myself (I’m the General Manager of Florette just outside of Chicago), I can confidently say you are doing some of the most interesting, flat-out genius stuff I have ever seen in a kitchen. From the carrot mousse as the amuse-bouche to the bourbon honeycomb panna cotta for the sweet finish, it was all so theatrical. Meaningful. Complicated. Appetizing. Amazing.
Now to be candid, as much as I follow your culinary delights, I am also privy to what they say about your lifestyle. Regardless, I want to talk to you about an opportunity.
I know what goes into a five-hour, five-course dinner like the one you hosted Friday. And so long as blood, sweat and tears don’t count for shit as seasonings, I know you are not actually considering doing pop-up dinners for the rest of your career. You are one of the best that ever has been and ever will be. It would be a shame if all of that capped at these fly-by-night dinners.
Like I said, I am in the industry. I helped open some of the best restaurants just outside of Chicago and earned accolades of all types less than 12 months after the doors opened. The gentleman financially behind those places is looking to invest, finally, in a space in downtown Chicago. As a result, he has excused me from my current role to start scouting for this forthcoming restaurant. After the location and talent is secured, it will be a fast, hard open. I will become the new GM and I’d like you to be Chef de Cuisine.
This is not a joke. This is not a drill. Reply for further details and give my best to Allie. She was a wonderful hostess on Friday night. Just tell her to keep an eye on her billfolds if you keep doing those pop-ups...
-Angela
Ah-ha.
So the bitchy blonde firecracker who damn near broke my sternum shoving a folder of cash into my chest wants to give my boyfriend a restaurant. Well, she’s going to have to get in line with the fifty other people who, for their own selfish reasons, like to dangle shiny false hopes in front of a guy who is trying to focus on getting his life together.
I take a bite of my sandwich and the crusty bread roughs up the roof of my mouth. The nerve of this woman and her sadistic little email has also managed to suck the saliva from my mouth, and now I’m rage-chewing and wishing I hadn’t forgotten my Diet Coke on the counter.
“What do you think?” Benji says as he blows a thick stream of smoke out the window.
“Still reading,” I say. Still processing is the real answer.
In Benji’s defense, yes, Angela’s offer sounds legit. But there’s a good chance she’s like all the rest: just someone who wants fewer degrees of separation between herself and the beautiful lunatic they see portrayed in the media.
I’ve got one job when it comes to Benji, at least until he gets a little more sobriety under his belt. And that job is to protect him. Protect him from the people who want to either glorify his addiction, or sabotage it.
I’ve got to look out for myself, too. “Give my best to Allie.” A cordial sign-off from a woman who just four days ago let me know exactly what she thought of my ability, or should I say inability, to command a room? I smell bullshit—even through the aromatic cloves of garlic six inches from my nose.
“I think this could be good for my reputation,” Benji says, ashing out the window before taking his next drag.
Here’s the thing about his reputation. He may be the one responsible for trashing it, but I care about building it back. I know that’s mostly his job, but we need people not to lose interest in his pop-ups. If he switches gears and takes the bait Angela’s hooked, we risk losing out on the type of cash flow that can be made with the snap of a finger. Or the sear of a scallop, I should say.
I get the allure of what Angela is offering: steady paychecks from a hot, new open. But Benji has sabotaged anything and everything that could have been good for him. In fact, he admitted that verbatim to me the first time we met. I thought it was the whiskey talking, to be honest, so I just giggled, asked for another glass of sauv blanc, and looked past it. I mean, who just matter-of-factly states that if it’s a good thing, he’s going to throw acid on it?
Perhaps not taking that warning seriously was an oversight on my part during the whole getting-to-know-him phase. But as his current girlfriend, I am now very familiar with his former MO. So while I should be supportive and excited at the thought that someone wants to give him a chance—a real, substantiated chance—I just can’t see the light when so many red flags clog my vision.
Angela has no idea how fragile Benji really is. Her job is to taste his food, catch a glimpse of him in the kitchen, post it on her Instagram and feel like the popular kid in school when the likes roll in. That’s it. She has no idea the size of the pot she’s stirring by promising sunshine, rainbows and restaurants. But I’ve managed to show him the way thus far and I’m not letting him take a detour on this dead-end offer. Go ahead, call me his part-time girlfriend, part-time game keeper. It’s true. God, Facebook “it’s complicated” relationships have nothing on us.
Then why the hell am I sticking around? Because the sex is just that good? I mean, it’s the best I’ve ever had by far, but that’s not what keeps me here. And neither is the cooking, although that’s a hell of a hook. So have I bought into the delusion that I’ll be the one thing that changes Benji, that sobers him up, shakes his shoulders and turns him into the Top Chef the whole country knows he can be?
Well.
Kind of.
I haven’t failed at much in my life so far. At least, not this quickly. For all the irritation and frustration a situation like this can carry, part of me really does believe that I could be the missing piece. Benji seems to think so, too. He tells me every day that no matter what success he has, it’s because of me. Everyone can see he’s doing so much better now that we’re together. And last night—three months of sobriety—is proof.
Benji rejoins me on the couch. My apartment reeks of cigarette smoke and mustard. I hate to admit that it’s not a terrible combo.
“That email’s crazy, right, Al?”
That’s one word for it. I don’t know what to say back, so I let Due Diligence Debbie chime in.
“Sure, but do you even know anything about this chick?” I decide not to tell him that I do, that she nearly football-tackled me over the little slipup I made when busing tables.
He takes the laptop back but doesn’t answer the question.
“Also, what happens with your pop-ups? You’re just going to ditch doing those right after FoodFeed announces it’s the one can’t-miss dining experience of Chicago? You finally have a real, passionate following, Benji. Just the other day I was at brunch and my server was begging me to spill the beans on your next dinner. Do you realize how easily you could sell them out? You’d be booked the next six dinners if you