Chapter Text
You breathed a sign of relief when the director finally said that they were breaking for lunch. It had taken over thirteen takes to get two keeps and even then you could tell he wanted more. You were just thankful to get the easy rig off of your shoulders. Jaz quickly helped you out of it.
“Am I okay to take out the batteries?” she asked.
You nodded and gulped down water. You mumbled a great job to the talent as they walked off to their trailer. “Of course they get catering.”
“Well, we get…” Jaz stumbled. “Chicagoland?”
You turn in the direction she was looking-- where the crew was already headed to. The Original Beef of Chicagoland.
“Well if their food is as good as their name is long, I’m not going to complain.”
“Can’t be worse than the clams incident”
“Oh stop, I can still smell the vomit.” You laugh as you grab your camera. “Can you put the rig and gimble in the cart and we can just drag it over?”
“Roger that.”
You walk over to the P.A. who’s been holding the door open and thank them. The smell of fried onions, peppers, and meats hit you and you’re already salivating. Normally, back in L.A., you’d skip out on meals. You’d be too busy going over the footage, uploading it, or happily guarding the equipment. It wasn’t ever a conscious decision to not eat, it just so happened that you would forget. If there was even an iota of work left to do, you would prioritize it above anything.
Surprisingly, the restaurant itself was relatively empty, so you were able to give your camera it’s own seat at the red gingham covered table. Jaz dragged the large cart in and you patted the seat next to you that was not taken by the camera.
“Should we get appetizers to share?” called someone from down the table. You turn to look at them and realize just how far away they were and how big the team was. You counted thirty on the conservative side of things.
“Let’s just get ten fries to split up with everyone’s meal.” The director waved off.
You scanned the menu. The legitimate plates seemed too heavy for a lunch. You’d settle for a sandwich, beef, just to check Chicagoland’s standard.
You look at Jaz worrying her lip. “What’re you getting?”
“Was wondering if they had a special vegetarian sandwich, but I might just settle for a salad.” She shrugged.
“What do you say we finish early and go over the film? I want to check the lighting before we resume.”
“Yeah, okay, but you’re gonna have to talk to the gaffer because I don’t think he likes me much given our last five convos where you have me tell him the bad job he’s doing.”
“All I said was more to the left!! What did you throw in there?” You laugh.
“Nothing! Just that…” She flushed and looked away.
“Jaz…” you start.
“Okay, well if he can’t tell his left from his right he should go back to kindergarten!” The entire table went silent. The gaffer coughed.
“We are uh, talking about my cousin.” You say, clearly lying.
The door to the kitchen swings open. An average height, average looks, average aged man steps through.
“Alright are we ready to order?” he says with a Minnesotan accent all the way down the table. You thank god the tension disappeared as everyone shot off what they wanted. As he approaches you, you notice that he is better looking than you gave him credit: blue eyes, blond-ish hair, stubbly beard, thin nose.
He opens his mouth to speak, but someone shouts Cousin from the kitchen.
“Excuse me, sweetheart.” He smiles and walks over to the kitchen, angrily shouting back, “What do you want?”
It takes a while for him to return and you mentally repeat your order so you don’t screw up saying it. You always fuck up your orders.
The door slams open again and he walks through. “Okay, where was I?” He scans the table. You barely raise your hand. He catches your eye and walks over.
“Sorry about that, what did you say you wanted?”
“Richie!” shouts a young lady from the kitchen. “We are 86-ing the beef sandwich!”
“Gotcha!” he calls back. Shit, all your practice went out the window.
“We say ‘Heard, Chef’.” She retorts, but is gone before she can hear Richie tell her to fuck off.
“Now, finally. Your order, miss?” he smiles at you. You stare at the menu in a panic.
“Uh… um…” you stammer.
“Why don’t I give you a second.”
“Yes, please, thank you.” You offer a closed lipped smile and bury your head in the menu as you hear Jaz order the salad.
Richie moves past her and continues down the table.
Soon everyone’s food arrives and they all start to dig in while you pick at the fries.
“Did your order not come?” Jaz said.
“I forgot to tell Richie what I wanted, it’s fine.”
“Hey, no let’s get you something.”
“It’s fine, Jaz. It’ll take a while to come out and set back production. I’d rather kill myself than have everyone wait for me while I eat.”
You keep enjoying the fries, which were a spiced delight, as Richie comes back out.
“Hey sweetheart, sorry, but did I forget to take your order?”
“It’s fine, I don’t really want anything.”
Richie smiles and turns towards the kitchen. “She said she don’t want anything, cousin!”
