Becsabillion

eat your words

pairing: carmen berzatto x f!reader

summary: Food critic visits The Beef and meets the great Carmen Berzatto. She doesn't think he's that great, and maybe he doesn't think she is either.

word count: 19,043

tags: SMUT, but also very important tags are alcohol abuse/alcoholism, bad parenting, grief/mourning but also SMUT, slow burn, food porn, unprotected sex, creampie, semi-public sex, dirty talk, blowjob, creampie, 18+ only

note: just back finishing my trilogy of Bear fanfics with another Carmen/OFC - but this one gets suuuper deep at points. definitely a slow burn with a lot of plot before the porn (chapter 5 for those inclined). if you’d like to read this in a different format, you can find it on ao3 under my name (Becsabillion), as well as some of my other work. but for now, enjoy!!

Dim lights, cutlery’s silvery shine, the clash and collaboration of smells. Steam billowing from the open oven door, the hissing, shimmering crackle of too-high heat on the pan. Leave it, Sylvie, it needs to sear. Anecdote layered upon instruction, interruptions and muttered curses, and always, always cooking. Stir, slice, taste this. Waving a knife around, and Josh, if you don’t get out of my kitchen right now-

Positioning the plate just right, repositioning it for the best angle. Watching me eat more than she eats herself. Asking her why she cooks it like that, why add salt then and not later, why exactly a third of a teaspoon - because, Sylvie, that’s how it’s done, that’s tradition, that’s who we are.

And do you like it, Sylvie? Well, there you go, and she always sits back with the same smugness, the radiant satisfaction visible in the crossing of her arms and the smile that hangs off the corner of her lips. Always about to fall.

Anyway, it was never about the food.

“It used to be, I would wake up - probably around 7 - and instead of putting the coffee on like every other person awake at that time, I would open the fridge and find the bottle of white wine I’d pre-chilled the night before. I was pretty good at that, at preparing like that. I used to think I was taking care of myself, staying ahead of the hangover. Staying ahead of feeling…feeling shitty, I guess.” I glance up as I say it, let the words spill into the only space in this city I feel like I can say them. Letting the vulnerability sink deep, like it always does at these meetings. It’s so thick in the air, like perfume in a small space, trapped in the folds of people’s clothing as they watch me confess.

“When Grant was there, I’d put on a big show of hiding it. I was waiting for him to call me out…but towards the end, I realised he’d never even noticed. So wrapped up in whatever shit he was thinking about, whatever fictional problem he was trying to write himself out of. Wasn’t expecting him to break up with me, though.”

I sigh, lifting a wry smile onto my face as I look at them all looking at me. “So that’s when I switched to vodka.”

My hands are pushed so deeply into my pockets I can feel the stitches straining at the shoulders as I push the heavy door of the church aside. I usually try to make my escape from these meetings quickly, wrapping myself in Chicago's cloak of anonymity. Just because these people know my worst thoughts, doesn’t mean I want to share a train carriage with them on the way back to our lives.

“Sylvie! Wait up!” Although, that is the only face I’m happy to pause for. I hold the door open as Connor, swinging his bag onto his back, paces down the corridor.

“Got somewhere to be?” he asks as he joins me, shouldering the weight of the door as I step into the icy air.

“Tough to have somewhere to be at seven-thirty on a Wednesday when you don’t have a job,” I smile. “I was honestly just planning to get breakfast and go home.”

“To do what?” He frowns at me. “Let’s get breakfast. On me, for your two years.”

“Oh, God,” I say, stopping in my tracks. “How did you know?”

“In my calendar, since the day you joined. I do run this show, you know. Figured when you started telling the fridge story you probably didn’t want me to jump to my feet afterwards and get everyone to give you a round of applause.”

“The fridge story?” I don’t look at Connor, but even I can hear the smile in my voice.

“Trust you to celebrate two years sober by telling your most pathetic, bottom-of-the-barrel anecdotes.” He nudges me when I don’t reply, keeping pace as I head down towards the busier main road. “Look how far you’ve come.”

“Buy me breakfast, and shut up,” I say, finally looking at him.

“I know just the place.”

“You know, most people would have the humility to take their friends to any other spot in town, rather than their own restaurant for - and these are your words - ‘Chicago’s best poached eggs’.” I paint quotation marks in the air with one hand as I pick up my cutlery with the other. It’s warm and empty in here, faint clattering noises coming from the waking kitchen behind us. I love it at Which Came First, ever since Connor took me here after my first meeting. I remember my hands were still shaking from speaking in front of all those people when I tried his çılbır for the first time.

“And your point is?” Connor says through an unholy mouthful of food.

I shake my head slowly, staring at him. “I’m just so thankful you’re not most people.”

“Besides, where else are you gonna get a free breakfast?” He says, finishing his bite.

I don’t reply, too busy slicing the creamy white of the egg open to watch the sudden burst and slow ooze of the yolk emerge. Damn him, his eggs are always perfect.

“Hurry up and try it. I added something new, and I want to see if you get it.”

I narrow my eyes at Connor, considering telling him I’m not his circus monkey, but decide against it because hell, I like showing off. I glance down at the latkes below the eggs, and the gravadlax layered carefully on top, but all looks the same as normal. Making sure I have a small amount of each ingredient on my fork, I breathe in deeply before putting the food in my mouth.

And then I close my eyes, and the restaurant, the warmth, the chink of crockery in the kitchen, it all fades away.

I can tell there’s something different straight away, but there’s no difference in texture. I let the food sit for a second, resisting the urge to chew as I try to parse what’s changed. The egg is beautiful as always, the kind of rich taste you only get from organic, free-range eggs - but considering the fact Connor’s restaurant is dedicated to the art of the egg, that’s unsurprising. The gravadlax sings through, that grassy hint of dill grounding it. 

But the latkes - they’re crisp, salty, with a deeper taste than usual. I can see how they were made, the potato meticulously grated, strained; I can hear the sizzle of the pan, imagine them browning, and I know the smell.

“Peanuts. You used peanut oil for the latkes, not canola,” I say, opening my eyes to see Connor shaking his head in amazement.

“You only ever smile like that when you figure a recipe out,” he says with a grin. “You could go back, you know.”

“What do you mean?” I say, glancing around as the world comes back into focus and my enthusiasm fades.

“Like, to working with food again. Developing food, like you did. Making new products.”

“Think I burnt a few bridges there when I showed up drunk to work,” I smile, but he knows as well as me that it’s not a real one anymore.

“Well, okay. Maybe not there. But somewhere else-”

“Pretty sure I’m blacklisted,” I shrug.

“Sylvie. Maybe you’re not willing to try.”

I think about pushing my plate away, standing up and leaving. But honestly, the new latkes are too good to waste, so I stare fastidiously at my plate and start eating faster. The sooner I finish, the sooner I can get away from this conversation.

Connor sighs, but before he can speak, his sous emerges from the kitchen and says as she passes, “What do you think of the new latkes, Sylvie?”

“Great, honestly. It gives the whole dish a depth I think it lacked before. Although, I wish there was a lemon garnish. Normally when I eat here, I walk out feeling lighter than I did before.” I sit back as the thought runs away with me. “And part of the reason for that, is things are light and fresh, and everything’s the perfect size for breakfast. It’s energising, refreshing. This dish feels a bit heavy at the moment, if I’m honest.”

She smiles as she adjusts some cutlery on a nearby table, rolling her eyes as she meets mine. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Connor sits up so suddenly I drop my fork and splatter egg all over the pristine tablecloth. “Wait!”

Six months later

“Connor Ramirez, I am going to kill you,” I growl as I storm across the road, ignoring the blaring horn of a car behind me as I reach the other side.

I glance down at my phone again to the shitty instructions Mr Marshall - and yes, I’d known my boss for six months but he still insisted I call him Mr Marshall - gave before he pushed me out the door this morning. For some reason, I was struggling with ‘take a left down the wide street, and when you see the green bar, you’ve gone too far’.

The reason Connor was marked for death in particular was because this was all his idea.

“Be a food critic, Sylvie. You have so many transferable skills, Sylvie,” I mutter as an elderly woman takes a wide berth to avoid my war path. “Since when did an English degree ten years ago and a job making frozen food amount to Michelin-star-detecting tastebuds?”

Since now, apparently. It hadn’t actually been that hard to find the incredibly junior position at the Chicago Star, but it had sure as hell been hard ever since. Not exactly the most prestigious publication, the newspaper relied heavily on outrageous headlines and seventeen pages of advertisement per edition. Connor promised it was all about making a name for yourself, letting the quality of your work shine through, like a diamond in the rough–

“Fuck!” I pretty much shriek as I look up to see a particularly green bar right in front of me.

“You lookin’ for something, sweetheart?” Two men are lingering nearby smoking, and one passes his cigarette to his friend as he looks up at me.

My default instinct is both to say no and give them a dirty look for calling me sweetheart, but I am really fucking lost.

“Yeah, The Original Beef of Chicagoland?” I cringe just saying the name. “Have you heard of it?”

The other man snorts. “You mean The Beef? Turn around and walk thirty steps, girl. What do you want in there for?”

I look behind me, and instantly see the sign swinging in the breeze. Surprised I didn’t spot it before, as it squeaks and trembles in the light wind like it’s about to come loose at the first heavy footstep beneath.

“Um. What everyone wants?” I say as I frown at the smudged windows of the storefront. When I look back at them, they’re blank-faced.

“Michael’s not there anymore,” is all one of them says. “If that’s what you’re looking for.”

“I…just want to try the sandwich,” I respond, frustrated that this conversation is still going on. And just what the hell are they doing, standing on the street in this deep chill?

“Riiight,” the other guy says with a snort. “Good luck. It’s not the same anymore.”

“Thanks,” I smile weakly, turning back as they launch into a conversation about the good old days when Chicago had more crime and less rules and better beef sandwiches.

I take a deep breath outside the door, the sunlight reflecting off of the murky glass so harshly I can’t see inside. I glance at the men again, who are smirking like they can tell I don’t know what I’m doing, and that’s all I need to scowl and push the door open. Because fuck them. Fuck all of this. This assignment was the last thing I wanted dropped on my desk this morning, with Mr Marshall’s wagging finger at my last “pretentious” review still fresh and stinging in my brain.

It does smell pretty damn good inside though, and the rush of warm air instantly relaxes the set of my shoulders. I pause next to the door, but I’ve clearly arrived before the lunch rush - if there is one in this place - and there’s nobody out front. The laminate counter is swept clean, but it’s far from shining; a few cracked, leather stools for the rapid lunch-breakers line the opposite wall, classic condiment bottles and tissue holders interspersed randomly. I move closer, albeit furtively, because it sure does feel like whoever closed up last night forgot to lock the door and The Beef is closed for business. As I wonder if I can find a hair or a rat to present Greg with a really shocking headline, I hear faint voices coming from the kitchen.

“Tina! How we lookin’ on giardiniera, Chef?”

“We lookin’ good, Jeff!”

“Markus, bread?”

“In the oven, Chef.”

“Great, thank you, Chef.” The quiet authority to the questions tells me instinctively who runs this kitchen, until, “Syd–”

“Cousin, why you fuckin’ labelling everything now? Like, I think we can all agree, we know what fuckin’ chilli flakes look like.” The interruption is booming, loud, and it freezes me to the spot for a second.

