Benny leans back in his chair and scratches at the light stubble along his jaw while amusement flickers across his face. “Solubility, huh? Seems I’ve touched a nerve. Maybe you can make me the real stuff sometime.”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow as I lean back, starting to feel like I’m holding my own in this back-and-forth. I guess that’s just the power of my feelings for sweet tea. “I’m sure they sell it at the grocery store.”
He laughs, as if I wasn’t totally serious.
“I love your accent, by the way.” He pauses, seeming to search for words and I focus hard on trying to suppress the weird, nervous-Chihuahua-shaking my heart is doing. The flirt game is too strong with this one. I can’t let it distract me. “It, like, gives everything you say this…this sweetness but also sounds slow and smooth, like it’s dripping with honey, or molasses.”
Excuse me…what?I feel my mouth open and close a couple of times like I’m trying to catch flies. But I can’t come up with the words to respond to…whatever that was.
And then I can’t help but laugh. Benny tilts his head in confusion and maybe a little amusement, and I recover enough to say, “Oh good gracious. What a line! Has that—has that worked for you before? With the last girl you met from the South? Honestly, it felt a little clunky toward the end. I think it could use some refinement. Like honey. Or molasses.”
Benny shakes his head, looking down at his lap with an almost sheepish little laugh. “Damn. You’re not gonna give me anything, huh? I meant it as a compliment. I really like to hear you talk. In the most appropriate, workplace-safe way, of course.”
He looks back up with a wink that suggests anything butworkplace appropriate, and I narrow my eyes. Tucking a lock of hair behind my ear, I shake my head. “Uh-huh, right. I’m not sure I buy that. No one’s ever told me they like the way I talk.”
He leans forward again and folds his hands on the table. “Yeah, no one’s evertoldyou. I’m sure plenty have thought it.”
Before I have time to respond, the waiter returns to drop off our waters and ask whether we’re ready to order. Neither of us have even looked at the menu yet, but when Benny and I look at each other, it seems we mutually decide to make selections on the spot. He gets flatbread pizza and I pick the black bean burger.
The waiter takes our menus and Benny refocuses on me. “So, speaking of the accent. Kentucky, right?” I rear back in surprise. He’s either an accent savant—doubtful—or he’s done some snooping. Either way, I give a hesitant nod and he continues. “What brought you out here?”
I feel my brows draw together, confusion surely plain on my face. “Uh…Friends of Flavor?”
Benny waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, but you know what I mean. Why Friends of Flavor? How’d you find it? What’s your story and all that?”
His question raises my defensive porcupine quills. I’ve known this guy for all of forty-eight hours. I don’t owe him my “story” yet. Honestly, I don’t know if I’d tell him my full story if I’d known him forty-eight weeks. Painting the whole picture would make me revisit some painful parts of the past, parts only a handful of people in my life know. And I don’t think Mr. Never Skips Arm Day here is gonna join that group.
“You first,” I say, stalling.
His eyes do their twinkly amused thing again and he shrugs. “All right. Well, I told you about the family restaurant in San Francisco, right? Beneventi’s. Family owned and operated for thirty years. Ma and Pops run a tight ship. I’m the youngest of four boys, and my brothers—Manny, Leo, and Enzo—are all in their twenties and working there full time. It was always my part-time gig after school and this summer, I probably would’ve started full time too, but I, uh…Well, I was curious about trying something a little different before I’m locked in to the family biz forever.”
There’s something about the way he says “forever,” kind of low and distant, that makes me think there’s more to that story. That plus the far-off look in his eyes for a few moments, before he seems to shake himself back to the present.Ding, ding, ding.I tuck the moment carefully into my mental (B)enemy intel file.
“So I found this! It’s been cool so far, working with the Friends. I’d watched some of their shows before, obviously, but seeing it all happen live is something else. I’ve spent the most time with Seb and Aiden while they filmGood Chef/Bad Chef,a little bit with Raj when he’s not traveling, but they’re all chill and fun. Mostly. Aiden has his moments.”
He says this so casually, like he’s not talking about my biggest celebrity crushes whom I’ve obsessed over for years. But to him, I guess they’re no big deal. They’re always in the studio or prep kitchens, where Benny works, filming, developing recipes, or workshopping new ideas for their respective series. But withmy job so far consisting mostly of engaging on social media, there hasn’t been any reason for me to take part in the actual content creation for the channel. I feel a pang of jealousy—the only Friend I’ve “met” so far is Aiden, and I wouldn’t call it much of a meeting.
I clear my throat, and try to do the same with my wandering mind. “That must be fun. I spend most of my time at a desk. Or at a TV tray, pretending it’s a desk, to be more accurate.”
Benny laughs. “So is it everything you dreamed of, coming out to the West Coast for this big fancy internship?”
He’s teasing, but since he did open up a little about his family and his reasons for being here, I feel like I can give him a crumb or two. If only to keep him from getting suspicious about my motives for coming to lunch today. “In some ways, yes. I’ve been a huge Friends of Flavor fan for years and a career with them has been a dream of mine, but I haven’t had any culinary training outside of cooking with my family. So I knew if I wanted to work here, I’d have to find another in. I kind of couldn’t believe my luck when the marketing position showed up. I did all the graphic design work—page layouts, ads, a bunch of web content—for my high school newspaper, and I also wrote a small food column, with restaurant reviews and new recipes I’d tried, and included my own illustrations. I sent a whole portfolio of samples in with my application. I thought I’d be doing more design stuff for videos and marketing campaigns and less of the social media maintenance they’ve had me on so far. But I’m justtrying to work hard and make a good impression in the meantime, and hopefully I’ll get a chance to show what skills I have and learn more—especially around the kitchens.”
Pausing over a sip of water, I remind myself—fact-finding mission.What can I drop in about my own goals to get Benny to tell me what I really want to know?
“I think I want to stay in marketing or something else behind the scenes long term, but they don’t have many opportunities for someone without a college degree, and it would probably help to get a better grasp on the food side of things, too. I’m starting at UW in September,” I add with forced casualness, “so I’m really hoping they keep me on for the fall semester culinary internship and see where that could take me.”
“Same here,” Benny says, leveling a steady look at me as he takes his own sip of water.
My breath catches. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
“Y-you’re going to UW too?” I ask, crossing my fingers under the table.
He sets his glass down. “No. I want the fall semester culinary internship.”
Even though I set us both up for this bomb, there’s still a record-scratch sound in my head.
Our waiter returns with our food just then, and I could kiss his aloof little face. I don’t know if the interruption has distracted Benny or if he senses the need for a change of subject, but as we start to eat, he pivots to asking me about myself outside of work.