“Just take the damn sandwich!” An arm sticks out from the kitchen with a wrapped sandwich. Richie takes his time walking over and the arm waves the food impatiently. As soon as Richie collects it, the tattoos disappear. You caught a graphic on the back of the hand, some cuts on the forearm.
Richie walks your food over and drops it off. “From the chef. Enjoy.” He grins, knowing something you don’t.
You remove the wrapping to find a beef sandwich and smile to yourself. The first bite was sinful. The jus dripped down your chin and the meat was so tender it fell apart in your mouth. You devoured it in a few seconds. Jaz saw this and patted you on the back. It must have been a crazy contrast to how you normally eat: just picking at your food with casual disinterest. But it is true, something about the food here was irresistible and felt familiar, it revived your appetite.
As Richie came around to collect the dishes and drop off the check, he asked how it was, despite seemingly knowing the answer.
“Truly delicious, please tell everyone thank you for me.”
“Will do.”
After finishing your service, Richie was behind the counter and you waved goodbye to him as everyone resumed their set.
Genuinely, you hated this later half of the shooting day. Everyone is tired from just eating and dreading the hours ahead. Plus the talent have to go back into make-up and everyone just waits. The one respite of this set was that it was closed. On more than one occasion there have been pedestrians walking into shots or bothering you while you’re operating the camera. Jaz tries her best to pester them away, but she gets busy herself and when there’s tourists it’s everyman for themselves.
Shooting didn’t wrap until late that night. The director enjoyed the “Old Chicago” aesthetic of the street and so all external scenes will take place in this neighbourhood, which would be fine, except for the fact that we have to move the trailers every night. All of the back and forth moving only takes away time to actually shoot. None of your business though, your house is a quick walk from the L.
As you upload footage into your hard drive, your mind wanders to the sandwich you had. It tasted so familiar, you couldn’t place it. Like a homecooked meal. You realize it’s 2 am and you haven’t eaten since. You contemplate a late dinner before deciding that you have to be up early in the morning and eating before bed would just throw your whole schedule off. Besides, nothing would beat lunch.
Doesn’t stop you from a quick smoke. You let the intoxicated air burn your throat as you watch back footage. You were right about that fucking gaffer. Bitch needs to move. Frustrated, you set it aside. You’d bring it to the Director of Photography’s attention later.
The chance of reshooting left out the window since the set changed streets, all but one away. No big deal, just meant that you hoped the director was happy.
You worked through lunch that day. The restaurant chosen didn’t allow for the cart to enter, so you waited on set and looked ahead in the script to the next shoots, which were luckily gimble work. Your shoulders aches from having the weight of the camera on your back with the easy-rig.
When Jaz came back from lunch, she had a little doggy bag for you of the naan that she must have gotten with her food. You thanked her, set it aside, and started to adjust the gimble.
Set wrapped earlier today than yesterday only because one of the talent was tired. To be fair, so was everyone else. Much like yesterday with the thirteen takes, today was another long scene with no cutting, so getting it just right was difficult. And the wind didn’t help either, but considering you’re in Chicagoland, environmental hazards should have been factored in.
You and Jaz packed away the equipment and said goodbye, going opposite ways. As you walked down a street, a familiar smell struck you. The Original Beef of Chicagoland. You were right outside of it. Your stomach growled and you acknowledged that you already had food for the night, your naan. But when you look up, Richie is waving at you through the window and you couldn’t just walk away. Maybe you could have a quick chat and just leave.
When you enter, the smell only becomes stronger and the thought of leaving without food was forgotten.
“Hey, welcome back sweetheart! What can I get you?” Richie asks, smiling, leaning against the counter.
“Um…” You pause. You look beyond Richie at the menu.
“The Beef again?” he offers.
“What do you like best?” You don’t necessarily want the same thing twice and are curious if everything is as good as the sandwich or if you were just lucky.
“The spaghetti, but—” Richie starts.
“Oh, I’ll have that!”
He pauses, and stops his sentence. He grins again, just like yesterday, as if he knew more than you. “Sure, I’ll see what I can do.” And he disappears into the kitchen.
You look around the place. The flickering lights, the old style counter, the various stains, the ‘C’ in the window. Was that always there? You’d have to speak to the P.A. about checking the health grade of places.
The door to the kitchen swings as Richie comes back to you. “Listen doll, how bad do you want this spaghetti? Are you willing to fight with me for it?”
You laugh a little. “Well, how good is it?”
“Oh it’s good.”
“Worth fighting for?”
“Worth dying for.”