A quiet, calm voice responds, but the tension is loud in the air. “We need this kind of system for efficiency, cousin. If we surround ourselves with order, then we will be–”

“Oh, if we surround ourselves with labels, then everything will be perfect–”

“Yes, Richie, if we create an atmosphere–”

“Oh, an atmosphere–”

There’s a clatter of plates, and something shatters, and the voices are suddenly loud enough that I should move or do anything to make it not look so desperately like I was listening to every word, but they crash through the door before I can turn–

“Oh,” is all the first guy through the door says. His eyes, a clear blue, take me in for a second, then skitter away to the empty restaurant behind me. He brings a hand to his neck, like something is sore, or maybe just out of the sheer awkwardness of this awful, dragging moment.

I’m actually grateful to the owner of the booming voice when he claps his hands together, hard enough that I flinch, and announces, “Welcome to The Beef! Sorry about my cousin here, he likes to label things, because he’s so unbelievably anal–”

“Richie,” the “cousin” - although they look nothing alike - says in warning, and Richie holds his hands up in defense.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry, sweetheart. What can we get for you?”

“Uh.” I kind of forgot at some point that I was part of this conversation, and not just watching the trainwreck unfold around me.

“We got beef sandwiches, we got hot dogs, we got pasta–”

“We do not have pasta, we don’t have pasta, cousin,” the awkward guy interrupts again, avoiding eye contact as he straightens something I can’t see on the other side of the counter. His body is in constant motion, arranging, aligning, eyes flickering around for something else to fix. He looks simultaneously like he’s highly medicated and hasn’t slept in days, and both may be true. When he does turn his gaze to me, I feel like he’s forcibly snapped himself back to this reality. “I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t have pasta today.”

“That’s okay,” I finally manage to say as they both stare at me. “I’ll have the sandwich, if that’s alright.”

“More than alright, darlin’, you want that to go?”

“Um. No.” I mean, I desperately do want to get the hell out of this situation, but more words than the story of this weird encounter need to be written if Greg is going to keep me on at the Chicago Star and allow this wonderful writing career to continue to flourish. “Can I sit…somewhere?” I gesture to the stools vaguely.

“Wherever you like, we have a whole room right through there if you wanna find a seate’ll and w get to work on your order. The great Carmen Berzatto will be making your sandwich today, which is the highest fuckin’ honour. Did you know, he was Food & Wine’s best chef–”

Raking a hand through his blond hair hard enough that he surely tugs some out, the guy I’m assuming is Carmen turns back into the kitchen, shouting, “One beef, please, Chefs!”

He gets no response as I head through to the shabby side room. Checkered tablecloths brighten what they can, but as I look around, I bump my hip, hard, into the side of a–

“Why the fuck do they have…” I trail off, staring at the Ballbreaker machines on the opposite wall. The familiar beeps and occasional deep-voiced “Ballbreaker!” battlecry throw me back about twenty years to the arcade my parents took me and my siblings to on weekends.

“Do you play?” someone asks excitedly from behind me.

“Oh, Ballbreaker was my game,” I smile at the dude who stands there, an endearing picture with his backwards baseball cap and blue jacket.

“Really? Me and my brother, we would play every Saturday down at the–”

“The Galloping Ghost?” I say, grinning now.

“Yes! What was your high score? One time, I actually found this Easter Egg where there’s a room, and in the room is like a whole wall of dicks with like, some have big balls, some you can’t even see, and I–”

“Fak, stop bothering the only paying customer in this place,” Richie says as he sweeps through the door with a plate. I’m slightly taken aback at the speed of the service; honestly, I was expecting a 40-minute wait while they fired up the ovens. Smacking it down on the table closest to where I’m standing, sauce flies up and onto Richie’s already-grimy shirt. Glancing down, he uses his thumb to collect it and licks it off of his finger, saying as he pushes Fak out the door, “Enjoy, bella.”

I probably should be disgusted at that, but it’s weirdly nice to be treated this casually. I’m too used to restaurants desperately trying to give off the snooty air, as if it’ll help them get that coveted Michelin star - and hell, maybe it will.

Thinking about Michelin, I remember Richie’s earlier comment, because hearing about Food & Wine in the context of this place was surprising, to say the least. I pull my phone out and type Carmen Berzatto into Google. Numerous press photos pop up, full articles - The French Laundry, Ever, Noma…It’s so incongruous with The Beef that I have to pull up an image of this Carmen to check it’s the same guy.

The same blue eyes stare up from my phone. The same tousled, blond hair, the same tattoos smattered liberally over the muscles of his arms. There’s no doubt it’s him.

“But why here…” I whisper, glancing up to see if he’s standing in the doorway, ready to sprinkle caviar over the top of my sandwich.

And the sandwich - suddenly remembering it exists, I glance down. Steam still wafts off of it, but now I look at it with a degree of respect, considering a Michelin-star chef made it.

And now I don’t really know what to expect. The hot, buttery smell of it hangs in the air. I’m not sure where to place my hands, how to start eating it without getting messy - but maybe that’s the whole point. So I stop trying to be fastidious, pull the napkins closer to me, and pick it up with both hands.

It oozes, drips, sweats in the humid air. It looks fucking fantastic, and suddenly it’s all I can think about.

So I take a bite.

Tucked away on an unknown side street, The Original Beef of Chicagoland has always been one for the locals. Partly, this is because it’s a nostalgic, quaint establishment that seems to know each and every person who comes in the door, welcoming them with the familiar comforts of warm dough and rich meat. The lunch rush is overwhelming in its overlapping conversations about jobs lost, husbands found, illnesses cured, dogs put down - and there is something incredibly soothing about the whole experience. The shabby decor harkens back to a time where it didn’t matter how you dressed up your tables, how clean your cutlery was, because that was never what people came here for.

We are here, of course, for the Italian beef sandwich that has kept this place running since time immemorial. (I do feel quite strongly that Chicago was built around The Beef, which has stood here in all its homely simplicity since approximately 43AD.) Exquisite, still cooking in its own fat as it was served to me, I fully embraced the experience that was offered: messy, hurried, delicious. And it was absolutely worth every greasy bite.

But I digress - because the main reason The Beef is for the locals, is because nobody else knows it’s there. And maybe that’s for a good reason. Sure, there’s something to be said for tradition. But when I exited The Beef, I was left with two realisations: that I had consumed my recommended daily calories in the space of ten minutes, and more importantly, that we exist in a world where food is so full of possibilities, that it can be anything we dream of. And perhaps places like this are the reason we find it so hard to move forward from a past we’d be better off forgetting.

The reason locals have been going here their whole lives, is because we are comfortable with the idea of a place that won’t change, that will welcome us the same way it did when we turned seven and won our first game of Ballbreaker (yes, The Beef still has some of those machines, and I did have to actively resist playing a round or two) as it will at thirty-five, weary from your own kids. The problem is that I have to believe that food can push us, and that we need places that will drive us to change, give us new experiences. As it stands, we can expect nothing new, innovative or exciting coming from The Beef.

Nevertheless, I won’t deny that this restaurant is trying to better itself, and that’s one of its most confusing idiosyncrasies. How has Carmen Berzatto, a man the renowned Chef Terry of Ever fame once called “one of our finest culinary masterminds”, found himself washed up in this particular back alley? Or perhaps - and I can relate - he likes a bit of a fixer-upper. Maybe you can fix it, Carmen, but that doesn’t mean you should.

I wish I had more to say about the food in a restaurant review, but the Italian sandwich is the best The Beef has to offer - and whilst it’s certainly a blast from the past, it’s far from the culinary epiphany I would expect with Chef Berzatto at the helm. And that’s maybe my ultimate disappointment: that The Beef feels like it could really be something, if it would just turn its obstinate head to other things. For now, I’m just left wondering what will be next on the menu for this place in a rapidly changing - and ever more unforgiving - industry.

chapter 2

Reading back the piece at my desk, The Star’s shitty ink smudging my fingers, I feel a twinge of guilt about some of the more inflammatory phrases. I was pretty tired when I finished it late last night, and more importantly, pretty hungry. I think back to the sounds of the busy kitchen at The Beef, and shift slightly in my seat when I think about them reading the review, the silence that would spread over the workbenches. But then again, it didn’t seem like the kind of restaurant that would even know it had been reviewed. Or care, probably.

“Sylvie!” I look up at a rap on the cubicle wall, startling so hard I nudge my coffee cup and it spills across my desk, leaking into the keyboard.

“Fu-hi. Hi, Ri-Mr Marshall. What’s up?” I ask, distractedly searching for a tissue before I have to tell IT I broke yet another keyboard.

“I have some really great news for you. I mean, not such good news for the Star,” he says, and I can tell he’s just loving dragging this out as much as possible. Probably wants me to guess what it is. Oh boy, Mr Marshall sir, what could it be?

Wait. What could it be? I look up sharply. “Is the paper going under?” It would be true to style for him to tell me by phrasing it as “good news”, the quintessential newspaper spin.

“No, we’re fine!” He frowns. “Why would you think that?”

I shrug and look down at my now-sodden tissue. “Economy,” I say vaguely.

“Yes, of course…well, you know that we’re part of a wider group of food magazines in the Chicago area, of course. And I’ve just been on the phone with Emma Jarris.”

“Emma Jarris? The editor?” This news makes me actually look him in the eye. “I didn’t know Eater was one of the companies in the network.”

“Well, they’re not. But Emma knows people who know people…”, and as Mr Marshall continues a meandering attempt at talking around the subject, I realise he looks pretty damn uncomfortable, “...and, well, she wants you.”

What?

“Emma Jarris…wants me,” I state, just for the record. “What could she possibly want me for?”

“She’s requested copies of a few of our magazines lately, so naturally, I reached out to her asking for a quote for the website. Just think how crazy it would be to log onto the web and see” – Rich paints a beautiful picture through the air as he speaks – “‘Chicago’s Best Kept Secret, The Chicago Star’ by Emalia Harris.” He seems to catch himself, and lowers his hand. “But it appears she was reading your articles, and um…she wants you.”

“For Christ’s sake, Rich, for what?”

“For the Eater. To write for them.”

My fingertips, still clutched around the coffee-stained Kleenex, feel slightly numb. I look down at the article sprawled on my desk, and pick it up. “Because of this trash?”

Rich makes a few indignant noises of protest – he’d called it my “finest work yet” about an hour ago – but eventually shrugs and nods.

My mind is circling desperately, and I cling onto the logistics to regain a semblance of control. “But I work here.”

“Yes. But in return for a quote, Emma wanted me to ask you whether – and, well, these are her words – you wanted to “get the hell out of here”.”

I snort, directly into Mr Marshall’s face – because, yes, I would like that very much indeed. Abandoning the keyboard, I stand.

“Well then, Rich. I think you should probably direct me to a phone.”

The lights shatter so sharply across my vision that I raise my hands instinctively until Em bats them down.

“Look slightly above the cameras so it doesn’t hit your retinas head on, and blink just before they take them,” she says through a frozen grin, and I try vainly to follow her advice.

