“We should do something tomorrow,” I said. “It’s our free day, right? Let’s explore Chicago a bit. I’ll show you some of my favorite places.”
“I’d like that,” said Raina.
I was definitely eager to break from all the other chefs and get some alone time with Raina. I wanted to show her my restaurant and my favorite bar and just how much fun Chicago’s neighborhoods were. Coming from New York, I knew she’d appreciate how similar and how different Chicago really was. It had been far too long since I’d been on a date with a cute girl and even if our date wasn’t explicitly a date, I knew that it would make me happy to bounce around my stomping grounds with someone like her. I was done with the girls in my local restaurant scene and I never really had the free time necessary to date outside my world. Raina was like a new hope for my love life. Someone bursting with possibility and light and talent. She was good.
“Hey Emily,” said Raina, speaking up once again, now in more of a sleepy voice.
“Yeah?”
“If we make it to the finals,” she said. “Like, if it’s just the two of us at the end. I think I’ll let you win.”
“You’re crazy,” I said. “If the two of us make it to the finals, we’re both going to cook our asses off and the best woman will win. Deal?”
“Deal,” said Raina. She paused for a moment. “I was just being nice,” she continued on. “I don’t think I could throw a cooking competition. I want to win just as bad as anybody.”
“I know,” I said, a smile moving across my face that I could not suppress. At that moment, I wished that Raina and I were together in the same bed, hugging one another, tenderly kissing each other’s faces. I wanted so badly to know her smell, to taste her lips, to feel her beating heart next to mine. I knew that Hot Chef was going to be life changing for me. I knew that I was going to make friendships that would last forever. You can see that it happens on past seasons of the show. These people surely bond, working so close with each other. But I would have never guessed I’d meet someone like Raina. She was my total dream girl. I’d give the whole show up, I’d change places with Courtney and be the first chef eliminated, if it meant that I could be with Raina.
I was tired of being lonely. Of being married to work.
“Goodnight,” Raina said softly, sweetly. I could hear her humming lightly against her pillow.
“Goodnight,” I said. Reaching over, I flicked out the light and darkness poured over the room. We were so close, laying there together in separate beds, mere feet apart. All it would take was Raina to crawl out from under her covers, slink those few feet over, and slide into bed with me. I could feel her bare thighs against mine, legs intertwining, toes touching, arms wrapped around each other. Our lips would lightly touch a few times, planting tender kisses on one another’s lips. Gentling sighing. Happy.
That’s all I wanted. That’s all I really wanted in the world.
*
It was a beautifully sunny day as Raina and I walked together up Damen Avenue, making our way toward my restaurant. We had thankfully broken away from the other chefs on our day off, with no planned group excursions or filming, and while a few of the other chefs balked that the two of us were going it alone, I think they were just jealous that Raina got to go off with someone who was an inhabitant of the city. It was early autumn and there was still a nice hint of warmth in the air, yet the breezy aroma of Chicago in fall was certainly upon us.
Raina was dripping with cuteness in her outfit, dusty olive khaki short shorts and a baggy white top that allowed you the slightest peek inside through the flowing armholes. She wore oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses and a little bemused smile on her face. Her feet were covered by small, bright red canvas slip-ons. I wanted to just reach over and take her hand in mine, pull her close next to me, and melt against her.
“This is kind of a yuppie area,” I said as we continued our stroll from the train stop. “Bucktown is the neighborhood.”
“Oh,” mused Raina softly.
“All these stores here,” I said, motioning as we passed a strip of retail storefronts. “They used to be small independent shops. Now they’re all chains.”
“It’s probably good for your restaurant’s business,” said Raina.
“Yeah,” I acquiesced. “Still, I miss the old way a bit.”
As Raina reached up to her face to adjust her sunglasses, I caught a glimpse inside of her shirt through the arm, seeing just the slightest bit of flesh. She was braless underneath that shirt, as she had very little need for support with her small chest. Despite her relatively meek exterior, Raina was a New York girl and she obviously considered the statements that her fashion made.