“Look first you don’t have the sandwich I wanted, and now it seems like you don’t have the spaghetti.”
“But we did get you the sandwich in the end.”
“Fair.” You cross your arms.
“So we can get this spaghetti. Just gotta have some faith.”
“Then it seems like I have no choice but to fight with you, uh Richie?” You only heard it in passing and he nods in confirmation.
“We can take the chef together miss…”
You chuckle as you offer your name. This better be the best damn spaghetti of your life. Richie disappears again and you check your phone. You pull up your mom’s contact and give it a call. It goes to voicemail.
You knew her voice recording by heart. “Hey, sorry I couldn’t get the phone. Leave a recording, I’ll check it and get back to you.” The long beep signalled you.
“Hi mom, it’s me. Just wrapped on another day.” You chuckle and take in a deep breath. “Yeah, I know, it ended early. Picking up apparently the world’s best spaghetti. Thinking of you. You might like this joint, except that it’s got a C in the window, but other than that—”
The smashing of the kitchen door and a shouted ‘Hey!’ get your attention. You whip around to see a man, an angry man, approaching you. He sees that you’re on the phone and stops his charge while his baby blue eyes widen. He flushes a little and looks away, mouthing an apology.
You turn back around. “Sorry mom, got to go, I’ll call again later.”
You hang up and face the guy. His blond-ish, brown-ish, nearly grey-ish hair is a tousled mess and he raises his eyebrows to ask if it was okay to speak. You take a glance at Richie behind him who just raises his shoulders.
“Sorry, is there something wrong?”
His voice is much softer now compared to his shout. “We don’t make spaghetti.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, sorry, can I get you something else?” He wipes his hands the towel over his shoulder and you catch the tattoo you saw from yesterday. He noticed you looking at it and hides it behind his back in embarrassment, not meeting your eye line. A look at Richie again shows him mimicking a fight, punching the air.
“Well, I was told this spaghetti was worth dying for, so I am a little disappointed.”
“Again, I’m very sorry.” His voice is clipped.
“You couldn’t possibly make it, could you?”
“Look, I don’t know what Richie’s told you, but the spaghetti is no longer on the menu.”
“I understand, it’s just that you were so kind to make the beef sandwich for me after it was 86’d that I thought…”
His eyes met yours again. Slightly downturned, captured in wispy lashes, he had eyes that perpetually looked endearing yet hurt. “Did you like it?”
You smiled. “I came back, didn’t I? And, that’s given the health inspection.”
His lips, small, yet plush, quickly smiled, faster than a blink. “Thank you.”
“I assure you, it was my pleasure. So, no spaghetti?”
His brow furrowed. “No spaghetti.”
Richie groaned in the background.
“I’m sorry he put you up to it though,” the chef said.
“It’s alright, I just had my hopes up to be amazed tonight.” You shrug.
His eyes light up like a thought lightbulb. “How long are you willing to wait.”
Realistically, you had nothing to do tonight. Just review the film. “How long are you willing to have me wait.”
“After the other patrons leave, no more than an hour.”
“After?” You check your watch. Shooting wrapped early, so it was only 7 pm.
“I’ve spent too much time talking here already, I’m in the middle of dinner service and—”
“No, I get it, I’ll wait. Just uh,” You wondered if they had an outlet for your computer since it takes quite a bit of battery to open the editing software. “No, yeah, I’ll wait.”
“Yeah?” He ran a hand through his hair.
“Yeah.” You weren’t exactly sure why you were agreeing. You want to rationalize the situation with the fact that you should eat today, but really you couldn’t ignore that you like the idea of this handsome man cooking for you.
“Okay.. yeah. Great. He turns and leaves, not before stopping in front of Richie. “You better not bother her, cousin.” He whispers.
“I was perfectly honourable earlier, you should have seen me.” He says offended. Causing you to laugh lightly. The chef looked back at you and you took this as your cue to find a table, which was an easy enough task.
You set up your station: your computer, the camera’s SD card, your blue-light glasses. The sound engineer still has to go through the boom’s recordings before you got them, if you even did get them, so there’s no need for headphones.
Richie listened to the chef and didn’t bother you (save for dropping off a side of fries) as patrons filtered out and a few came in. You went through nearly two hours of footage while you waited. Soon it was just you. You playfully started a timer on your phone. Within the next half hour, you hear the staff saying their goodbyes as they left. Even Richie came around and said goodbye to you. He made you promise to come in the next day and tell him what “Carmy” made. He left and soon it really was, just you. You and the occasional sound from the kitchen.