It’s over in seconds anyway, and I cringe internally at the thought of seeing those photos splashed across magazines tomorrow. All I can comfort myself with is the fact that they’ll probably relegate me to the inside crease of page thirty-seven, my face bisected by the page fold.

Em takes my hand to lead me inside and tuts. “Honestly, I don’t know why your hands are so clammy. It’s just a party.”

“It’s an awards show for the best chefs in Chicago, Em,” I say even as I can hear the petulant whine in my tone. “Grant Achatz could be here.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. Grant RSVP’d weeks ago.” She stops us before we step through a particularly intimidating velvet curtain. Holding my gaze, she grabs both of my arms and gives a deep, steadying breath I instinctively follow. It’s been three months since I started working for her, but from day one, I’ve clung onto every piece of advice she’s deigned to give me, until she kept stealing my pens so I couldn’t keep writing her words of wisdom down.

I’d also sent Connor a bouquet of flowers for his part in forcing me into the career of a food critic. Emma gave a lot of free rein to the critics at Eater to choose where they wanted to eat next, and I’d already been able to tick five places off of my list of Chicago’s best, which I’d previously thought I wouldn’t be able to afford unless I married rich.

And with Eater, came recognition. Last week, I’d arrived at Boulanger only to be escorted to the best table in the house and treated with the kind of special attention that I knew meant they’d figured out who I was. Me. Known in a Michelin-star restaurant. I sent Connor another bouquet of flowers just for good measure.

“Chin up, shoulders back,” Em instructs. “Act like you deserve to be here, because you do. Your work is insightful and clear and fresh. Remember that, and if all else fails, remember that nobody’s going to be able to see you for most of the evening.”

“Em, what?” I splutter as she pushes us headlong into the room.

The awards portion of the evening goes off without a hitch, and I manage to smile politely and make conversation with a few faces familiar from magazines. It gets easier when Connor swans over to my table exclaiming to nearby tables, “Well, if it isn’t Eater’s best food critic!”, before pulling a chair between me and my neighbour and refusing to leave.

It feels beyond insane to be here, remembering the months I’d paced the windy streets of Chicago like a beat cop, hopping into tattered eateries and sophisticated cafes. And before that, following the strict routine of AA meeting, home, bed and flinching every time I heard a glass clink. I feel something swell in my throat, and Connor doesn’t say anything, but he reaches a hand out to squeeze mine and leans his head on my shoulder. 

None of that stops me glancing at the empty champagne glass that’s been placed in front of me, and feeling an itch that I’ve learned to accept will never fade.

Thankfully, the thought can’t continue beyond that, as from the front of the room the host says into the mic, “And now we’ve finished admiring our shiny new awards, I think it might be time for the main course. So, if every man in the room can stand behind his chair for me, and ladies, stay seated. We’re all here thanks to our shared love of food - so let’s take the opportunity to really appreciate every bite. Without further adieu, lights!”

He claps, and the room plunges into shadow. I gasp, instinctively reaching out for Connor, but he’s no longer seated. There’s enough light to see his dark figure standing behind his chair, and the silhouettes of others around the room, but I can’t make out any individual features.

“Gentlemen, you have the hard task of moving around the room. But I’d like to request that you find a table in the room you haven’t previously been to tonight and sit down to dinner with some new companions. If anyone has any difficulty, just shout and we’ll come to you.”

There’s a general murmur of laughter, and scuffles as people begin to manoeuvre around the room. The sudden blackness puts a dampener on conversation, and the only sound is a few whispers and muffled grunts of pain when body meets furniture.

In the tense silence, I’m not expecting to feel the sudden press of a body half-falling against the back of my chair.

“Fuck! I’m sorry, shit, I’m sorry,” I hear, and something about the huskiness of the voice seems familiar, so I reach out impulsively to steady the man’s arm.

“It’s okay, don’t worry. I think you’ve reached your destination,” I laugh, steering him around to take Connor’s abandoned seat. The muscles in his arm flex as he gains his balance, and I let go.

“Yeah, I think so,” is the reply, strangely loud in the hushed atmosphere. It feels like he’s right next to my ear, and I suppress a shiver as he settles into the chair and pulls it forward. I glance around the rest of the table, but I can’t hear anything else.

“Looks like we’ve been abandoned,” I say to my new companion – or at least, I hope I say it in his general direction.

“Honestly, the quiet is kinda nice,” he replies, and I turn towards him more, feeling the loosest brush of his knee beneath the table as I do so.

“Do you not get a lot of quiet?”

“Not really.” He huffs a laugh. “I’m a chef.”

“Oh, wow. So, no quiet at all then.”

“No, not at all, no. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten in the dark before either, so this feels like a weird…kinda out-of-body experience.” His words come slowly, like they’re pulled out of his mouth with some difficulty.

I smile, even though he can’t see it. “I’ve done it once before, in London.”

“Oh yeah? Did you like it?”

“Weirdly, it made me feel claustrophobic. And I went by myself, so by the end, I feel like I’d…I don’t know, sort of floated out of reality. Like, couldn’t remember where I was. But the food was fucking insane.”

“No way.”

“Yeah, like you can actually focus on every single component, and it’s so much easier to trace a flavour. They made this soup, for the starter. It was, like, just zucchini. So simple. But one taste, and there was the saltiness of the stock, there was the olive oil, the spice of the onion, and this perfect hint of cilantro–”

“Garlic wasn’t too strong?” I can practically hear him nodding.

“No, God no. It was smooth, just melded into everything else…” I feel a little awkward for a second. “And, now I’m hungry.”

“Well, I could be wrong, but I think there’s food at this event.”

“Really? I thought we were getting kicked out. Flickering the lights like they do to make you leave a restaurant.” It feels effortless to joke in the dark, with no walls of politeness and only us to hear it.

“No, pretty sure the invite said food. But it didn’t mention the whole, ya know, dark thing.”

“Or you wouldn’t have come?”

“Nah, I have to be here tonight. I’m actually opening a new restaurant. The Bear. So I’m trying to spread the word a little. Get the concept out there.”

“Ohh, I see. Lowkey poaching people a bit?”

“Oh, one hundred percent, yeah. Do you want a job?”

I laugh, and it carries across the murmuring space. “I just got a pretty amazing one, actually.”

“Oh, no way. Where?”

“I work for Eater. Food critic.”

“Shit, for Em?”

“Yeah! You know her? She’s the best.”

“She’s one of the good ones, for sure. Where’s the last place you reviewed?”

“Uh, Carrie’s.”

There’s a slight pause, and I can imagine him thinking. “Yeah, I think I know it. Wait, is it the place with the–”

“The bras on the ceiling? Yeah,” I grin.

“Yes. Yeah, and have you finished your review for that one, or?”

“I’m pretty stuck, actually. I got as far as “There are bras on the ceiling”, and then I kind of couldn’t stop thinking about that.”

He lets out a sharp exhalation, which I realise is a laugh. I can’t see more than his silhouette, but he’s sitting forward with his arms on his knees, his hands clasped together between them. He’s totally still, and his face looks like it’s tilted in my direction, watching as I speak. We sit in the silence together for a second, and I don’t feel any of the usual desperate urge to keep conversation flowing.

Before we can talk again, there are bobs of light making their way through the crowd, and I realise that the wait staff are wearing very low-level lights in their shoes. Someone appears behind us, quiet enough that I jump slightly and knock knees with my dinner partner.

“Shit, sorry,” I say as the staff member sets down two plates in front of us.

“No, no worries,” he replies, and I realise that we’ve missed the brief light of the waiter’s shoes, and the chance to see anything of each other. As they walk away, all I get is a flash of his blond hair, which again itches at something in my memory.

But there’s another part of me that doesn’t want them to turn the lights on. That doesn’t want the mystery to be over, that doesn’t want this to end.

We both shift closer to the table, following the almost overwhelming smell of the food now in front of us. Almost instinctively, my brain starts cataloguing, but with way more sensory input than normal.

“It has to be some kind of pork,” I comment.

“Definitely. Maybe jamon,” he replies, and a little part of me thrills as he engages with the game.

“Yeah, the smokiness. That makes sense. But there’s something almost…fruity about it.”

We both pause for a second, and I can just tell that if there was light, we’d be staring at each other. A slow smile begins to spread over my face.

“Shall we?”

“Let’s do it.”

We both stab around for cutlery, laughing as our fingers brush. I take a deep breath as I try to locate the food on my plate, wondering faintly if my brain has been damaged by the flashing lights of the cameras outside and I’m now having some sort of extended hallucination.

There’s a chunk of meat on the plate, and I slice off a piece, dragging it around the rest of the dish in the hopes I’ll hit some other flavour components along the way. Finally taking the first bite, I sit back and, despite the futility of it, close my eyes.

We both sink into the dish for a second, but even with my eyes closed, I feel his presence, hear his mind ticking through the meal as mine is. I think I’d be happy to exist there forever in the flavourful, deep, companionable silence.

Finally, he says, “You gonna break it down for me, Miss Critic?”

I smile and make him wait, taking another bite. This one hits harder than before somehow, the thick smokiness and delicate uplift confirming things I’d only guessed at the first bite. I put my fork down with a light clink before I speak.

“It’s not jamon, it’s mangalitsa. It’s richer than it smells. And there’s duck breast too, which works well with the pork. The cheese – manchego, for sure – gives it some zing. But the fruitiness, that’s the best part. Don’t you think it sweetens it, having the butternut squash, and evens the nuttiness out? And I mean, what is that, ice cream?” I can feel myself running away with it now, mouth and mind flowing into the empty air. “Butternut ice cream, but not too sweet? Only, what, four components, perfectly fighting for balance and achieving it. It’s superb.”

The man’s voice is pitched lower now, slightly uneven. “Yeah. Superb.”

I look down at my lap, embarrassed now. “Sorry. Food critic rant over.”

“No. No, don’t apologise. It’s, uh, it’s really something to hear people speak with passion about this kind of stuff. So many people don’t get it – or just refuse to get it. Like, how important this stuff all is. How much it matters to people.”

I’m nodding hard, as if the harder I do it, the more likely he is to see it.

“Without this “stuff”, I don’t think I’d be here. That’s how much it matters to me.” The thought is more vulnerable than I intended, and I appreciate his tact in not pursuing it. We dip back into the dish together, until I hear the clatter of his cutlery folding together.

“What would you drink this with?” He asks.

“Oh, uh, I wouldn’t,” I say sheepishly. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh. Oh, fuck, sorry.”

“Yes, it is entirely your fault that I’m a recovering alcoholic. Please, apologise more.”

His laugh is surprised again, like he isn’t used to doing it. “Well then, I really do apologise.”

“You can make it up to me by getting me a reservation at your new restaurant.” And I can suddenly hear the flirtation in my own voice, which shocks me. I’ve never seen this guy, and now I’m inviting myself to his most likely Michelin-level place of business for a meal?

“It’s kind of a wreck right now, actually. But yeah. Of course. You should come, you should come see it when it’s done.”

My shoulders loosen at the response, and there’s a second of silence where I wonder whether if I reached out, I could find his hand in the dark. What he would do if I did. 

