Hot Mess. Emily Belden

outside my work. Now, what for is the question.

      “Remember how I told you there were a few VIPs on the dinner list at the pop-up? I circled their names on the sheet I gave you before service...” His eyes are big and intense. Kind of like how they always are, I guess.

      I squint as I rack my brain. I don’t remember any one person in particular, but immediately panic wondering if they all got food poisoning or something.

      Benji doesn’t wait for a reply.

      “The guy who runs Republic, Ross Luca, invited us in tonight.”

      Ross Luca is a Chicago restaurateur—an iconic one at that. I know this because FoodFeed loves Ross Luca. They seem to run a blog post about him daily. At first, I wanted to know who he was paying off for all the good press, but then I realized there’s a lot to cover about Ross. For one thing, he’s both a businessman and executive chef. In something like two short years, he’s managed to open everything from a kitschy Jewish deli to an over-the-top steak house and rotates cooking at them all, six days a week. It’s rare to find someone like that, who can fire from both sides of the brain. Who can be artistic in the kitchen and savvy in the boardroom. Everyone in the industry knows that Ross Luca is that prodigy. Hell, even a typically jealous Benji agrees Ross is the shit. Which is why his name was highlighted and starred on the VIP list—that I recall for sure.

      While he may have just about every cuisine in this city cornered, Republic is Ross’s fine-dining spot. FoodFeed called it “an instant classic” when it opened about a year ago and the reservation list hasn’t dwindled one bit since then, despite the $150+ per person price tag. Which leads me to my next point: we can’t go.

      “Well, that’s exciting. But...Republic is for very wealthy people.”

      “Or for normal people pretending to be rich for the night,” he casually volleys back.

      “Right. Either way, a $400 meal for two is pretty grotesque. Don’t you think?”

      “I do.”

      He’s not at all picking up what I am throwing down. The majority of our profit from the pop-up Friday has already been used for bills, groceries and drug debts, and I’ve set the rest aside for September’s rent since he hasn’t scheduled the next pop-up yet.

      “Relax, Allie. It’s on the house. No charge for us.”

      “Holy shit!” Yes, I’m a grown woman squealing in middle of the sidewalk. If people weren’t already staring at us, they are now.

      “Wait, so let me get this straight,” I say. “Ross Luca invited you and me to eat free at Republic tonight? That’s so freaking awesome. What time’s the reso?”

      “Eh, right now, actually. Sorry, I know it’s kind of early for multicourse dining but I expect we’ll be there awhile.”

      The expression on my face sags a bit as I remember my plans to watch The Bachelor at Maya’s.

      “Something wrong, babe?” he asks.

      “No. Nothing.” I smile big to reassure him I’m so in for this.

      “Great. Can I get the cash?”

      Although having to ask your girlfriend for money to treat her may not feel like the most graceful display of chivalry, he knows the drill. That I’m the keeper of the cash. So I hand over a portion of the tips we made at the pop-up, our “fun money” as we like to call it, as discreetly as I can. In exchange, he grabs my chin and kisses me directly on the lips.

      “Wait here, I’ll flag us a taxi,” he says, bolting to the curb.

      I could call us an Uber from my phone. It would make trying to hail a cab during rush hour in River North a nonissue, but it’s linked to my credit card. And I can tell Benji wants full credit for this date so I let him hunt and gather while I text Maya that I won’t be able to make it to her place tonight.

      Maya: It’s kind of tradition, A...

      Me: Sry! Republic = MAJOR. Can we watch tmrw?

      Maya: Jazzy’s already on her way. Can’t cancel.

      Me: OK. Will watch online over my lunch tmrw. Next wk 4 sure!

      I toss my phone back into my bag and cringe as I look down at my pencil skirt, flats and button-up shirt. I’m dressed like a district attorney. I dig around in my trusty Marc Jacobs tote for some lip gloss and a hair clip, then spend the rest of the ride over touching up my makeup and trying to pull my day-old hair into a decent-looking chignon. Before we get out of the cab, Benji uploads a selfie of the two of us to his Snapchat story, tagging Republic in the post. It’s been live for all of five seconds and I can already feel the notifications vibrating my bag.

      “Welcome, Benji. Hello, Allie.” The hostess knows who we are without us having to introduce ourselves. I feel like a celebrity. “Follow me.”

      As we trail the blonde hostess into the main dining area, I soak in the interior of the restaurant. Right away I see they run a silent kitchen—ten chefs, all with their heads down. Benji always says the quieter the kitchen, the more expensive the meal. Thank god this is getting comped.

      We are led to a table in the middle of the dining room, close to the window nearest the entrance. It’s a strategic move on the restaurant’s part—so we can see everything and be seen by everyone. Once seated, we aren’t handed menus. When you’re a guest of the guy in charge, you eat what he cooks, end of story.

      “Congrats on the FoodFeed review. Well done, Chef Zane,” the blonde says before walking back to her post.

      It’s apparent she’s seen the article. Perhaps that’s how she knew exactly who I was.

      The table attendant pours our water after ascertaining our preference for still. “Hey, nice going with the pop-up. FoodFeed said you killed it,” he whispers to Benji.

      “So, has everyone in the industry seen this post?” I ask with a hint of sarcasm as I unfold my napkin and place it on my lap. Doing this promptly and coyly is something Benji once said separates the restaurant pros from the Friday-night novices. In fact, it’s a tactic I used while hosting the pop-up last week to measure the ratio of actual VIPs to slutty chef-chasers (1:5).

      Benji takes a sip of his water and cracks his knuckles on the table. “Well, babe, we showed them what’s up. They fucking loved everything.”

      He pulls out his phone, normally a faux pas at a fine-dining restaurant unless you’re quickly snapping a photo of some rare black truffles. I think it’s to check the number of views on our selfie, but he actually references the FoodFeed article for the hundredth time. I suspect he’s a little addicted to the good news, but that’s a vice I can handle.

      “... From the high-end venue, to the bone-china soup bowls, it appeared that no corners were cut this time.”

      “... Zane seemed remarkably poised despite a crowded dining room. Especially for someone who’s rumored to have a serious past with hard drugs...”

      “... We’ll be dreaming of the bourbon honeycomb panna cotta dessert until the next pop-up is announced.”

      As he reads the praise, I can’t stop staring at this man who I call mine.

      “Don’t look at me like that...” He catches me.

      “I can’t help it. You’re kind of incredible.”

      “Only because of you, babe.” I smile at the credit given. “And I said don’t look at me like that or I’m not going to be able to wait until we’re home to fuck you.”

      He may be blunt. He may be crass. But his matter-of-fact confidence in my feelings for him reinforces that we are working.

      “Benji, Allie, good to see you both.” Ross graces us with his presence at the table. Did he hear Benji discuss his plans for me later? The thought causes my face to heat and Benji to smirk at me before getting up to shake Ross’s hand. I