Hot Mess - Emily Belden

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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.

      “Ready, babe?” he asks, helping me out of my chair. We walk hand in hand toward the front of the restaurant, where we pass the blonde hostess who sat us so many hours ago.

      “Have a good night,” I say to her.

      “Excuse me...” she says back, checking over her shoulder for management. “Could I take a quick picture with you guys?”

      The three of us squeeze in together as Benji extends his arm out with her phone to press the button. Anything but regular, I think to myself again as I smile big for the camera.

       4

      “Babe.”

      One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. I award myself a mental grace period in hopes that Benji realizes the sandwich I’m making requires actual skill. For me, at least. I don’t cook much anymore—well, let’s be frank, I never really did—now that an esteemed chef shares my address. But when I’m hungry and he’s exhausted, it’s back to a basic turkey-and-cheese for me.

      I didn’t think I’d ever feel hungry again after last night’s nonstop food fest at Republic, but Benji picked up a crusty-on-the-outside, soft-on-the-inside loaf of bread with actual chunks of roasted garlic baked right in it from the Farmer’s Market while I was at work. And it’s a beacon of carby goodness that won’t stop calling my name.

      Just like Benji.

      “Hey, sweet babe?” he asks again.

      “Yeah? What is it?” I finally respond after a lengthy pause.

      “Come here. Come look at this email. I’m pretty sure I’m getting a fucking restaurant.”

      Benji has left my laptop open on the couch, I’m assuming for me to peruse said email at my leisure while he grabs one of the last Camel Lights from a dingy pack in the pocket of his gray hoodie. I bought that pack for him earlier this morning as he walked me to the bus stop and it already looks like it’s been through a shredder. Stressful day of buying fancy bread and checking email on the

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