Chapter Text
Packing is difficult.
Even though you have Sydney on video call, and she's telling you that people in Chicago really don't dress like it's all that, you still find the urge to wear your most fashionable clothing when you're there.
You think of it as the constant need to be "cute" in comparison to all the pretty New York City Socialites, to keep up with them, even though Sydney hates it. Thinks you're overcompensating when you already look gorgeous.
"Can't take the city out of the girl." You joke, Sydney rolls her eyes.
"You're from Ohio." She corrects you, always sticking to the facts, and you snort. "You don't want to dress up for the airport, trust me. It's uncomfortable. And you'll easily be the most overdressed if you show up in- that , Jesus."
You're holding up a jumpsuit with a fair amount of elaborate beading on the bodice, and you put it down with a huff.
"I thought it was fun!" You pout, still in full Carrie Bradshaw mode. Honestly, you don’t even like the jumpsuit. You just like riling up Sydney.
"No, Pam, I refuse to be seen with you if you’re trying to have a fish-out-of-water, big city girl meets small town moment. Something like this." She points to her at home outfit, composed of a baggy T-shirt and jean shorts, as an example. "I mean, bring like one fun outfit if you want to go out or something."
"Oh, good." You clasp your hands. "I was beginning to think you hated fun, dude."
"Huh?"
"Lately you, well, both of us really- we've been all work and no play. I think we could take a break." You smile at her. "Do some classic Syd and Pam things, you know? But just for one night."
"Oh, trust me." She cracks her knuckles. "I've been busting my ass because I want to. But I need to hard-core let loose one day so I can get back into it without all the distractions."
"Damn. Always with the productive nature, huh?" You give her a knowing glance. "That's fine by me. How's this for 'one fun outfit?'"
You're holding up a tight, thin, long sleeve bodycon, sweater dress. It's got a low sweetheart neckline, and it's a neutral shade of grey-black.
"Looks good to me." Sydney gives you a thumbs up. "Not too out there for Chicago at all."
“Good.” You set it down, and start packing the usual combinations of t-shirts, jeans, shorts, sweaters, and other essentials. “Okay. Now onto the important stuff.”
“The cookbook.” Sydney points at her journal. “I’ve written down some stuff- you tell me what sounds marketable or whatever it is a food columnist would think.”
“Go for it.”
“Okay, first. A calamari and shrimp aglio e olio.” She says it with a fancy Italian accent, and you raise your eyebrows. “What? That’s how it’s supposed to be pronounced.”
“Nothing. You just sound like you came off the set of the Sopranos.” You write down her first idea. “Aren’t some of your coworkers Italian?”
“Ugh, if you think they’re rubbing off on me,” She’s starting to gear herself up, and you know Sydney is going to talk about her knowledge from the Culinary Institute of America.” … actually, Richie isn’t Italian.”
“The one that calls you sweetheart ?” You say with a thick, mocking mobster voice.
She giggles. “Yeah, he’s actually Polish. Anyways, any thoughts?”
“It’s very different from your work’s food.” You aren’t judging, just curious. “Typically seafood, pasta, those kind of things go into really Mediterranean or Italian cookbooks. Are we sticking to a niche?”
“Well, I’m a little tired of beef sandwiches.” Sydney shrugs. “But we don’t have to stick to a cultural niche. It could be like… a book of comfort foods? Or just good foods to eat for dinner?”
“Comfort food is easier.” You tap the side of your head, thinking. “I mean, it is kind of a common cookbook to go with- but that means it’s a staple. We just need to really pick out-there, attention grabbing recipes.”
“Okay. Sounds good.” Sydney suddenly checks the time and flinches. “And… that is my cue to go.”
“What? It’s only 7:30 AM on a Friday, dude.” You cross your arms. “And that was one recipe.”
“Yeah, it would’ve been more if you didn’t shut up about packing.” Sydney starts packing up stuff in her tote bag next to her laptop, including a pair of sneakers. “Carm probably started prepping like thirty minutes ago. So I gotta go and catch up.”
“Ah, I get it. Chef stuff.” You wave goodbye through the camera at her. “Just text me more ideas if you can!”