I can hear him breathing right next to me, feel the edge of his shoulder next to mine, pressed close at an empty table, and suddenly there doesn’t seem to be any words left in me.

“Listen, what’s your–”

The lights flick on. I hiss, raising my hand like I did to the paparazzis’ cameras. No. 

I glance around at the rest of the room where people are doing the same, laughing it off and standing to go back to their old seats. And more than anything, I want to return to the darkness, even as my stomach twists and I turn to face–

Carmen. Carmen Berzatto, wearing a suit I don’t have time to process right now, is squinting at me in the sudden light, his chair much closer to mine than it was when Connor left.

The Beef. Disappointment. From a past we’d be better off forgetting. Washed up.

I take a sharp breath, trying to stave off the panic. I mean, he probably didn’t read it. He probably didn’t even–

His blue eyes are so cold they actually feel like they’re burning into my face.

Yeah, so he read it.

We can expect nothing new, innovative or exciting coming from The Beef.

“Sylvie! You survived!” Emma is tripping towards me, picking up the edge of her cornflower-blue dress as she carries her heels in her other hand.

She slumps into the chair on my other side, oblivious to the intense staring match I am currently having. “And Carmen! Why are you two all alone over here? How did you find it? I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I didn’t have Theresa Stowgard breathing down my neck about how much she hates duck the whole time. Oh, but Carmen, this is my best new critic at Eater, Sylvie Storer.”

“Mr Berzatto-,” I attempt to start, but he’s already jumped to his feet.

“I know who she is, Emma. Yeah. Yeah, I’ve known who she is since she destroyed The Beef in a review three months ago.”

He doesn’t bother adding anything else or looking at me before he turns and makes for the entrance. I probably would have enjoyed the stunned look on Emma’s face at another time, but I’m already following him, winding between tables and trying to make it look like I’m not running after someone who was retaining Michelin stars when I was writing up recipes for ready meals.

“Carmen–shit, Carmen! I’m so sorry, that review was harsh and honestly clickbait, but the Star isn’t exactly the pinnacle of journalism around here and I needed to stand out–”

Carmen has already reached the front steps, where there are still a few photographers hanging around, but he turns to cut me off. “Listen, I’m not mad at how harsh you were in that review, Miss Storer.”

I consider telling him he should tell his face that, but his eyes are still pinning me to the spot, and I feel like I can’t breathe under the weight of them. Crossing his arms and looking away, he raises one hand to his jaw, rubbing it back and forth for a second like he can’t decide where to start. I stare at him wordlessly, trying not to be too aware of the sleek cut of his black suit in the dying light, and the contrast of his slicked-back hair against it.

He takes a deep breath, and says, “I’m angry because you didn’t do any fuckin’ research about me. Or like, find out why I’m at The Beef.” Warmed to the topic, he takes a step back towards me, turning his hand to point at me. “And you know, there’s a lot of reasons I’m there and why it needs fixing that you don’t know about, or didn’t fuckin’ bother to find out about. And I had a hard enough time doing that without your shitty review following me around telling me how washed-up and stuck and hopeless we were.”

I’m stunned, but I know I need to say something, even if it’s only the same two words. “I’m sorry, Carmen. It’s not an excuse, but I had a deadline, and I honestly didn’t think you guys would–”

“What, you didn’t think we’d read it? Look, my team, we’re all used to negativity ‘cos that’s all we had for a long time, that’s all Mikey–that’s all we had. So any brightness, any news of a review, that was the only thing we had to look forward to. To get us through service.” He runs his hand through his hair, destroying its careful smoothness, and takes a few steps back again. “So yeah, we read it.”

I can feel tears beginning to shine in the corner of my eyes, and I feel so stupid. “I…I said the sandwich was exquisite.”

We both feel how pitiful that response was, and I wallow in the silence, so unlike the quietness between us just five minutes ago. Eventually, his eyes track away from me towards the sky, and I know I’ve lost him.

He raises an arm to hold the back of his neck, as if it’ll keep his head on. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks so much,” he mutters as he turns and jogs down the stairs.

I stand, watching as he paces towards the corner until the paparazzi, sensing turmoil, begin snapping photos, and I turn to go back inside.

chapter 3

My mother always knew what to say about Chicago, and I was never sure if it was because she talked mainly in well-known quotations and cliches, or because she could just look at me and know what I needed to hear.

When I came back from school out of state, she would pick me up with a, “Well, Sylvie, Mark Twain said, ‘she is never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time.’ How does it feel?” Or I’d be ranting about my boss taking credit for my product line ideas, and she would grasp my shoulders, poised to shake, and look me in the eye as she said, “Remember Obama? ‘I'm from Chicago. I don't break.’”

But today, while missing her is a physical, writhing thing behind my ribcage, I look up at the slate-grey sky and I can hear her refrain for any dreary, chill-bitten day: “I miss everything about Chicago, except January and February.”

It’s September, but that never stopped her.

I look down to watch my feet, stepping carefully over the shine of pavement puddles and pushing my hands impossibly further into my pockets. I only realise my caution is misplaced when somebody exits a door in the building beside me and I stop dead.

The warm, dense air that escapes weaves around me. I can smell the malt, the sour tang of the alcohol moments away. On instinct, I start internally reciting the first AA mantra that comes to mind, but it’s too late to stop the image of me reaching for the icy handle, stepping through the door. My shoes sticking slightly to the floor as I walk to the bar, the bartender’s eyes on me as I talk, and I know my old order would roll right off my tongue. The chapped, faded leather of the stool I could sink into, and the cold, perspiring glass he would hand me. Not knowing what it means. Not knowing what I stand to lose.

The door is closing as I look through its window to the lights within, smudged into an amber glow by the foggy glass. And abruptly, the past two years is nothing, and the temptation is crawling up my throat–

My mother, glass in hand, raising it to me, holding my eye as we drink. Her holding my father’s hand and laughing, smiling into a sip. Pouring wine into sauce, hovering over the bubbling pot, smelling it as the alcohol evaporates. The both of us, watching the drip of an empty bottle. Me, watching the IV bag drip its way into her system.

The door closes with the ring of a merry bell, and I startle. For a second, I don’t breathe at all, and then I can’t stop doing it. I’m not sure if it’s to bring clean air into my system, or try and catch the scent of the bar one more time.

I’m not sure how, but I turn and start walking, not entirely sure which direction I came from. I try to look around, remind myself of where I am and where I’m going. Work. The office. My desk. I just ate at Gone Fishing, and now I’m heading back to my desk to write my review. I had scallops, and they were maybe some of the best of my life. They subbed out the white wine in the sauce just for me.

I see flickering neon lights ahead of me, and I abruptly feel the dryness of my own throat.

The Beef feels like it could really be something if it would just turn its obstinate head to other things. I don’t know why, but I feel the ice of Carmen’s stare as the words run through my head, and I turn them around, into myself. I could really be something, if I could just turn my head away.

I stop again, and this time I walk unsteadily to the curb and sit down. I draw my phone from my pocket, and make the first of three calls.

“Hello?”

“Em, I’m not feeling well. I’m gonna go home.”

“Oh no. Oh, Sylvie, of course. Go home, and feel better soon. Did you get to Gone Fishing?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Okay, good. Hey, maybe it’s food poisoning.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Shame, could have been a good story! Go rest, let me know how you’re feeling later.”

“Okay, thank you. Bye.”

My hands are shaking as I dial.

“Hello?”

“Connor.”

“Sylvie?”

“Yeah. Connor.”

“How bad is it?”

“I’m outside a…a bar.”

“Sylvie, go home. Can you make it home?”

“I…I think I can.”

“Go home right now. And stay on the phone. I can be there in twenty. Okay? Sylvie?”

I hang up, and I look up The Bear’s number.

“This is The Bear.” His voice is serious, but distracted. I can imagine his eyes on something happening on the other side of the room.

“Hello?” He says again, and I picture him glancing around like this mystery caller will appear behind him. Just for a moment, it helps.

“Hell–oh shit!” And I hear a massive crash in the background, like the ceiling caved in. “Fak, that is worth three thousand dollars, you–listen, whoever it is, can you just call back later?” The line goes dead.

I call again, but it goes to voicemail.

“You’re working too hard. Constantly surrounded by all this glitz, free-flowing booze. It’s like a former smoker working in a tobacco factory.” Connor is pacing around the room like the concept of alcoholism is in the room with us and he’s gearing up to punch it. He ended up making it to mine before me, where I sank into him, feeling my shoulders lower a few inches.

“Maybe. I don’t know, Connor, my job is one of the best things about my life at the minute. Maybe things are going too well for me, and I’m subconsciously trying to like, screw it up for myself. ‘Cos I’m not used to this.”

He swings to me, narrowing his eyes, and I wonder for a second if I’m going to get punched. “You know if you’d gone into that bar today, if you’d had a drink, it would not make you a screw-up. Sylvie, you almost had a lapse - we’ve both had those before. But that is not a relapse. I’m not here to save you from drinking – honestly, if you turned around right now and took a drink in front of me, I wouldn’t stop you. I’m here to remind you that you deserve better, and to be proud of you, and anything you do will not stop me being proud of the last two years.”

I smile at him, even as I feel the tears swimming into my vision. “The words of the very best sponsor in Chicago.”

“In Chicago?” He finally falls dramatically onto the sofa next to me. “In the world, baby!”

I laugh, but it doesn’t chase away the hollowness in my chest. “I’ve been thinking about Mom.”

“Yeah?” He turns to face me, looks at me seriously. He only does this look when he knows I’m about to say something truly vulnerable. It’s the same face he had early on in my recovery when I admitted sitting through a church Mass just for a sip of sacramental wine.

“I miss her. I loved her like…like I don’t know how to love anyone else. But any time I think about her now, it brings up all the old compulsions. Like, I think of her watching me, saying go on, what’s one glass? I used to think of her to get me through this stuff, think about how she died and how I don’t want to go out that way, but now it’s like…like I want to drink to feel close to her.”

Connor catches a tear before it spills off of my face and into my lap. As usual, he doesn’t face what I say head-on, doesn’t bring any preconceptions, doesn’t tell me he knows how I feel. “I have a good idea. And you have to trust me on this one, because I’m the only reason you’re a bigshot food critic now.”

I look at my coffee table in front of me, close my eyes for a second until I see her face, and then I open them and turn to him. “I’m listening.”

It’s so fucking early that it’s all I can think about. Connor stayed all last night, carried me to bed when I fell asleep on the sofa, but any kindnesses he’s done me in the past are entirely wiped out by how fucking early he has made me get up.

The city is never this quiet as we trudge through Baltic streets, my constant complaining distracting me from the nerves I haven’t felt since my first AA meeting. But it’s the same, Sylvie, the same ball park, Connor had said, until I snapped and said, “Yeah, if someone hit the fuckin’ ball out of the stadium and into the stratosphere.”

It’s a dilapidated hall, perfect for this kind of meeting; the kind people want to slip into and out of with little notice drawn. Probably booked up by troubled people all morning, and a kid’s birthday party in the afternoon. The chilled bite of the handle makes me inhale sharply, or maybe I’m starting to breathe faster, maybe I’m hyperventilating–

“Sylvie.” Connor grabs my arms and spins me to look at him. “Nobody in there knows you. You don’t have to say anything at all. But I really think it will help you to hear people talk about addiction from the outside.”