The streets were still filled with people out shopping and socializing, despite it being a weekday, and the narrow two-lane street was busy with traffic. The restaurant and coffee shop patios were full. It was a bustling day for this little stretch of Damen, people trying to cram in the last remnants of outdoor enjoyment before the weather really began to turn.
“How long have you been head chef at your restaurant?” asked Raina absently as we neared the storefront to Maison du Faisan.
“Just two years,” I said. “We won a Beard for Outstanding Restaurant not long after I took over. But I don’t really attribute it to myself, you know, just the overall restaurant and the ownership are great.”
“Latch has a number of Beard Awards,” said Raina with a sly smirk. “If we’re competing.”
“Well, we are in competition,” I said, reaching over and giving Raina’s side a pinch. She giggled and swatted at my hand.
“C’mon,” she protested, but she was enjoying it.
“Tada!” I said, leaping forward and spreading my arms. “We’re here!”
Raina looked up at the sign and then back down to me with a smile.
“Very rustic bistro,” she said.
“Let’s go in.” Pulling my key from my pocket, I unlocked the door and let Raina inside.
The interior of Maison was totally 50s Paris, yet kind of pastoral farmhouse too, with the creaky wood floorboards below our feet, the small tables, the ornate mirrors on the wall, the small vintage advertisements for French aperitifs. The space was small and tight, only enough room to fit maybe 30 diners at any one time, but you most certainly needed a reservation to get in and you had better make that reservation at least a week in advance. We had become quite popular.
Although Maisan didn’t open until 6, the kitchen staff and the manager were already there working, doing prep, getting things organized for dinner service. Raina and I sauntered up to the small bar, wine glasses hanging down from the top of the bar window, our manager Michelle sitting at one of the stools scribbling into her notebook.
“Yo Michelle,” I called out. “Look alive!”
Michelle was startled by my voice, suddenly swiveling around to catch eyes with me. She grinned and leapt up, tumbling forward to hug me.
“We barely made it through this last weekend without you, Emily,” said Michelle, smiling happily as we embraced. “I hate that you’re on ‘vacation,’” she said, making air quotes and a snarky face. “But.. we do all begrudgingly hope you do well on the show. Can you tell me anything about it?” she beamed eagerly.
“Nope,” I said. “Though I can introduce you to my new friend Raina.” I stepped out of the way and presented Raina to Michelle. The girls smiled, greeted, and shook. “Raina is one of the other chefs on the show. She’s sous chef at Latch in NYC.”
“Whoa,” said Michelle. “Serious business. I think I back her,” she Michelle, saddling up next to Raina and putting her hand on her shoulder. Raina laughed.
“Such a bandwagon fan,” I said. “You just want to back the favorite.”
“You know I’m kidding, Emily,” grinned Michelle. “We’re all so proud of you here.”
“How’s, uh, Kenny?” I asked, standing up on my toes, trying to look through the kitchen window to see in. Kenny was my sous chef who I’d left
in charge in my absence.
“Good,” said Michelle. “No worries about him. He’s running a smooth kitchen.”
“Kenny!” I called. I heard a pot clank in the kitchen as the three of us waited. I looked through the window again.
A few moments later Kenny came out from the kitchen. He was a lanky guy, pale, with a patchy beard and a dark blue bandana tied around his head. His chef whites were lightly stained from the afternoon’s work.
“You can’t stay away from this place, can you?” he said with a smile.
“Just coming to check in on you,” I said. “Kenny, meet Raina. She’s one of the contestants on Hot Chef with me.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Kenny.
“Same,” said Raina, the two of them shaking hands.
“Raina is also a sous chef,” I said. “She works at Latch in NYC.”
“Are you hiring?” said Kenny.
“You!” I called out, smacking Kenny on the arm. “You stay with me!”
“Ow!” he said, laughing. After a moment he smiled and leaned back against the bar. “So how’s the show? You’re not here because you’ve already been eliminated, are you?”