She waves back after saying a quick “Heard, Chef,” and then hangs up the call.
/
Your flight is at a weird time on Saturday.
You thought originally that it was at 5:00 PM, and then quickly found out that the reason your ticket was so cheap was because it’s at 5:00 AM .
It’s so early that even Sydney has to laugh at you. She didn’t get a chance to send anymore recipes- but she did send a text telling you that 5:00 AM is when she starts work sometimes. So maybe now you could call yourself a chef, too.
It’s funny but it’s also not.
You wake up at 3:00 AM, an ungodly hour for anyone to be waking up at when the sun is still down, and get yourself ready and bundled in a classic jeans and t-shirt combo. You can’t be bothered to be the extra New York City Girl today. Even the taxi driver stares you down when you explain about your trip, motioning towards your one suitcase and backpack, and how you don’t usually look like this.
He drops you off at the airport, looking unconvinced that you’re actually going anywhere important. And maybe he’d be right considering that you’re just heading to Chicago.
You purchase a large- sorry, Venti- coffee with all the extra goods and sugar in it from Starbucks, trying to feel awake and less sore. You feel like one of your former customers. It’s a great joke about your career, you’re sure, you’re just too tired to put the words together right now.
You snap a dumb mirror selfie for your story in the washroom, holding up your drink like it’s a prize. No lid and all to show off the whipped cream and drizzle.
Caption it “ Takes a former barista to know the grinddd 💪🔥💯🙏😤”. It’s exceedingly silly, especially for you, having at least a thousand followers on Instagram that only follow you for authentic food pics. But you’re tired and you don’t care anymore.
The first person to view your story is Sydney. She immediately sends you a direct message, and you already know what she’s going to say.
sydadamu: girl that shit is cancer for your stomach
sydadamu: pls tell me you bought it as a joke
You stifle a laugh. It’s definitely a lot worse than the coffee from Moe’s, but you kind of need it today.
pampalm: ▷ Photo
You send an image of you actually drinking the damn thing, the sugary sweet whipped cream caramel coffee nightmare.
sydadamu: FUCK U PAMELA
sydadamu: u really out here supporting a full on, anti union, EVIL corporation huh. what happened to authentic food ms columnist?
pampalm: it’s a necessary evil 😩
pampalm: plus they don’t have indie coffee shops in airports
You know you have a point, and she stops typing for a second.
sydadamu: ok facts.
sydadamu: wait brb
You can tell she was probably just messaging because she had one brief moment of reprieve from the kitchen. You don’t expect her to reply back yet.
You sit yourself down at the gate of your flight. It’s only twenty minutes until the plane shows up, and you can wait. You’ve got nothing else to do, other than a murder mystery novel and your horrid drink.
/
Sydney doesn't usually text quite so much.
Carmy is pretty sure he never sees her on her phone.
It's just them two this early in the morning- Carmy couldn't sleep, and Sydney just shows up at 5 AM just because.
"Chef, can you stir the pan over there, the onions are starting to caramelize." Carmy points towards the stove, and he's expecting Sydney to chime in with a "yes, Chef," but she just nods, and tucks her phone into her pocket.
"You're stuck on your phone today." He comments, and Sydney looks up, genuinely surprised.
"Oh. Have I really?" She's not surprised that Carmy noticed. His eyes always seem to be roaming over every inch and surface of everything in the kitchen, and it is an important skill to have, he's just particularly observant even for a chef.
But sometimes Carmy is also in his own world, so she thought she'd get away with it today.
"Yeah." He nods, and Sydney feels like she should explain herself.
"You know. My friend is coming over today?" Sydney racks her mind, thinking of what she told Carmy about you so she can remind him. "She's a-"
"Food columnist, yeah." Carmy crosses his arms. "Pamela?"
"...yeah." Sydney finds that a teeny bit odd. Carmy doesn't usually care too much about others. "She's just been texting a lot. I guess in anticipation."
"That's fine for now." Carmy chops up some veggies as he's talking, an easy staccato rhythm that matches how perfectly even he cuts things. "Just make sure you're not too busy during lunch rush."