“What if they ask me why I’m here? I don’t want to lie,” I whisper, casting guilty looks around as someone passes us in the corridor.

“Al-Anon meetings are for anyone, Sylv. I know you don’t think you deserve to be here ‘cos you were an addict yourself. But you’re the daughter of an addict. You count here too, you know what it’s like to watch someone you love fade away and be helpless.”

I can’t deny he’s right, so I bite my lip and nod. “I know. Thank you, Connor.”

“For what?” He smiles, and I smile back.

“You know, the usual. Saving my life. Now, go to work and don’t worry about me. I feel better. More steady.”

“I can see that.” He watches me for a second, and then heads down the corridor, dramatically pushes the door open. It’s his last little bit of advice for me: fuck leaving these places secretively. Say it to the world.

And I guess that’s exactly what I’m about to do.

It feels quieter and colder now Connor’s gone, but I keep my head up as I walk in the door. Strangely, the usual sad set-up of chairs facing the front, congealed coffee spattering into styrofoam cups and drawn, tired faces makes me feel at home. Two years sitting in this atmosphere, and it’s bound to grow on you eventually, like mold.

I steer well clear of the coffee and head for the back of the room, texting Emma from my phone that I’ll be off again today. I’m too engrossed in the message to look up when the chairwoman gives a quick introduction, or when I hear the scrape of a chair near the front, or even when there’s a sudden hush for someone to start talking.

But I do glance up when I hear that voice.

“My name’s Carmen. My, um…brother’s an addict. My–my brother was an addict. And this morning, I, um–sorry, uh…I forgot, um–before I came to Al-Anon, I was a cook. I mean, I’m-I’m still a cook, I’m just a different kind of cook, I guess. My brother and I, we would cook a lot together, especially when we were kids. You know, that’s, that’s when we were closest.”

I just stare. A part of me is aware that staring is probably the exact opposite of what I should do when I don’t want to be noticed, but Carmen’s eyes are drifting around the room as he talks, clearly lost in his memories.

And another part of me doesn’t want to leave, to quietly slip out, even if I could.

Carmen keeps talking, and I’m lost in the story of a love that feels all too familiar, all too consuming. All too painful.

“Food was always our common ground,” he says, and I see my mother at her front door, arms out in welcome, glass in hand and gorgeous aroma coming from her kitchen.

“I always thought my brother was my best friend.” Our legs curled around and on top of each other on the sofa, shushing each other dramatically as we tripped up the stairs, cackling in the emergency room.

“As we got older, I-I realized, I didn’t know anything about him… really.” Walking in on her sleeping in her own vomit, slinking back to a bar the following morning to pay our tab and apologise, her eyes wide in disbelief when I turned down another glass. Come on Sylvie, have a drink.

“And because we had this connection through food and he had made me feel so rejected and lame and shitty and uncool.” What are you, teetotal? You won’t have a drink with your own mother? I got our favourite wine. I’ll have one if you have one.

“And he left me his restaurant. And over the last couple months I-I’ve been trying to fix it cause it was in rough shape, and I think it’s very clear that me trying to fix the restaurant…was me trying to fix whatever was happening with my brother. And I don’t know, maybe fix the whole family because…that restaurant, it has and it, it does mean a lot to people. It means a lot to me. I just don’t know if it ever meant anything to him.”

And it hurts, to remember what I wrote as I try to watch him talk through blurred eyes. The assumptions I made, the headline I had prewritten before I ever entered The Beef. It hurts to recall his face when he saw who I was at the ceremony, to think of his team excitedly buying the newspaper. It hurts so much I don’t realise Carmen is returning to his seat, and I am standing, and I am walking, passing him, turning to face him and this whole crowd of strangers–

I sit, abruptly. The back of the chair is slightly warm from where Carmen was leaning on it, but his face when I look up is far from it.

“Hi.” I’m watching him, and he is watching me.

“I’m Sylvie. I was an addict myself, and I’m sorry if that breaks any rules or anything.” I tear my eyes from Carmen to the chairwoman, who smiles and nods reassuringly. “But I’m also the daughter of an addict.”

I can’t do this. I can’t face all the words I need to. But I watch Carmen, watch his eyes soften around the edges from shock to something softer, and I pretend he is the only person here. And at least for him, to him, I owe a confession.

“My mother died five years ago. Liver failure. Pretty classic alcoholic. She wasn’t super original as alcoholics go. Not, like, addicted to anything special. Wine was her poison, and boy did she poison herself. I noticed her start drinking when I was thirteen or so, but later I realised she probably just started again. Like, she had a good few years where maybe I was keeping her on the rails a bit, like the CPS taking me away was on the back of her mind. I never asked if she drank while she was pregnant. But once I got old enough to help her hide it, she didn’t need to be so careful anymore. I was fourteen the first time I had to stick my fingers down her throat to help her throw up.”

The words trail through the air towards him, and he doesn’t look away. His eyes are fixed to me, moving from my hands shifting nervously in my lap to my mouth as I keep spilling secrets I’ve never even told Connor.

“My therapist would be calling me out left, right and center for this, because she always says I find a way to blame myself – but I do. I do blame myself, because I was her favourite enabler. Maybe she could have found someone else to drink with - I mean, she had plenty of friends, but her own daughter? It was perfect. I was always around, I legally had to be. Family bonding time was always a wine night in. Or at a bar. Or anywhere a bottle could be purchased.” I take a second to clear my throat, avoid the tremble that’s coming. “And it was the perfect guilting material. ‘Your mother insists. Take a drink, or you’re grounded.’ And if I was hungover, she would fuss over me all day - she loved me being hungover. Which only made her force me to drink more.”

When I realise what I’m about to say, I can’t look at Carmen anymore, so I look at the others here. I always found that comforting before, how impassive their faces are. Like none of this shocks them. But that also makes me want to cry.

“I knew she wanted to die, although I don’t know if I’ll ever really know why. But she just didn’t have the courage to do it another way, a quicker way. So she took her time, and she waited for a day where she’d go too far and just not wake up. And I must have stopped her, what–countless times. Putting her in the recovery position, getting her to the hospital. That’s what I never understood, what I hate her most for now. She forced me to play two roles in her life the whole time, helping her do it, drinking with her, and then saving her. Her enabler and her saviour. How am I supposed to live with that?”

I stop, abruptly, because it’s a breakthrough I haven’t had before. A similar revelation is reflected in Carmen’s eyes as I glance up once more. I think I mean to keep going, but my voice says, “Sorry. Thank you for listening,” and I realise I’ve said enough.

As I stand and walk past Carmen, I feel the brush of his sleeve against mine.

chapter 4

Weeks pass slowly in Chicago, but seasons change in moments. Leaves press deep into the pavements, flattened into a rusty mush by people with somewhere else to be. Parents bundle their costumed children from house to house on the nicer roads, and watch as they shyly present buckets for candy to be emptied into. Doors are closed, curtains drawn to ward off the darkness as people huddle inside. But restaurants, as always, flicker comfortingly into life when the sun dips below the horizon.

It’s at least a month before I stop thinking about Carmen’s eyes diving into the depths of me as I dredged my life up for him. I alternately feel proud of myself, and cringe at remembering the whole experience. I don’t know if he saw it as the apology I wanted it to be, or whether he just thinks I was stalking him, but I choose not to regret it - because I’ve been doing well since then, and it feels like my determination to do better started there. My sobriety feels less fragile when I remember the stability of his gaze.

Emma already knew I was teetotal, but when I asked if there was a way to cut down on attending engagements with heavy drinking involved, she didn’t hesitate to take me off of some of the boozier events on the calendar. With that, at least, she had boundaries.

With the mail I received, that was on my desk with my name written on it? Less boundaries.

“It’s an invite, but I’m trying to figure out where from,” she says, perched on my desk and running one manicured fingernail over the expensive fold of the envelope like a cat about to tear into a mouse.

I’m instantly curious, but pretend not to be as I flop into my chair. “Too full to care,” I exhale, holding my stomach like I can keep everything in there from moving around. “Clarisse is doing a wonderful saucisson brioche.”

“It’s got to be a new place. Too bold for one of the old favourites.” She’s chewing on the skin of her thumb now, brow creased.

“Heaven save me from nosy editors,” I groan lightly as I stick my hand out for the letter.

“Plenty of nosy editors in Heaven,” she says airily as she flips it into my lap. “I bet it’s Chez Michel again. Don’t you dare give them a rereview after that snide email they sent me last time.”

I expect the thick envelope to be hard to tear into, but it opens easily when I pull at the flap. The paper inside is folded like an old letter, edges curved inside edges so I’m expecting the calligraphied script before I see it.

I’m not, however, expecting the name.

“I can’t go,” I say before I reach the bottom, and Emma snatches it from my hand so fast I expect a papercut - but the super paper wins again.

“You bloody well can go, and you will. Why haven’t they put a date down?” Her eyes flicker over the paper as she turns it over eagerly.

“They want me to surprise them,” I say faintly, stomach churning. “It’s a show, like a promise. They want me to turn up whenever, and they’ll always have a table for me until I do.”

Emma blows out an impressed breath, and I know I’m doomed. “Fuck. If I wasn’t clear, you’re going.”

“Emma-,” I begin to whine, but she cuts me off, “And I promise it’ll be front page, whatever you have to say.”

I pause, because I’ve never been front page. But is it worth seeing him again, seeing the team I ripped to shreds? Expecting them not to do the same to me?

“Sylvie.” Emma leans forward. “Go and find out if The Bear has teeth.”

I spend two whole weeks trying to decide when to visit, evaluating if I should choose the busiest time to see them stretched to their limits or a quieter one to catch them off guard. Such obsessive thinking also keeps me from considering all my other questions about why the invite was sent, and especially why it was sent to me out of all the critics at Eater. But what finally decides it is when I look at the work calendar and see a hectic circle around Thanksgiving. I call Connor, still staring at it.

“Yello?” he says with what I can only describe as the accent of a black-and-white movie star.

“Connor!” I say brightly.

He’s silent. Then, “No, you can’t cancel on Thanksgiving.”

“Connor,” I say placatingly.

“No! You do this every year! Just one year Sylvie, you still have no idea what I can do with cranberry sauce.”

“I’m really sorry, Connor. I actually wouldn’t skip this year, except I kind of figured out when I want to visit The Bear.” A smile is starting to form on my face as he pauses, then cackles.

“Oh you wouldn’t, Sylvie. Not on Thanksgiving shift. You wouldn’t.”

Oh, I would.

I smile to myself as I turn onto the windblown avenue The Bear calls home. As I pass under streetlamps and cross through the darkness between them, vision flickering from dark to light, I let the deja vu of my last visit fill in the shadows. The guys outside. Michael’s not there anymore. Richie, their argument. Cousin. Pasta, and Ballbreaker, and dripping beef, and Carmen. Carmen’s face, his gestures, hands everywhere and eyes nowhere.

I almost miss the door, still unobtrusively tucked into the wall but with the rusted, creaking sign nowhere to be seen. The windows are misted, hiding the interior, but I hear laughter. I check my phone, and it’s exactly 7:29. 