You were in the middle of sending the DOP an email about the gaffer messing up again when the kitchen door clanged over and the chef, whom you believe to be “Carmy”, walked over, carrying a dish. Saying it smelled delicious would be an understatement. He paused right before you.
“I, uh, forgot to ask if you have any allergies.” He looked at the dish and then the ground. He seemed to be embarrassed often.
“Unless there’s bee toxin in there, I think I’ll live.” You chuckle. “Don’t worry, you’re all good.”
He cleared his throat. “Well then, it’s a duo of whitefish, pan seared with a leek reduction and garlic confit.” He placed it in front of you. The dish was very attractive, despite the sauce being an icky green, with edible flowers arranged on the fish. “Oh, and a rice pilaf.”
He stood by the table, waiting. You hurriedly packed your things that were across the table.
“Please, sit down!”
“No, no, it’s alright, I have work to do in the office.”
“And I have work to do too, but work would be such a waste of the dish.”
He paused, silent.
“I’m not going to try it until you sit down.”
His eyes widen in shock. “But it’s made to be eaten hot! So the crust is crunchy!”
“And I would like to eat it hot, so if you would oblige…” You gesture at the seat across you.
“Are you really holding me hostage over my dish?”
“Are you really making me wait longer?” You tease.
He sighs, defeated. “Touche.” He takes his seat.
You take your plastic fork in your left and knife in your right as you spear the first fillet of fish, which delicately falls apart. You look up at him. “That’s a good sign.”
You use your knife to add some of the reduction to your bite and can see his eyes trailing your fork as you raise it to your lips. You stare at him while you hold it just before your mouth. After a while he realizes you’re fucking with him and huffs.
“C’mon already!”
You snicker and concede, almost moaning at how perfect the food was as soon as it hit your tongue. It was rich yet light, zesty and refreshing.
“Well?” he asks impatiently.
“Shut up, you know it’s stupidly good already.”
He smiled a little at this and scratches his chin to hide it. “Well it’s been a while since I’ve made it, could be shit for all I know.”
“Get a fork and split this with me. I can’t eat it all.”
“No, no you enjoy.” He crossed his arms.
“Have you eaten?”
His eyes look up as his face scrunches up, trying to remember.
“I’ll that as a no. Let’s split this. You were kind enough to go out of your way to make it for me, I’d be so sad if you don’t have any, especially since you haven’t eaten.” You cross your arms now.
“I—” He starts.
“I’m not going to have anymore til you take a bite.”
“Look I’m already sitting here, you can’t hold me hostage again.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Watch me.”
You engage in a staring contest and take the time to really look at him. His roman nose suits his face well. Almost giving a masculine edge to the delicate, fragile parts, like his eyes, his lips. He is beautiful in a classic sense and the dimmed lights of the restaurant make you realize how intimate this is. You blush a little and he blinks away in embarrassment from the attention.
“You blinked!”
He sighs and mutters a 'jesus christ' and picked up a plastic utensil of his own. He prepares his own morsel and takes a bite.
“Wow”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty good.” He admits, grinning.
“Pretty good? It’s just about perfect!”
Then his face sours. “Too much salt.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
He sits back, his posture defeated. He cards his hair, you see the tattoo again. “Yeah well, you’re not a chef.”
“Doesn’t take one to know a great one, don’t beat yourself up about it. I’m really enjoying it!”
He starts to pick it apart. “I don’t get where it’s coming from, I tasted while I cooked…”
“Are you really going to sit in front of me and critique my dinner or are you going to enjoy it?”
“S-sorry, maybe I could make it again?” He starts to get up.
You reach out your hand. “Don't worry about it.” You sigh and introduce yourself. “And you are?”
He sits back down. “Carmen—Carmy. No one calls me Carmen. I own the place.” He shakes your hand and you can feel the callouses under your palm. You wonder if he can feel your skin at all.
“So maybe you can explain to me where the name came from.”
“I don’t think I can.” He barely smiles. Really, he looks like he’s far away.
You give him a moment while you silently eat the fish. He awkwardly coughs and that seems to signal his return to Earth.
“Sorry, uh what do you do?” He asks.
“I’m a camera person. We were actually shooting just outside yesterday, that’s why we all came in for lunch.”
He lightly chuckles and shakes his head, his gorgeous hair catching the light. “You have no idea how swamped we were with your orders.”
“Sorry about that.”
“No! It was good for business. Just don’t think we’ve all that many orders come in at once since… ever maybe”
“Really? I would have thought that this would be a heavily foot trafficked area.”
“What makes you fucking say that?”