"Yes, Chef."
"Thank you, Chef." He lets her go.
/
sydadamu: sorry bout that
sydadamu: carm was wondering why i was texting so much
pampalm: shit hope ur not in trouble
sydadamu: nah nothing like that. was just weird
pampalm: why would it be weird? he’s ur boss, ofc he’s going to tell u off
sydadamu: no thats not it. He just remembered u
pampalm: huh? wdym
sydadamu: I told him a lil bit about u earlier this week and he remembered u rn
pampalm: oh. that’s not that weird
sydadamu: u don’t know carmy ig. he doesnt usually know details and all that.
You’re waiting for Sydney to continue typing when she suddenly vanishes again.
It’s totally fine- you’re just insanely bored and most people you know in New York are either sleeping or working right now. You’re good with waiting for her to come back.
Before you know it, you’re being called onto the flight, and you’re loading your one suitcase above your seat. It feels not nearly as momentous as you’ve hoped, considering that you’re now sitting with your seatbelt on, locked in to the impulsive trip that you chose over your job.
You hope Sydney replies soon.
/
Just a bit later- maybe twenty minutes later, really- Sydney is already laughing at something. Carmy doesn’t really think it’s so bad. The Beef isn’t getting a lot of business today, which is a bad sign for the longevity of their restaurant, but he can’t exactly blame Sydney for enjoying herself. Not when there’s nothing else to do.
He’s bored enough that he asks her what she’s laughing at.
Sydney giggles and flips her phone to show him. “Pam’s just on the airplane.”
It’s what you’ve just posted to your story. A tray of airplane food. Sad, deflated pancakes, a weird gelatinous whipped cream-thing, that looks far too solid and heavy to be edible adorning the top of them, and just a little drizzle of syrup that looks clearly already soaked through everything. Oh, and a few dried fruits on the side that look absolutely dehydrated and too tiny to be of any worth or flavour.
You’ve captioned it with another stupid phrase: “On that gourmet shit😤🙏”
Carmy pauses, just long enough that Sydney wonders if he’s going to tell her to get back to work.
Then he cracks a smile- a small one, but nevertheless, a smile - and Sydney blinks before she grins too.
“Your friend is making a rep for herself. She’s funny.” Carmy admits, and Sydney nods.
“Pam likes to say food is her life and all that- even though she can’t cook for shit.” Sydney snorts, and Carmy almost doesn’t believe her. You show too much expertise in your reviews about ingredients to really be all that bad at cooking. “I like to think she’s missing out on being a comedian.”
“Well, she’s coming to the wrong city for that.” Carmy starts fussing with his hands, running them up his forearms, feeling like a freak- as usual- for reading through your portfolio of reviews, knowing too much about where you’re coming from and what you’re doing here.
But Carmy was pretty damn bored at home yesterday and the idea of cooking himself something and watching reruns of celebrity chef shows had him in a bit of a rut, so he allowed himself- for once- to just do something a little different. He can’t exactly detach himself from food, but your words were a welcome reprieve to having to think about it himself.
He can tell Sydney notices, though. She has a wary look on her face, even now, that he’s talking a lot more about things that are not the restaurant or the food, or the money or drugs or general sense of despair that tends to be in the Beef.
It’s kind of Carmy’s own fault. It’s really crushing to know this, that the reason why people don’t respond well to your depression, is because you’re exhibiting symptoms of depression. You’re alone because you think you are, and it makes you alone. Carmy has thought about this a lot. A self fulfilling prophecy.
But after Sugar doing her best to talk some sense into him- him going to meetings, trying online therapy- he’s learned a lot. And he knows for a fact, he needs to talk more to people. Stop being all closed up all the time. Stop thinking about the chk-chk of the printer behind them, and the sizzle of whatever Tina is now cooking on the stove, stop thinking about how he’s a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to cook, stop thinking about how he should kill himself- it’s what Mikey did, and maybe the Berzattos are just inherently fucking useless, right?-, and stop trying to think about how he has to impress everyone. Mikey, Sugar, Richie, Sydney, Cicero- even you, and he doesn’t even know you.