And of course, I feel awful about my last review, but it’s too good of an opportunity to miss showing up on the one night of the year you can safely assume everybody has plans, especially a food critic. Besides, this time I’m walking in with an open mind and no motive.

I don’t give myself any more room to pause, I just swing the door open.

The first word I think of is subtle, then pared-down, then beautiful. It’s entirely not what I expected with its pale wood and ochre booths, but the whole room glows from the low lights on tables, which glint off of glasses and silverware and people’s jewellery. 

The warmth comes to an abrupt stop at the far wall, where a thin slice of glass reveals the white-coated chaos of a kitchen in motion. The door swings open for a server, and I hear someone calling numbers, names, blurring into a string of words before it drifts closed again.

A quiet “Miss Storer?” summons me back to the moment, and I stare blankly at the man in front of me.

There are several reasons I can’t speak for a second. For one, I recognise this man. He once called me sweetheart and darling and bella in the space of five minutes, and now, unbelievably, Miss Storer. For another, he looks nothing like I remember. His dark clothes are freshly pressed, immaculate, and suit him entirely. And finally, I’ve realised how strange it is to enter a fine-dining restaurant, a Michelin hopeful, and have nothing to tell them other than I expect a table immediately.

“Rich-is it Richie?”

He smiles, and he seems genuinely pleased. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s me.”

“Hi,” I say limply. “I’m Sylvie.”

He laughs even as he extends his hand. “I know. It’s great to properly meet you, Sylvie.” The handshake is two-handed, and as warm as his voice.

“I know it’s Thanksgiving, but…” All my bravado has fled screaming into the street behind me, and I don’t quite know what to say.

“Hey, we’d love to be your family for the night. We have a table for you right over here,” he replies, gesturing to the only free table, right at the window. I feel a sudden rush of gratitude, knowing that they’ve been holding this table open for weeks, losing thousands a day, for me - and I have done nothing whatsoever to deserve it.

He pulls my chair out for me, even as my brain marinates in guilt.

“We have a 9-course set menu tonight, beautiful,” Richie says, producing a menu with a flourish. “Anything you can’t have or you just don’t like, just say, we can do substitutions all day.” He delicately pours water from the iced carafe on the table into a glass I know I’m going to want to own the minute I pick it up. 

“Richie, I don’t need to look,” I say, setting the menu aside and looking up, holding his eyes. It’s the beginning of my apology as I say, “I know it’ll be great.”

He smiles softly, slowly nods and steps back. “Well, we’ll do our best. I’ll be back in a few minutes with your first course.”

As he leaves, I look around at the other tables, take in the smiles and murmurs of a contented restaurant. Close my eyes just for a second, breathe in the smell of salt and sweet, malt and bitterness, and I can see her smile - but it doesn’t hurt today. Instead, I just remember how much she loved Thanksgiving. How much she’d love to be here.

When I open my eyes, I see Richie has passed into the kitchen, his black suit stark against the interior. He’s talking to someone whose back is turned, and then he makes a sudden gesture to the restaurant, to this table, to me.

Carmen turns, and I breathe in sharply, look down at the charger plate. I don’t have to think about his eyes for long, because someone sets a glass down on my table with a faint clink.

“No thank you, I don’t drink,” is pretty much my motto in moments like these, but when I glance up into the eyes of the young man beside me, he doesn’t look surprised.

“It’s all good, Miss Storer. We know. I actually went to a non-alcoholic tasting event not long ago, and they had this particular drink I think you might enjoy, if you’d like to try it.” He shows me the small bottle in his hands. “It’s mostly yuzu with just a little kick of elderflower.”

Slightly in shock, I nod vaguely until he uncaps the bottle. The glass he pours it into is a twisted, elegant shape, not reminiscent of a wine or pint glass, and taking a sip of the bubbling drink, it doesn’t remind me of alcohol at all. It fizzes like sherbet, with a strong thread of elderflower through it.

I look up to thank him, but he’s gone. Instead, I catch Carmen’s eye, still standing talking to Richie in the kitchen. Still staring at me, but his gaze is far from angry.

I raise my glass to him, in toast as well as in challenge.

“Show me what you got,” I whisper as I watch him turn back to the kitchen.

It’s almost ten when Richie circles around all of the remaining tables and quietly begins ushering people out of the door.

My brain is fogged, stimulated and satisfied, so I only smile and nod as he says to me, “I’m sorry, Miss Storer, but we’re actually closing early tonight. Chef Carmen’s been making family all afternoon, kind of a tradition we’re starting.”

At the door, I stop and turn to him. “Richie. Can you just tell Carmen, in the bisque, the sage. Just the sage, it’s almost - did he add peppermint? Even a sprig? And please tell him an Italian grandmother once made me salmoriglio in her Tuscan villa, and she could throw that out the window for all I care. And the shell on the petit fours, just…”

I lose the words and Richie breaks his smooth, polite facade to laugh in my face and gently push me out the door. “Yeah, yeah. I see what he means, jeez. I’ll tell him. You have a good night, and get home safe,” and we call Happy Thanksgiving’s to each other through the cold air as the door closes.

I take a few slow steps and look up at the sky. And then I just laugh, into the clouds above. I move my tongue around my mouth, trying to remember it all because I didn’t take a single note.

I start moving again, but when I look back before crossing the road, I see a window lit up with strip lighting round the side of the building. And I don’t want to leave yet, so I crunch boots through the hoarfrost to stand a little closer to it.

They’re gathered around one of the white kitchen benches, and they’ve dragged chairs from the dining room to sit crammed around it. The table is manic; cutlery thrown in silvery piles along it, bubbling deli containers filled to the brim with soda, plates and plates of methodically-made, beautifully-plated, haphazardly-arranged Thanksgiving food.

I stand, a shadow against the shadows, and I watch them talk. I watch Carmen, carving a turkey with steady, skillful hands, and I notice the smallest uptick at the corner of his mouth. I see him glance out to the dining room, then out into the darkness where he cannot see me, and finally back at his work.

I get home at 10:37, and I send my first draft to Em at 2:09.

For those of you who read The Chicago Star - and granted, this may not be many of you - you may remember an article that was printed about The Original Beef of Chicagoland many months ago. My article. An article where I, like a prophet on a street corner, predicted the demise of one of Chicago’s oldest eating establishments. And much like a prophet on a street corner, I was extremely annoying, highly paranoid, and inevitably proven wrong.

Last week I visited The Bear, which stands where The Beef once did. In my review of its predecessor, as much as I hesitate to type the words again, I called the restaurant “shabby”, “messy, hurried”, a place “where it didn’t matter how you dressed up your tables”. I damned it with faint praise, which didn’t come close to describing its brash, familiar spirit. I wrote that we could expect nothing of note to come from it, even as I saw how it was trying to better itself.

Readers, today I would like to serve myself some humble pie.

It wasn’t the stunning simplicity of their Thanksgiving fish course, slathered in salmoriglio, that made my night. It wasn’t the understated decor or the chance to send a personalized chocolate box, handmade by The Bear’s stand-out pastry chef, to the person you’ve been most grateful for this year. (And for me, that will always be my sponsor and best friend, Connor Ramirez.) It wasn’t even the heartfelt service that made me feel equally as if I’d been here before and as if they’d been waiting eagerly for me to come round and see its wonders for ages.

And truly, I could talk for hours about the care which went into the plating, the layers, of the gorgeous Thanksgiving trifle. Or wax lyrical about my scepticism-turned-disbelief at the combination of basil and green bean in the entremet. But what made my heart squeeze in my chest, what showed me this place was something special, was their appetizer, lovingly labelled “The Beef”. This nostalgic little sandwich pushed The Bear into greatness in my eyes, whilst utterly refusing to let go of all the importance of its past. I have had many bad experiences with food, and many bad memories; that night, I swear to god, the taste of your mostarda followed me into my dreams. 

There was a golden moment, standing outside the restaurant, where I (somewhat creepily) watched the staff eat together at the end of one of the toughest shifts of the year. It wasn’t all smiles, and it was chaos, but the love was there and your mutual obsession with food shone through. I didn’t mention your names last time, so I wanted to take a second to acknowledge you all. Sydney Adamu. Richie Jerimovich. Tina Marrero, Marcus Brooks, Gary Woods. Carmen Berzatto. And everyone who has made The Bear what it is: a real culinary epiphany.

To Chef Carmen and all of the staff at The Bear, I eat my previous words and would like to offer you some new ones, if you’re at all hungry for more: your work is among the very best I have had the pleasure of experiencing. It tastes of where you’ve come from, and of who you are now - and those you’ve left behind would be very proud of you. You are no longer “trying to be something”, like some shitty critic once put it. You are something.

Readers, I would tell you to visit The Bear before it’s too late, but I have a feeling this place will be around for quite some time.

chapter 5

My hand is shaking ever so slightly as I dial the number, biting lightly at one of my nails as it rings. I look around like I’m about to be told off for doing the thing Em has asked me to do like twenty times already this week.

It rings just long enough for me to feel a sense of relief that nobody’s there, that I can put this off for another day, and then he picks up.

“This is The Bee-The Bear. This is the Bear.”

The surge of nerves suddenly quiets. “Which is it?” I ask, aiming for playful until I realise there’s no way he’ll recognise my voice and now definitely thinks I’m a rude–

“Sylvie. Hi, uh, Miss Storer,” he says, like it’s a fact. Which, I guess it is.

“That’s me,” I say uselessly, all quick wit having slithered from my body.

He huffs an acknowledgement. “I’m still getting used to it. The name.”

“It hasn’t been that long.”

“No. No, not really. Feels fuckin’ long.”

“All the surfaces losing their shine already?”

“If you’re asking as a critic, all my surfaces are cleaned regularly and well maintained.”

“And as a friend?”

“Dull as rocks.” 

A little thrill passes through me at this acceptance of us as friends, even as I laugh.

“So, hey, the review.”

“The review.” My stomach flips so fully I consider sitting down, until I realise I already am.

He doesn’t say anything further for a second, and I fill the silence with a strained, “You hate it?”

“How could I hate it? It’s glowing. Like, it could light up a room.”

“Could use some more light in that gloomy restaurant of yours,” I joke, and then cringe. Why am I insulting one of the best restaurants I’ve ever eaten at? And have just written my most effusive review ever for?

He laughs, and it sounds a lot louder than I would have expected it to. “That didn’t make it into the piece.”

“Cut for space.”

“That would, uh, make sense. But seriously, thank you. Not just for the business - I mean, I don’t know if my sister already called you, but we’re booked for the next three months straight. Which, uh, thank you.”

“You make the food,” I manage to rasp. “I just write words about it.”

“But yeah, for the team. It’s done a lot for them. I think they needed to hear how good they were from someone who isn’t working in the same kitchen.”

“Carmen, I wish I could tell them twice,” I smile. “And you deserved it. I mean, especially from me. And I’m sorry, again.”

There’s another second of quiet. “It’s okay. It really is. This is kinda a weird time to say it, but…but I’m sorry. About your mom.”