“I can’t tell you anything,” I said, pretending to lock my lips. “Sworn to secrecy.”
“Emily is doing good,” mewed Raina, lightly smiling in a coy expression. “Shh! Don’t let anyone know I told you.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But Raina is doing better.”
“Well I’m happy you’re already making friends,” said Kenny. “Just don’t replace me with her.”
“Maybe we could swap,” I said. “Raina could come to Maisan and you head out to Latch? I might make that trade.”
“Done,” said Kenny.
“I don’t know about that,” grinned Raina knowingly.
“So what’s it like?” asked Michelle. “It seems so crazy on TV. Is there a lot of drama?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I could see a couple of the chefs causing some drama.”
“I see a couple right now,” joked Kenny.
“Hey!” I said. “But no,” I continued on. “I think a lot of it is just little things the cameras pick up and they blow them up in the editing process. It’s a cool group of really talented people.”
“It’s really exciting,” said Michelle. “The customers know and they’re all rooting for you.”
“It’s intense competition,” I said. “I didn’t think it would be this hard, to be honest.”
“It’s not bad,” said Raina.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding up next to Raina and wrapping my arm around her waist. “Don’t listen to her. She’s like a cooking wunderkind.”
Looking over at Raina, she smiled happily as our eyes met. There was definitely something growing between us, something yet unspoken. I knew she felt it too. Her face softened as we looked at one another. Her hand lightly touched my back. Her posture relaxed. I think we complemented each other well. I was a bit more outgoing and boisterous, she quieter and demure. I imagined the two of us opening up a restaurant together someday. We would make great partners. Well, maybe. Chef personalities can be weird.
“Do you want to take a look at prep?” asked Kenny.
“Nope!” I said, putting my hands up to deflect. “I’m on vacation. I just wanted to show Raina the restaurant. I think we’ve sufficiently seen it.” Everyone laughed along with me.
“It’s really nice,” mused Raina. “Very comfortable and homey.”
“Yeah, and the food is just unbelievable,” I said. “We do well here.”
“All right,” said Michelle. “Unless you’re going to work, Emily, stop teasing us and get out of here.”
“Kenny,” I said, a content smile washing over me. “Thank you so much for taking care of things for the next six weeks. Well, maybe a little less if I get eliminated,” I said with a wink.
“I can’t wait until the show starts airing,” he said. “We’re all pumped.”
Raina and I said our goodbyes and without much more of a scene, the two of us ambled out of Maison. I felt good about showing her my home. It offered up a little bit of insight into who I was as a person and as a chef. Kenny and Michelle, they were my family. It was like introducing Raina to my siblings. And it made me really happy that I had the opportunity to do that.
*
“How far are we from Fulton Market?” asked Raina casually, looking the slightest bit intoxicated, as we sat opposite one another in a booth of the darkened tiki-themed bar. We both had a goofy cocktail in front of us, blue with pineapple garnish. Across the room was an orange backlit bar with a tan grass awning hanging over it. The bar was increasingly becoming busy with the post-work crowd, office workers dressed in suits and skirts entering the depths of the underground bar in search of their after-hours libation.
“Not very,” I said, sipping my drink through the straw. “We can just take a car back to the loft.”
“Cool,” she mused.
I felt like I wanted to say something to Raina but I didn’t know how it would come out. I was definitely infatuated with her, eager to explore something more with her, but I knew I had to tread carefully because of the show. I didn’t want to suddenly be the beacon of drama on Hot Chef, with all the viewers at home commenting along the lines of, “Can you believe this Emily chick thought she could shack up with Raina? Raina’s so cute and talented and Emily’s just some tomboy goof.” So, yeah, I was a little nervous and self-deprecating about the whole thing.
“So…” I began, searching for my words, looking across the table as Raina drank her blue cocktail, eyes wide as she looked back at me. “Do you have a girlfriend back home?”