He’s going to go insane if he doesn’t let it all out at some point.
That’s why Carmy has been so insistent on taking small steps. Being professional. Making good food first, and figuring it all out later.
He doesn’t want his own idiocy to make things worse for the Beef, but God, if he doesn’t feel better laughing with Sydney right now. Carmy needs to be honest. Talk more.
“You’re right about New York City. Honestly, way back when me and Pam were first starting out- we bought tickets to SNL.” She waves her hands in a gesture meant to imply how luxurious this event was, and Carmy nods, glad that Sydney hasn’t called him out for asking too many questions. He’s attempting to be slow and subtle about this whole socializing thing. “It was maybe the most out-of-character thing we did at that point-”
“But you don’t buy tickets to SNL, do you?” Carmy asks, and Sydney gives him a questioning glance. “Sorry. Used to watch old Bill Murray skits.”
“...You’re right. You don’t buy tickets to SNL.” She shrugs, looking halfway embarrassed, and Carmy wants to apologize, wants to say that he didn’t mean to call her out. “It’s a lottery process. You know about it?”
“I’m familiar.”
“Yeah. So Pam and I, being all crazy, decided to wait in the standby line. First come first serve final tickets for the show, where you have to line up for hours in front of the Rockefeller Plaza building.” Sydney really does look happier when she recounts this memory- and Carmy feels an uncharacteristic warmth, something he hasn’t thought in a long time- he enjoys hearing her story, enjoys being friendly more than he thought he would. “This girl really came prepared. Dehydrated and everything so she wouldn’t have to pee. We waited like five hours.”
“Jesus Christ.” Carmy supplies, helpfully so, as Sydney starts laughing.
“Yeah. But it wasn’t boring. Pam knows how to keep things entertaining and funny, so I don’t even remember that wait being particularly long.” Sydney leans in, and Carmy can tell she’s going to say something special. “Near the end of our wait, imagine my surprise when we see Tina Fey walking by. She’s an icon, so naturally, I am just… in awe. I don’t know what to say.”
Carmy nods, in total agreement. He’s sure he’d never know what to say to Tina Fey either.
“Pam just elbows me and says, ‘Holy shit, it’s Amy Poehler!’ and Tina looks right at us. Terrifying for a moment, until she starts laughing and asks if we like her in Parks and Rec.” Sydney genuinely smiles over the memory. “Pam has a pretty good wit.”
Carmy is laughing a little, but also smiling himself. “I can see that.”
He likes hearing Sydney tell her own big story about the two of you- she also shares a picture of the two of you sitting at the show- and he knows it’s because Sydney told it the same way Michael would. Riveting stuff.
Carmy thinks everyone might have at least one good story in them, and if that was Sydney’s? Then he really does wonder what you’re like in real life.
/
You’ve fallen asleep on your flight.
It’s weird- you’re having a strange dream about bears eating honey, Winnie the Pooh unrelated. Just a bear drizzling honey down it’s throat, maw gaping, as it seemed to desperately swallow this life-giving, nutrient dense food.
You have no idea what it means.
When you wake up, the flight attendant is passing around hot towels- a luxury you absolutely adore but could never have full time- and you check your watch. It’s just about to be 8:00 AM, which means you’re in Chicago. You’re landed on the pavement and everything.
You check your phone- Sydney has messaged you a few times on Instagram, knowing that you wouldn’t have cell service up in the air- and your dumb stories have been viewed by maybe two hundred people. Not bad.
You scroll through the recent viewers, seeing that the last person to have seen it was cbearzatto . You have no clue who that is, but the name sounds familiar. You're too groggy to remember.
You turn off airplane mode, and almost immediately, Sydney is calling you.
"Was your flight okay?” She asks with no hesitation when you pick up, and you yawn in response. “Ah, so it was boring.”
“Yeah. Not much happened. Other than dreams, I guess.” You stare up at the man next to you, his hands unbuckling his seatbelt as he aggressively tries to get you to exit your seat so he can leave. “I’m just getting my suitcase and exiting the flight, now.”
