Page 34 of Best Served Hot

Drops of sweat rolled down Bennett’s temples, dampening the sides of his hair so that it curled over his ears. “I . . . must have forgotten. It’s been a while since I’ve used this pan,” he puffed. He jammed the spatula under the patty as hard as he could, and finally it flipped over—though it left a layer stuck to the pan. “It’s fine. I’ll just put it in the oven and let it cook through without burning.” He managed to repeat the process for the other patties, then shoved it all into the oven and turned back around, wiping his forehead with the kitchen towel.

“Gross,” I said amiably.

“Shut up,” he said, just as amiably. “I need a drink. Do you want one?”

Drinking with Bennett in his apartment while his hair curled over his ears and he recited M. F. K. Fisher to me? That was a decidedly unwise idea.

But that didn’t mean I didn’t want to do it. I pushed the thought off. “Shouldn’t you get started on the fries?”

He looked at me with such pleading that I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. Over my cackles, he said, “Don’t you think we’ve done enough for one night?”

I wiped tears from my eyes. “Sure. If you admit I’m the better cook.”

He slung the kitchen towel over his shoulder, as if he were a soldier heading off to war. “I’d rather die.”

The oven punctuated his statement, rather dramatically, by bursting into flame.

Not the entire oven—that would’ve been too dramatic. But the cast-iron pan had clearly ignited, maybe from all the grease from the charred burgers, and by the time either of us had unfrozen to shriek for help (me) or run for a fire extinguisher (Bennett, who responsibly had one beside the kitchen door), the fire had died down on its own. Bennett stepped forward gingerly and turned the oven off with a beep.

Both of us just stood there for a moment, staring at the now-smoky glass of the oven door. “Well,” I said, breaking the silence, “I think we can safely say I won. Considering my burgers are at least edible.”

“If not especially appetizing,” he said.

I shrugged. Couldn’t argue with that.

He sighed. “I suppose we were both more out of practice than we thought. Which isn’t surprising, considering how much we eat out. I was trying to remember the last time I cooked. I definitely haven’t baked in a while, given how dead that yeast was.”

I gasped. “So, I can blame my terrible buns on you and your dead yeast!”

He raised an eyebrow as I realized how that sounded. I snorted back a laugh.

Bennett did, too. “Well, now I really need a drink.” He stepped around me to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine. “You want some? It’s probably better than what they had at that bar that you didn’t like.”

That wine had probably cost at least a hundred dollars. Maybe more. I actually had no idea how much expensive wine cost. I did know that I didn’t want it because, no matter how fancy and expensive, it would taste like motor oil to me. “Sure,” I said. Because it didn’t matter if it would taste like motor oil to me: I couldn’t let anyone know.

Together, we moved from the kitchen into his combination living room and dining space, since the smoky smell was not exactly appetizing (not that anything could make wine appetizing). His dining table and chairs were clearly antiques, made of some shiny wood with high, stiff backs and cushions that were plush but not so plush I sank into them. I took a seat facing the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights sparkling before me. What a view. What it must be like to see this view every night.

I couldn’t look away, not as the trickle of wine pouring sounded beside my ear, not as Bennett took the seat next to me. That pleased me, for some reason. Not because we’d be sitting next to each other. It was something about how he wanted to take in the view of the city, too, that even if this apartment had been given to him by his rich parents or whatever, at least he didn’t take it for granted.

He pushed one of the goblets of wine in my direction. The crystal stem sparkled in the light, and suddenly, I felt a little bit like I was living in a movie. Me, the view, the glittering glass of wine. The handsome guy next to me. That polished smile on my face, the composure I kept up for my subscribers and my boss and the rest of the world.

Bennett picked up his glass and whirled the wine around (pretty sure that’s a technical term). Then stuck his nose in the goblet. “Mmm,” he said. “I’m getting earthy notes, like the soil after a rain.”

Why would I want to drink that? Still, I obediently picked the glass up and whirled the wine around myself, then stuck my nose in, too. Motor oil. What could I say that matched up with soil after a rain? Maybe flowers? Tea? Bugs?

I set the goblet down, feeling almost like I’d already downed a few. “I actually hate wine,” I said, and it was out. A laugh bubbled up after it. Free. I felt free.

Bennett set his own glass down, too, though he looked concerned. Maybe because my laugh had sounded a little deranged. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. You talk about liking wine on Julie Zee Eats NYC,” he said. “I have beer, too, or vodka and juice, or just juice, or—”

I was still laughing when I interrupted him. Definitely verging on deranged now. It just felt really good not to have to choke down this wine, have to keep my smile up the whole time, have to pretend that I just loooooved it. “No, it’s okay. You wouldn’t have known because I’m a big fat liar online.” And then his words caught up to me. “Bennett Richard Macalester Wright. Did you just admit to following JulieZeeEatsNYC?”

“Wow, you remember all four of my names. I suppose I should be honored.” Bennett took a long drink of his wine. “Yes, I’ve checked out some of your reviews and watched some of your videos. They’re quite . . .”

He trailed off, and all those good feelings went away. I felt my whole body tense. “Quite what? Vapid? Tasteless?”

Surprise flashed over his face, and he took off his glasses, rubbed the lenses on his shirt. “No! Quite the opposite. I was going to say that they were really . . . great. No, that’s a terrible word for a writer to use, isn’t it? Impressive. I was really impressed by them.”

The tension drained away, joining the still-present odor of burned meat lingering in the air. “Oh. Thanks.”