Hot Mess. Emily Belden

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СКАЧАТЬ dedicated to his glorious man-bun. Most of the pictures were candid ones of him cooking, but there were definitely quite a few—some in color, some in black-and-white—of him hamming it up for the camera.

      I got stuck on one photo in particular. It was connected to a write-up in GQ titled “Knife Fight.” He was pictured standing with his shirt off holding a butcher’s knife that was covered in red pepper puree meant to look like blood dripping off the blade. He was tatted up to his chin with everything from olive tree branches to a pig being roasted over an open flame. Over his left knuckles, the word RARE. Over his right, WELL. Kudos for having a theme, I thought. His face had a wicked, smug stare on it as if he was thinking, “You can’t tell because the photo is cropped, but I’m getting an awesome blow job right now.”

      He was hot—at least, I guessed that’s the word you’d use to describe someone who’s both intimidating and alluring all at the same time. Even though he wasn’t my usual type, a small part of me wondered right then what it would be like to walk into his restaurant, sit alone at the bar with a view into the open kitchen and wait to see if a girl like me could catch the attention of a guy like him as I sipped on a glass of wine.

      I hit on a few more links that day and caught myself reading what others were saying about him in the comments section of some blog.

      “Just what the city needs. Another druggie chef.”

      “He’s not on drugs, you idiot.”

      “Doesn’t he only cook while super high?”

      “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 СКАЧАТЬ