“I don’t know, old Chicago is an aesthetic?”
That got a genuine laugh out of him. “Old Chicago was run by mobs. Something that’s stuck around these parts. Can’t see how that’s an aesthetic.”
“I’m sorry, I grew up around here. I like it.” You mock offense.
"Sure."
"Okay, well I moved away when I was young--"
He nods, “It shows.”
“Hey!” You kick him under the table.
He raises his eyebrows. You blush, embarrassed by the childish move.
“I’m so sorry—” You get cut off as he nudges you under the table.
"You're okay."
You sit in silence. He eats more of his fish. You already finished. You admire the tattoos on his arms. SOU, 773, the knife stabbing the hand, they were hot.
“So, uh. Where did you move from.” He snaps you out of your daze.
“L.A.”
“Right, movies… Do you miss it there?”
“Oh fuck no, L.A. was disgusting. I don’t even recall if I even had any proper food there. Everything was ginger shot this, sea moss that.”
“Woah, don’t insult sea moss like that.” Carmy retorts.
“All I’m saying is that it wasn’t my speed.”
“I can see that.”
“Well done genius.”
You fall into silence again and he finishes the food and starts to collect the plate. “Oh, thank you.” He disappears into the kitchen and you’re uncertain what to do next. Do you pay? You gather your things and put a fifty in the tip jar. But you waited before leaving. It felt awkward to just leave with that being the last thing said to him. You waited a little, but your hand started to itch for a cigarette. You go back to the door to the kitchen and poke your head in.
“Carmy?” You call. No response.
You step through the threshold, unveiling the full kitchen to you. You have no means to judge what a commercial kitchen should look like, but judging by the clutter of the pans and spices and ingredients, plus the prep tables that looked to be later additions, you gauged it was a little small.
“Carmy?” You try again. This time you catch a soft “yeah?” from around the corner where you find him washing the dishes. He seemed surprised that you’re in the kitchen.
“Sorry, for intruding.”
“N-no, you’re uh okay”
“I was just wondering if there’s a spot to smoke in here?” You were embarrassed slightly to ask.
“If you give me a minute I’ll come join you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
He puts the dish away and dries off his hands. “This way.”
You follow him out the back door, to the outside parking lot of the restaurant. The cold air of the night hit you and you take a quick glance at the stars. Still there. You look back to Carmy and quickly catch him staring at you before he turns away.
“Thank you for tonight, it was really lovely.”
“N-no problem. I, uh, been wanting a chance to make something off the menu.”
“Except for spaghetti.”
He frowns a bit at this. “I’m sorry that Richie put you up to that.”
“Oh he’s harmless, besides, it led to such a great night. I’m glad he did.” You bring out your cigarettes and Carmy does the same. He flips open his box and sees they’re empty.
“Shit.”
“Here.” You hand him one. “Least I could do.”
He accepts it. “I hope it comes with a light.”
You click your lighter to life, and he leans in, cigarette in his mouth, and you can barely feel his five o‘clock shadow. “Thanks”
“Don’t mention it.”
You look up at the sky. After a while, you check your watch and groan.
“You mad at it or something?” Carmy asks.
You sigh. “I just don’t want to go to work tomorrow. There’s this gaffer who is fucking up the lighting but the DOP doesn’t notice, but I know it will just be a bitch for continuity. Y’know?”
“Totally.”
“I mean, isn’t it annoying how much extra work you do just to make yourself proud of it?”
Carmy sighs now too, smoke leaving his pouted, parted lips. His blue eyes look at the sky too, lost. He looks so hurt, a puppy kicked. There was something missing with him.
“Do you think you can ever be proud of it?” he says, barely above a whisper.
“No, and that’s the worst part.”
He hums in agreement. You finish your cigarette and put it out against your trainer.
“I should get going.” You pick up your laptop bag off the floor.
“Do you even know where you’re going?” he joked, and if you didn’t know he was making fun of you, you would have missed it.
“I may not have been here recently, but I remember some stuff.” You actually recall quite a bit about your life in Chicago. Sure, it was all rose-tinted, but you cherished those memories.
“Alright,” he throws his hands up in defence.
“Thank you again for tonight. It really was such a treat. Can’t wait to see what you cook up tomorrow!”
“Tomorrow?”
“Okay, well technically today.”
"I still don't follow."
"Well I'm shooting in the neighbourhood again, so..." You let your sentence drift off.
“I’ll see what recipes I can find with bee toxin.”
“See you later then.”
“Yeah. Later.”
You round the corner and head home, genuinely excited for the next day.