You say it not so much as to tell Syd what you’re doing, but to get the guy off your back. He’s clearly pissed off, his eyes glinting back at you and what you’re doing with impatience.
“So what’s up? How are you free enough to call me right now?” You check your watch, as you exit the plane and start walking through the long, cold gate. “Shouldn’t you be prepping?”
“Restaurant’s dead.” Sydney sighs loudly. “Carmy let me take a break. He’s being nicer today than usual.”
“Oh?” You pass by a large mural in the airport depicting Chicago’s culture and pride. “That’s nice. Maybe things are looking up now that I’m here.”
“Well, that’s one way to put it.” Sydney bites her lip. “He certainly liked hearing about that time we watched SNL live.”
“Oh my fucking god, Syd, the most cringey-”
“He actually laughed, though! I’ve never seen Carmy laugh.”
“But it’s just the dumbest, cringiest thing I could’ve ever said.” You groan. “I blame dehydration.”
“...Right.” Sydney obviously doesn’t believe that. “Anyways. If things stay dead, I’ll try to leave a bit earlier and see you around six?”
“I think that sounds fine.” You narrow your eyes at the security guard who’s reading through your passport with a little too much focus. “I just need to stop by the Beef to get the keys to your place.”
Sydney nods. “That’s chill. I’m fine with that. See you in a bit.”
She hangs up, and you’re left with the security guard telling you that he’s definitely heard your name before. Whatever that means. You’re not trying to be a famous person, so you just pretend like you don’t know what he’s talking about.
/
The taxi drive is uneventful. The guy driving doesn’t give one shit where you’ve come from, or who you are, he just wants to be paid by the end of it.
And that’s pretty much what you do.
After what must be a lifetime of commuting downtown, the last thing you want to do is reminisce about it. Taxis are a bad memory of having to party at bars after work, fellow New York Times writers and editors drinking and dancing the night away, as you did your best to network and have “fun” in the right way that looked sexy and promotion worthy, rather than too far and trashy. In the really upper professional spheres- there’s never a time to actually let loose. Everything is a ploy, a part of the game, an attempt to suck up and learn office politics.
You hate taxis.
Eventually, you find the Beef- actually the ORIGINAL Beef- and it’s kind of just tucked into the corner, where the taxi driver failed to drop you off. You’re lugging along your tiny suitcase and your backpack, and you’re just hoping to make an inconspicuous entrance in which you grab Sydney’s keys and give her a quick hello.
Instead, you come through the door, a pleasant jingle marking your presence, and you turn to see an older man. Greying, thinning hair, a scruffy beard, and a generally Italian posture.
“Hey… you must be Sydney’s girl.” He scratches his arm, and you’re left wondering who he might be. “Got a whole bunch of luggage, huh, sweetheart?”
“You must be Richie.” You snicker in reply, and then in good faith stick out your hand for him to shake. “Sydney’s told me about you.”
“Oh, yeah?” He leans in, and you smell some alcohol on his breath. “All good things, I hope?”
“Yeah… mostly that you’re somewhat Polish or something like that.” You answer truthfully, knowing this guy gives Syd a hard time, and Richie’s face blanches.
“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He considers, before letting you go. “Hey, Sydney! Your bitch ass lying non-Italian friend is here!”
Sydney comes out of the kitchen, rolling her eyes already, before seeing you and actually squealing as she launches herself into a hug with you.
“Hey!” You protest, being caught off guard as you drop your phone, but you decide to hug her back.
“Pam! God, am I relieved to see you.” She has a firm grasp around you, before finally letting go, still holding your arm in genuine warmth. “There’s been nothing happening this whole fucking day.”
“Really?” You motion to the general atmosphere of the place. “The kitschy diner aesthetic, the old school grimy feeling, the retro arcade stuff over there. I would’ve thought people would be lining up to be here.”
“Oi.” Richie points a finger at you. “Shut up, or you’ll start scaring our regulars.”
“Knock it off, Richie.” Sydney smiles exasperatedly. “Pam used to be a food columnist. It’s just in her blood to start… monologuing about atmosphere.”