“Nope,” said Raina with an innocent pop on the ‘p’ sound. She looked off from me, perhaps feeling embarrassed, but making it seem like she was just taking in the ambiance of the tiki bar.
“Cool,” I said. “I don’t have a girlfriend either,” I said matter-of-factly. “It’s too hard to maintain any real lasting relationship with the hours we keep, you know?”
“Yeah,” she affirmed. “It’s, like, you’re gone most nights and every weekend and you don’t get home until 3 or 4 some nights.”
“Right,” I said, letting a smile merge onto my face as Raina was beginning to open up to me. She was a tough nut to crack, but once you got her open her shyness faded away into delight and wonderment. “And forget dating people in your own restaurant scene,” I continued. “That gets weird pretty quickly.” Raina laughed.
“I once dated the front of the house manager,” admitted Raina. “Not at Latch, at another place I worked.”
“And how did that go?”
“About as well as you’d expect,” she grinned, looking down. “We broke up and it got weird.”
“Why’d you break up?” I asked. I was hungry to glean more relationship information from Raina. I wanted to know what to avoid.
“I think she wanted me to be more outgoing,” said Raina, twisting her straw around in her drink, looking down into it. “You know, she was really social — front of the house, right? — But I just didn’t like going out and doing the scene with her.” She looked up and smiled at me. “I’m more content lounging around at home, cuddling in the blankets, binge-watching some TV show.”
“That’s how I feel,” I said. Despite my extroverted demeanor, something about myself I’d cultivated as a driven chef, I too preferred my off-hours to be far less frenetic. I got pretty worked up in the kitchen. It was nice to just dissolve into the couch and veg.
“Yeah?” she said. “I’m kind of an introvert, so after a long night at work I just have to chill the next day.”
“Until you head back to work again,” I said with a knowing grin.
“Right!” said Raina with a short laugh.
“Yeah, the relationship thing is one facet of being a chef I never considered,” I said. As I spoke, I felt Raina’s foot bump into my leg underneath the table. But instead of it being an accidental bump which swiftly get
s pulled away, she let her foot linger against me for a bit. “I think we make a lot of sacrifices to do what we do.”
“What do you think is next for you?” said Raina.
“You mean, after I win Hot Chef?” I said, beaming.
“Yeah,” she said with a chuckle. “How about this… what would you do if you won?”
“That money would be insane,” I said. “C’mon, $125K? Insanity. I could definitely get the ball rolling on opening up my own restaurant.”
“Ooh!” blurted Raina. “Yay! This conversation. Tell me about your restaurant.” I saw the excitement in her eyes. Every chef had a dream for what their restaurant would be. I think most of us meditated on it daily to help make all the really difficult parts of our job seem like they were just dues we were paying.
“Okay,” I said. “So my wheelhouse is French. I mean, I’m classically French trained, I work at a French bistro. But what we do at Maison, while I totally adore it, is a little too classical. I want to do upscale burgers, French-themed, you know? Not sloppy American burgers. But, more like, a trio of lamb sliders with a smear of whipped foie. That kinda thing.”
“I see,” said Raina, nodding, smiling along with me. “That could be good.”
“Coquilles Saint-Jacques but, I don’t know, deconstructed,” I said, letting my brain go wild. “A lighter version, an appetizer.”
“I like it, Emily,” she said. “You should do it. Do you have a name?”
“Étalon-or,” I said, grinning, happy to be sharing all this with Raina. I definitely felt closer to her. And I still felt her foot against my leg underneath the table. “It means ‘gold standard’ in French. And my last name’s Gold.”
“Ha,” Raina laughed heartily. “That’s great. You’re funny.”
“I’m funny, huh?” I said, enjoying our back and forth, desperately wanting more. “So what’s your restaurant, little miss fancy? Is it going to include a lot of fancy foams and steak frites bird nests like at Latch?” Raina giggled at me.
Chef Cutegirl: A Sweet Lesbian Romance Page 4
