Hot Mess. Emily Belden

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 scheduled them.”

      Full disclosure when it comes to his pop-ups: I front all food and supply costs. It’s not something I wanted to do, but when he came to me with a solid plan about how to pull off these pop-ups and contribute financially to our household, the Bank of Allie was really the only one willing to give the loan needed to get his idea off the ground. Plus, it was the only way to do this while avoiding his number one trigger—easy access to cash.

      It works like this: Benji announces a pop-up on social media after he secures a “venue.” I use that term loosely since he never actually acquires any permits or paperwork. Therefore the destination for these dinners depends on who’s willing to say yes to letting him take over their space for a few hours, which usually means it’s only a matter of days between the initial announcement and the dinner itself. By that point, I will have withdrawn anywhere from five hundred to a thousand dollars from my personal account to purchase the last-minute ingredients and supplies.

      Fronting the money isn’t as scary as it sounds. When someone wants a seat at the pop-up, they have to pay immediately online. The money goes directly into my account so I can pay myself back. After I’m reimbursed, the profit is enough to cover stuff like his cell phone bill, our gas and water usage, a fraction of the cable bill. We could probably stand to make even more of a bottom line, but there are only so many seats available to sell and Benji has a habit of insisting he needs just twenty dollars more for bigger sea urchins...or for a new slotted spoon...or to pay Sebastian in cigarettes. Even though the ebb and flow of things has become my obsession in the last few months, I can’t begrudge him twenty dollars. Plus, when I see people post gorgeous pictures of his beautifully composed dishes, I know there’s no possibility he’s abusing our system.

      So if the pop-ups alone just cover the basic bills, where do we really rake it in? With gratuities. By the time the dinners end, patrons forget they’ve prepaid for their meal so it feels weird to them leaving the table empty—especially since they had a good time and ate great food. They dip into their wallets for whatever cash they have stashed away and make sure to leave it all as a token of their appreciation. It’s exactly like last night when Benji cascaded twenties like a waterfall onto the table at Republic before we got up to go home. But we were just two people, and stone sober at that. When an entire roomful of overserved celeb-chef chasers are involved, the result is hundreds of dollars just for a glimpse of the man-bun and a taste of his Sriracha Jell-O cubes.

      I’ve thought about looking into legitimizing this business but the thought of figuring out an LLC for a guy whose credit looks like it’s been through a meat grinder is daunting as fuck. For now, I’m not worried as long as we continue to keep the gratuities as all-cash and totally under the table.

      And as long as Angela is not in the picture.

      “The pop-ups are what they are,” he says. “But this...this could be legit. Like, some real steady shit.”

      He cracks his knuckles—the gesture I know means he’s getting excited about something. The first time I saw him do it was the second time we ever hung out. He had just gotten a text from a buddy who’d scored an eight ball (aka a helluva lot of cocaine) from a dealer known for having the good shit.

      “I don’t know, Benji. I don’t have the best feeling about this proposition,” I say.

      “Come on, Allie. You know I want my own restaurant. That’s always been the goal. To get four stars from the Trib. To have Candice Allegro give me a James Beard Award.”

      To get what? From whom?

      “All I’m saying is: Why would I slave my dick off doing pop-ups anymore if I don’t have to?”

      This is a wee bit frustrating to hear considering he’s spent about two-thirds of his tenancy in my apartment basically just sitting on my couch focusing on his sobriety. The pop-ups are new and exciting. They’re just starting to get off the ground. Should he already consider retiring?

      “But you’re making a profit that you don’t have to split every which way,” I remind him. “And you get to do what you want to do with the menu. Wasn’t that the goal?”

      “You’ve got to think bigger than these pop-ups, babe. These dinners were always just supposed to be a distraction. A means to an end. And it looks like the end is coming real fucking quick.”

      Benji hits Reply and starts pounding letters on the keyboard. I already know he’s drafting a note back to discuss this more so I excuse myself to put my dirty dish away before he asks me to proofread it.

      Moments later: “Boom. The bitch already wrote back. We’re on for coffee tomorrow.”

      The speed at which he propels himself into these head-on collisions is beyond my understanding. Sometimes, the chasm of difference between us repulses me, though I wish it didn’t. I just think about relationships like my mom and dad’s and wonder if I’m on the right track. They’ve been married for thirty-some-odd years and together even longer than that. Whatever the secret to a lasting relationship is, they know it. Would my dad ever do something rash without discussing it thoroughly with my mom? Before I play it out in my head, I stop comparing. This is my love story, I reason.

      I rinse my dish under the sink as Benji comes up slowly and softly behind me. He puts his arms around me and lays his head on my back.

      “Put that down,” he says. “I’ll clean when you’re at work tomorrow.”

      I’d rather not leave filth in the sink overnight, but Benji starts kissing my neck and suddenly I lose my motor skills. He guides me a few steps to our bed and lifts my shirt over my head.

      * * *

      Benji had his own place for a hot minute. He invited me over sometime around our third date and made me dinner while sipping out of a fifth of whiskey he kept by the oven like a handy bottle of olive oil.

      He plated the meal and slid it across his large kitchen island. I climbed up on a bar-height stool and he sat down next to me a moment later.

      “Dig in, baby girl,” he said.

      As I looked down at the plate, I was so intimidated. Scared I didn’t know how to cut into whatever he made and that I would proceed to eat a part you’re not supposed to. I was unsure if I’d even like the way it tasted.

      But one bite in and my world was rocked.

      “You like?”

      I could only nod as I swallowed my food.

      “Next СКАЧАТЬ