“Please, I didn’t say it was a bad thing.” You shrug. “Just clearly very niche.”
You pick up your phone, while Sydney takes your luggage and rolls it to the locker area in the back. She’s letting you know that it’s easy to get stuff stolen out here- you ask even in a restaurant?- and she nods, unfortunately.
That means you have to follow her into the back, the kitchen area, the one place where a non-chef should not be- and Sydney calls out “That’s Pam, watch out for her, she’s just heading into the back with her stuff!”- and you’re left standing in front of an older Latina woman.
She doesn’t seem to want to let you go. She grabs your wrists, and you’re left staring into her eyes. She’s a bit shorter than you.
“You don’t look gay.” She says, and you’re so taken aback that you start laughing.
“Why would I be gay? And people don’t look gay, by the way.” You correct her with a snicker.
“Sydney never wants to go out with my son.” She shrugs and turns back to her cooking. “I thought you were a girlfriend-friend- you know you guys have all your fake code names.”
It’s a weirdly more open interpretation of your relationship, and it’s not judgemental, it’s just kinda assuming things that aren’t there.
“Syd and I are strictly platonic.” You clarify with a cheery smile, and the woman rolls her eyes but giggles about nicknames and romance and something in Spanish you don’t quite catch. You continue walking. You know now that must be Tina.
You get a hey from Marcus, who seems chill. You know he’s working on cakes- you immediately clue in onto a very interesting vanilla-rum mix to soak the cake in, and you commend him for the combination of bitter, sweet, and soft, airy cake. He gives you a nod and smile. Says he sees you.
It’s left you grinning. You’re ecstatic to be in a place where people seem to care a bit more. That food is at the forefront of the experience. Miles ahead of the swanky restaurants in NY and Moe’s.
Ebra is too busy to say hi properly, so he just shouts “Hi Pam!” when Sydney prods him, without turning around, and now you’ve made it to the lockers.
Sydney places your suitcase safely inside her own locker. “Want me to take your backpack?”
“Sure.” You take out your wallet, put in your pocket, and hand it to her. You remember there’s one person you haven’t met yet. “Where’s, uh, Carmy?”
Sydney makes an I-don’t-know gesture. “Probably in the office.”
“Should I say hi?”
“If you want to.” Sydney points in the general direction of the office.
As you turn, you bump into someone and drop your phone, again. This time with the cringe inducing sound of shattered glass.
“Fuck-”
“Fucking Jesus-”
You kneel down to pick it up, and you’re a bit too slow- a tattooed arm grabs it before you can, and you’re both getting up and standing and looking at each other.
“Sorry. I should’ve called corner.” You mutter sheepishly, and the guy in front of you is not answering.
/
Carmy was not expecting you to slam into him. Actually, he wasn’t expecting you to be in the back at all.
He’s dumb- he had it in his head that you’d be sitting out at a table, waiting for Sydney, and usually it’s just a huge no-no to have customers or friends lounging around in the back- but nothing is happening today.
He’s spent a good hour in his office going over finance documents that Richie refuses to look at. It’s all bullshit- Carmy doesn’t know that much about taxes or balance sheets- and he was going to take a smoke break, until, of course, he walked into you.
Carmy knows who you are. Was curious about what you looked like, even if Sydney showed him a half blurry picture from SNL. He definitely spent like -two minutes, in his defense- creeping on your instagram profile.
But he’s not prepared to say your name, because it somehow feels too personal, even though it’s your name, and God, he feels so dumb at this moment. This is why Carmy doesn’t venture outside of his little bubble of cooking. He’s not cool, he’s just a little dweeb who lost his older brother and has been suffering ever since because of it. He has no friends, no indication of a real social life, and that’s the first thing he thinks when he looks at you.
But Carmy notices that you’re not nearly as intimidating as he made you up to be in his head. For one thing, you’re not dressed like a NYC fashionista. You’ve got on large baggy jeans, a huge t-shirt adorning the Gorillaz, and your hair is very sloppily pulled back with a claw clip. You look very calm, inviting, almost- just a regular person, really.