It is a weird time to say it, and it does floor me for a second. Someone passes my door, and I spin my chair to face the wall, where I’ve pinned up a few pictures of the best dishes I’ve ever had. I’m staring at the seeds in his mostarda when I reply, “She would have loved your place.”

“Good. That’s good.” He doesn’t push it anymore, and I’m surprised by it until I remember he’s lost someone too. We’re silent for longer than it should take for me to remember I called him.

“So, would you say you owe me one now?”

“Hm. Why?”

I’m biting my nail again as I say, “So, Em had an idea…”

“Fuck. Follow-up interview.”

“Yeah.”

“Just me?”

“Think so. The Bear is hot right now, not sure why.”

“I think some critic wrote a review that gets me through service some nights.”

I let that wash over me, breathe in and out deeply before replying, “I’ll write another one if you tell me what kind of milk you used in the panna cotta.”

The Bear is completely empty when I arrive, even though it’s past ten in the morning. I know logically they’re closed for the photographer and our interview, but it surprises me enough that I pause just inside the door, like I did at The Beef, glancing around guiltily like I’ve somehow broken in. Like last time, it’s Carmen that pulls me out of it.

He’s looking back as he emerges from a side room, eyes still scanning something inside until he deems it perfection. When he turns, it’s abrupt, but he freezes when he sees me.

“Oh. Oh, hey,” he says, but there’s a tense edge to it. I wonder if, like me, he’s remembering the last time we were alone together.

“Hey. Doing final checks?”

He nods but otherwise stays frozen, so I ask, “For the photographer or me?”

“Unless the photographer plans on checking out the back office, you, I guess.” He huffs a laugh that I now recognise as the one he reserves for awkward situations. I heard it a few times when we were eating in the dark together.

In the dark, together. He’s looking at me, and I realise it’s been too long since either of us said anything. 

“Oh, wow. Am I getting the grand tour?” I say shakily.

“Yeah. Yeah, if you want,” he replies, and then he opens his arms in a quick, encompassing movement. “This is The Bear.”

I nod. “Great. Think that’s all I’ll need for the interview.”

He laughs again, and it eases something inside me, enough to get curious. “Why did you go for the Scandi look?”

“Uh, few reasons.” He moves as he talks, standing behind a chair and running his tattooed hands over the back. “It’s clean, elegant. It can be a lot of different things, y’know, casual lunch, formal dinner. And it reminds me of Copenhagen.”

I mirror him, lightly touching the wood of the table between us and enjoying the smoothness. When I look up, he’s watching the surface, my hand on it.

“Copenhagen meant a lot to you? You went there to stage, right?”

“Uh, yeah. You been reading about me?” He asks with a hesitant smile, like he’s not entirely comfortable with the idea. Which is funny to me, because as of two days ago, he’s the CDC at Chicago’s Best New Restaurant 2025.

“Well, I figured it was about time I did some research before an article.”

“You ever going to stop apologising for that?” He asks, suddenly holding my eye. I’m never prepared for that, his eyes skittering everywhere and then the sudden, exposing contact. How he holds it while I speak, lets my words sink in and process before looking away again.

“Probably not,” I say, the first to look away and turn to peer into the kitchen.

“You wanna see?” He says, just behind me. It’s the closest we’ve been since I walked past him at AlAnon.

“Show me your canvas, maestro,” I smile, and follow him inside.

It’s sterile, the lights harsh enough to wake me up more than the pot of coffee I’ve been blaming my nervous jitters on all morning.

“What’s the first word you think of?” He asks as he walks to a countertop and pauses instinctively. I realise it must be his station.

I hesitate, then say, “Exacting.”

His eyebrows rise a little at that. “Yeah, that’s a good word for it. You’re good at that. I mean, I would never have called it exacting, but that’s the atmosphere I want in here.”

I shrug. “I’d be a pretty shitty critic if I didn’t know how to word things. What else do you want it to be in here?”

He doesn’t pause, like he’s had an answer to this question for a long time, but his words are slow and careful. I let him talk, watch his hands as they gesture. “I don’t ever want it to feel emotionless. I want it to feel driven, and challenging, and have clarity. But safe. It’s hard to feel when no one else is in here, but it can be, uh…it can be everything. Having people here. Knowing their shit, watching yours. Hearing someone say ‘behind’ and knowing they have your back.”

“And the window into the restaurant?” I say, finding confidence to open a low-boy and examine its pristine contents. When I stand up, he’s examining a pan with a slight frown. As he replies, he moves it to the sink and starts to rewash it.

“Can’t ever forget why we’re here. Sometimes, when things get rough and my shit is being rocked, I look at their faces. Honestly, sometimes I hate them, smiling out there — and I’m in the fuckin’ seventh circle here. But it uh, also keeps people accountable. Syd and me, we deliberately made the wall thin enough that you can’t talk above a certain volume without being heard. Doesn’t always stop us, but.”

His hands are rhythmic and experienced as he cleans and talks, and at the mention of Sydney, his sous, he smiles a real smile. I want to see it again so I ask, “Why Sydney?”

“For sous?” He says, eyes back on me until I feel physically warmer and nod. He’s drying the pan and putting it back, so I take a chance to look out at the deserted restaurant. I realise I’m standing where he stood when I came for dinner.

“How did you put it? She likes a fixer-upper?” He actually smirks when I give him a pleading look.

“Do we have to keep quoting it?”

Carmen shakes his head, drying his hands and slinging the towel over his shoulder. It’s something he does eighty times a day, but I’ve never seen him do it before, and the way my stomach flips tells me all I need to know about how much danger I’m in.

“Sydney never gives up. I tell her no ten times, and she keeps coming back until I realise she’s been right the whole time. She thinks I know a lot, and, well, I do. But her takes are original, and she’s methodical - you know, she works things out. She works on recipes until she can’t look at a piece of pasta without throwing up.”

“You two seem close?” I ask, and it’s such an obvious dig. And it’s certainly not on the list of questions I had.

“Yeah, yeah. She’s great. Marcus is sweet on her, I think,” he says, but his eyes don’t leave my face as I nod and trace a hand over the door of the walk-in.

Neither of us speaks until he suggests we hit up the office. It’s mildly disconcerting to see my own face, four in from the left, in their “Critic Corner”, as Fak — the endearing man I met at The Beef — has named it.

We head back out to the main dining area, and I shuffle my notepad out of my bag as I sit at the same table I ate at. But this time, Carmen isn’t a kitchen away, dragging out the chair opposite me instead and sitting back with his arms crossed.

“This the point you give me all the heavy hitters?” He asks.

“Nah, save it for the next AA meeting,” I say, and we both laugh.

“It’s weird, but I kind of like that you were there that day,” I find myself saying, and my heart is beating harder than I’d like.’”I was, uh, outside a bar the day before. Had to call Connor, my sponsor, and get him to come over. I called you, actually.”

There’s never an ounce of judgement in his eyes when I say these things that acquaintances would never confess. But we’re not normal. We met in the darkness, and then we exposed our inner selves. And acquaintances isn’t really describing it anymore.

“You called here?” is all he says.

 “Yeah. Yeah, you picked up,” I answer.

He frowns slightly. “How come I don’t remember it?”

“I couldn’t say anything. You would have thought it was a wrong number.” The words ring in the wide room. “I just wanted to…”

He slowly leans forward, arms on his elbows, but I’m afraid to finish the sentence, so I start fumbling with the recording app on my phone to start the interview. I look back at my notebook, choosing a question at random just to throw at him, to deflect.

“Sorry. Um, so. So, you’re going for a Michelin?” I don’t look up to see if he nods, just reading off of the pad. “This would be the first one you’ve attained. Does that come with different emotions for you?”

“Yeah.” He seems stuck for a moment, and I strive desperately for a polite, curious facade. “Uh, yeah. It, uh, would mean a lot more, I guess. It’s something Syd wanted first, but I guess I started to care about it more once we started. Retaining comes with a lot of pressure, keeping standards high, but attaining…” I feel the awkwardness start to pass, so I look up again to hold his eye - but as soon as I do, he trails off again. Doesn’t finish his answer even as I nod for him to continue.

“Is a different kettle of fish,” I finish for him, wincing at the metaphor, which I doubt has ever come out of my mouth before.

“Yeah,” he says, his hands fidgeting between his knees even as his eyes stay steady on me. I drag my gaze back to the notebook.

“And the food,” I try to say brightly. Yes, the food. Emma will kill me if I come back to the office with the notes I have so far. “What do you want it to be? Is there anything special you want it to say?”

He half-smiles before asking, “What do you think it says, first?”

I’m taken aback, but this is a topic I could speak on for an entire edition of Eater. “Well, I said a lot in my review about it. But to me, your food is unsettling. Not, like, a negative unsettling. It looks like traditional fine dining, it uses all of the standard ingredients. Lamb, guineafowl, foams and gels, minimal components of the highest quality. But it isn’t cooked that way, it isn’t clinical. And I know I came on Thanksgiving, with all its family-style charm — but I’ve seen other reviews, I’ve heard about other dishes. I know your chefs didn’t train in France, and that shows, in a good way. They’re all brave enough to try things that might not work, there’s no fear of failure in how things taste. Nothing is safe. And it doesn’t all taste like perfection.” I’m not thinking about how long I’ve been talking. My eyes aren’t on Carmen as I look thoughtfully into the kitchen, so I don’t see him prop his hands on the table, move closer.

“I didn’t love your asparagus salad, or the choice of cornmeal in the trifle. But it wasn’t usual. You can taste who made it. And that’s what—“

I’m directing my gaze back to him as I reach my point, but he is so much closer than I—

Oh. Oh, my God. He’s leaning across the table between us, and his hand has crept to the side of my neck, steadying him and destabilising me.

“I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers, close enough that I can smell the mint from the gum he’s been obsessively chewing since I got here, which I’m now seeing in a whole new context—

“I think you should,” I whisper back before I can think too deeply about it, and then he is.

It’s brief and wonderful, and when he tries to lean back, my hand that’s not still numbly holding a pen reaches up to curl through his hair, and keep him where he is.

I feel him lean further down to me, turn his head just to the right, and then our mouths are opening, tongues touching gently and then more firmly together, stroking alongside each other until—

He breathes in sharply, moves back and I blink open eyes I don’t remember closing, become aware of the space and the light again and Carmen in front of me, Carmen who just kissed me, as he falls back into his chair and his shocked blue eyes meet mine.

His chair screeches across the floor, and it makes the abrupt silence so much louder. 

“Sorr-”

“Don’t,” I say instantly. Because if he says sorry, the moment will pass, and I don’t want to lose this opportunity.

My gaze flicks down to Carmen’s chest, watching it rise and fall, rise and fall, and I feel my own body match him. My eyes don’t hurry as they trace backwards to his face, and it feels so good to let myself linger on the delicate etchings of the tattoos curved over his arms, begging me to follow their lines. To watch the fabric at his neck, curving enough to see just the top of his collarbone, shift as he swallows. To finally meet his eye and see how dark his pupils have become.

I stand carefully, like I haven’t walked in days. I walk the three steps it takes to round the table and move between it and him. He doesn’t move, and I take another deliberate step forward until the outside edges of my legs brush against the inside of his knees. Until I can bring one hand under his chin, and tilt it up until I see all the ice has melted out of his blue eyes, that they’re swimming with something else, and until I can lean down to press my lips back to his.

Everything in him is suddenly uncoiled, in motion. His hands slide around the backs of my thighs, pull me further into him until my knees knock against the front edge of his chair. His legs trap me where I am as his mouth presses harder into mine, as he makes a desperate sighing sound that I wish I could play back over and over.

And then we’re moving; he is surging up from his chair, one hand coming up to card through my hair as the other steers me back against the table, and all I’m trying to do is keep up with him, match the insistence of his tongue against mine, pulling helplessly at his clothes in a vain attempt to get him to take them off but with no brain to remind myself how to do so–

Suddenly, both of his hands are on my hips, cupping, gripping, spinning me around so quickly I gasp — and now he is pressed against my back, every part of him touching a part of me, his chest solid and shielding and warm, his legs lightly knocking mine apart, his lips on my neck sucking lightly, his–

“Fuuck,” I gasp as I feel how well he fits between my thighs. His hips cant forward at my shaky moan, and he growls softly as one hand comes up to cover my breast. Every movement feels like he has been waiting months for it, imagining it like I have in quiet moments, but also like he only has seconds to appreciate the real thing. Like I might slip from his grasp and be gone forever. I push my hips back into him, trying to convey what I mean as one of my hands reaches up to the back of his neck and keeps his lips on my skin. I’m not going anywhere.

“Sylvie,” he murmurs into my hair, hands pushing slightly until I get the message and turn back to face him.

“Carmen,” I just say breathlessly, hoping the glazed, bewildered lust I feel is apparent in my eyes.

“Are you…uh, I guess is this okay?” He asks, and I tip my head back to laugh even as he keeps his fingers curled loosely around strands of my hair.

“This is, um. Exactly what I wanted,” I say, unable to hold his eye as I say it, so I curve my face beneath his chin and just stand there breathing for a second. Breathing the starched, clean smell of him. Chefs always complain they smell of grease, and maybe he would at the end of the day, but right now Carmen just smells clean and slightly smoky.

“Sylvie,” he repeats, and his hands are running down my sides again, and I know what they’re asking. And it’s crazy. It’s impossible and insane and-

Oh, fuck it.

I grab his arms - and I won’t ever get over that feeling - and push him lightly back into the chair behind him. He doesn’t go without some resistance, hands leaving my body with regret, until I lean forward to kiss them, to kiss the sides of his face until he’s smiling, to kiss at his neck until he closes his eyes and the next time he opens them, I’m on my knees in front of him.

“Sylvie,” he says, taken aback and reaching for me, but I stay focused, undoing his belt even as I can’t quite believe the daring of it, can’t look him in the eye. Instead, I watch his hands curl into fists, splay out, grab the sides of his chair to steady himself. When I do trail his zip down, he groans, and it sounds like it’s directed up towards the ceiling, like he’s thrown his head back.

But I don’t care anymore as I feel him pressing so hard against his jeans, as I pull his underwear down precious inches, as I wrap a hand around his base to bring him into the light.

Carmen is panting, and I am panting, and I just stare for a second before I lean in and run my tongue along the head of his cock.

It’s a fantasy I’ve never really admitted to myself, not when I saw him bursting out of the kitchen door of The Beef, not when I felt his foot knock mine in the dark of the dining room, or when I watched his skilled hands carve turkey. But I’ve always wanted to do this to him. The taste of Carmen Berzatto is something I’ve wanted on my tongue since I took my first bite of his food.

I moan lightly as I take in more of him, too pent up to tease, too desperate to feel it all, unable to hold back. The sound he makes is hard to define, but I glance up instinctively as I hear him, and his eyes are so focused on me, his hands moving from their iron grip on his chair to sweep my hair up and out of the way. He looks dazed, pleasure-bound, and exactly as out of his mind as I feel.

“Jesus. I thought about this,” he says, and I can feel his eyes on me even as I close mine, as I focus on stroking my tongue across his length, keeping a rhythm as he talks. “When you were here, that night. Watching you eat, fuck, watchin’ your mouth, Sylvie. Listening to you talk about food, how fuckin’ appreciative you are, I–”

He pulls at my hair until I’m falling back onto my heels, gasping for air I didn’t know I needed. I look up again, and I promise myself I won’t forget this image, his wild eyes, swollen cock, hands reaching for me–

His hands are so warm as they slide up my sweater, as they pull it over my head and he nibbles at the sides of my breasts. They’re frantic as they undo my jeans, as they push them down until I step out of them, and he crowds me back against the table, fingers brushing over my nipples - and when did he take my bra off - and mouth claiming mine, biting my lip and groaning against my tongue.

It’s only when he presses a hand between my legs that I realise how wet I am, feel the slide of his finger as it enters me effortlessly, and we both moan at the feeling. This is Carmen, Carmen Berzatto with two fingers inside me, one thumb pressed deep into my inner thigh, shaky breath on my neck, and my hips buck up at the thought.

“That’s right,” he murmurs as I push a hand deep into his hair, “drip for me.”

And that is enough. I reach between us, find his cock, and smear the tip of him across my entrance. I lean far enough back to see his mouth hanging open, eyes squinted closed at the sensation, and I honest to God whine until he looks at me, and amusement brings him back to the moment.

“Ask me, Sylvie, all you have to do is ask me,” he whispers, and I find it in me to give him an exasperated look.

“Fuck me, Carmen. I want to be full, wanna feel every inch of you,” I gasp, and it clearly snaps whatever tether he had as he pushes into me — not slowly, enough for me to feel it and to tighten around him, to throw my legs around his hips.

“God, fuck, Sylvie–,” is all he can manage, and I smile through the haze.

“You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about this, Carm,” I say, and he ruts into me harder just to hear me gasp, just to feel my muscles twitch around him. I rake a hand down his back, and try and savour every thrust of his hips as they bring us flush, spread my hand over his ass and try and pull him further into me.

I lose myself for moments, just moans and motion and mouth against his, and when he pulls out, the noise I make is frankly pathetic. He kisses me again, grabs my hand and pulls me down until we’re both on the ground.

“Carmen, what–”

“I want you on top of me,” is all the warning he gives before he pulls one of my legs over his, lines us up, and Jesus God–

I don’t move for a second, I just revel in all the ways he’s touching me. His cock rubbing against the inside of me, hand on my breast, other hand guiding me forward for the perfect angle, and it all clarifies into a perfect pleasure.

“I’ll never get used to this,” I murmur, and just look at him, feel my walls pulse and hold him closer.

“I could get used to this,” he says, and the smile is what makes me move again, that finds me setting a rhythm, the cold floor hard against my knees but I don’t care, oh I don’t care at all, because Carmen’s hands are on my hips, Carmen’s body is under me, Carmen is looking at me like I’m the only thing to exist–

And suddenly I feel everything, feel the throb of the blood in my veins as my heartbeat rushes my ears, feel Carmen pushing up impossibly further into me, feel his warmth as I collapse onto his chest and he holds me, until all the other sensations fade and it’s just me and him, just one person, nothing between us.

I don’t know if I’m meant to hear it, but he’s breathing something as I come back to myself, just words. I catch “waiting for so long, sweetheart” and “never knew”. It makes me want to see his eyes again, and when I sit up, I wince at the cramped muscles and the cold floor, things I couldn’t have given a shit about five minutes ago.

We just watch each other for a second as I prop my hands up on his chest, and then I breathe out a shaky laugh.

“So–”

There’s a loud rapping at the door.

“Fuck,” we say in unison, and it’s a scramble for clothes and throwing him his underwear, looking around and wondering what the hell we just did, thinking about how odd I probably look naked and hunched over looking for my sock, about birth control and photographers and damn the fucking photographer–

“Hi,” I say as I pull the door open to him thirty seconds later, and I’ve clearly caught him about to knock again. He looks bemused, and I force myself not to sweep the mess I call hair out of my eyes, or touch my fingertips to my blazing cheeks.

“Hey. Is the place ready?” he says.

I glance behind me at Carmen, who is frantically straightening the tablecloth, stepping back and then moving forward to straighten it again. He glances up again in a frenzy, catches me looking. Stops fussing.

“Um.” My eyes don’t leave him. “Yeah, it’s perfect.”

“So, what’s your favourite food?”

He outright laughs at that, and it pleases me to no end that I did that. I made Carmen Berzatto laugh.

I’m sitting at his poor excuse for a kitchen table trying to write the article while he cooks, every now and then asking me to taste something and smiling slightly too much when I tell him what I think. He explained this weird habit by saying, “Even when it’s bad, I love the way you talk about food. It never stops surprising you. And you’re funny when it blows you away.”

But now, he asks, “What do you think it is?”

“You’re a chef, it’s not going to be anything fancy. Kraft mac and cheese.”

He doesn’t say anything, busy cutting a radish, then, “PB and J.”

I scoff, go back to my writing. The silence is perfect. It might actually be better than a conversation with anyone else. 

Listening to the sounds of cooking, I close my eyes and let buried memories wash over me. The sound of a childhood in the kitchen, being taught how to make a roux — just keep stirring, Sylvie, it’ll be worth it! The sound of her will always be there in the clatter of plates, bubbling liquid, knife against chopping board, but now I will choose to remember it differently. I will choose to be here, trying to erase the bad with the good. 

I glance up just to have a chance to look at him, but he’s already doing the same to me. We just stare for a second, and I feel a tension I’m beginning to call familiar curling up out of my bones.

“Surprised we ever finished that interview, mister,” I say, only breaking the staring competition when I hear an email land in my inbox.

Sylvie,

Thanks for sending the recording through, I’m happy to help edit once it’s written. It does sound like there’s a bit of an audio problem at 5:37 though. Maybe give that a listen and see what you think the issue may be. And send me an edited version. Maybe. Or actually, I’ll just keep this one.

Thanks, Em

I frown, hoping whatever the issue is hasn’t ruined the rest of the interview recording. I slip my headphones in, muting the sizzle of whatever delicious thing Carmen has frying in the pan.

“I didn’t love your asparagus salad, or the choice of cornmeal in the trifle. But it wasn’t usual. You can taste who made it. And that’s what—“

There’s a scrape of chairs on the recording, and abrupt silence.

Then, “I think I’m going to kiss you.”

“Oh, fuck!” I gasp, shooting to my feet. Carmen, thankfully not chopping anything, instinctively switches off the hob before he turns to me.

I hear myself whisper, “I think you should”, and I cover my mouth, not entirely sure if I’m about to be sick or laugh.

“What’s wrong?” Carmen says out loud and as the kissing sounds start, I pull my headphones out and throw them across the room.

and my love, it was all worth it. remember three years ago, two months back, yesterday, when your fingers curled into palms and your breathing was shallow, you said to yourself then that it wasn’t possible, that you couldn’t do it, and then today happened.

the past weeks of my life have been overpowering and i have been overpowered by them  so i cling to old patterns, comforting narratives, and the warm space in between i find beauty in video game easter eggs, artwork that is not the author’s best, poorly made lattes sweetened by love, until coping becomes surviving becomes living again

it doesn’t have to end with shame it doesn’t have to begin with fear