Except, he leans forward, the early sunlight shining through the one window in the back- and it glints through your hair, all the flyaways that have clearly been straggled through as you slept on the flight, making a halo as they’re highlighted in the sun- and he thinks you’re far too good looking if you somehow look cute like this.
Carmy hates himself. It’s obviously the wrong thing to think- and he tries to remember you’ve just said.
“Hey. Sorry.” He comes in a little closer, just because you look unnerved and it’s coming to him that he should be comforting. “That’s alright. I should’ve called corner first.”
“But-”
“I work here.” Carmy interjects, and you fall silent, staring up at him. “You don’t.”
“But that’s just as good a reason for me to call corner.” You argue, and Carmy can tell you don’t take no for an answer very easily. “I’m not part of the crew here, so you weren’t expecting me, so I should’ve said something.”
“Yeah, but I’m head chef.” Carmy is a little stubborn sometimes, too. “So it’s not really your fault. Besides, you’re right, you shouldn’t be in here.”
It’s coming across a little more angry than he intends- he’s not mad, just wanting to follow rules- and you look up at him, staring with awfully observant eyes, sizing him up, the way he’s sure you have many times with food every time you wrote a piece.
Eventually, you smile a slightly knowing, maybe kind of mischievous smile, and Carmy feels something that could be described as being enamoured, if he was a wuss.
“ You’re right. Because then my phone wouldn’t be broken.” You turn it over in his palm, and the broken glass is just- entirely shattered, to a point where you think it won’t turn on. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s cool. I’m the one who should be sorry.” He doesn’t know what to say, so he just introduces himself. “I’m Carmy Berzatto.”
“Carmy, right. Syd’s told me- um- some cool things about you.” You have to stop yourself from mentioning that the best meal that she ever tried was by him, because you know he doesn’t know that. “I’m Pamela Palmer.”
“Alliterative, huh.” Carmy holds back the urge to say what he knows about you.
“Yeah.” You give him a sideways glance, just wondering why Syd had made this guy sound so painful. Of course, you don’t work for him, so you don’t know all the gritty details. But anyone who mentions alliteration has your heart. “That’s pretty cool. Most people just say I have the same initials.”
“Ah.” Carmy inadvertently clenches his hand on your phone, and then hisses when the sharp glass scrapes his finger. “Fucking hell. Your screen is totally fucked up.”
“Yeah. Not a great sign for the first day of a big change.” You sigh, and then reach for your phone, but Carmy holds it back.
“Chef- Carmy-” Sydney is still awkwardly standing in the back, watching the two of you either argue or talk, she can’t exactly decipher if it’s going devolve into an argument yet- and she has to push herself in. “Don’t you think you should fix that? Take it to a repair shop.”
“No, Syd, it’s fine.” You shrug, trying your best again to take your phone back, but the guy just won’t let go. “I’m sure I can find a repair shop.”
“I broke it.” Carmy isn’t a lot taller than you, but there is something intimidating about the way his eyes -a sharp blue- keep staring into yours, reaching into something you can’t quite articulate- and he puts your shattered phone in his apron’s pocket. “I’m fixing it.”
You raise your eyebrows, but he’s already turned, walking back into his office. His hand shakes for a moment as it closes the door.
Sydney sighs. “Told you. Carmy is really… particular about some things.”
/
Sydney does give you her house keys, but you’re kind of stuck staying here until you get your phone back.
So you’re just toying with them- sitting at the counter, sipping a root beer, as Richie makes conversation about good bars in Chicago, and wouldn’t you like to come with him, see what the city has to offer?- you have half a mind to tell him to shut up when Carmy and a larger man walk out of the back.
“Pam-” Carmy starts, and there’s a pleasant thrill inside you when you see he uses your nickname, without even having to be prodded about it. He’s most likely heard Sydney call you that, but nevertheless, you smile. “This is Fak. He’s kind of our, um-”
“Repairman. Everyman, really.” Fak reaches out his hand to shake yours. “This place would basically be doing complete shit without me, right, Carmy?”
“Right.” Carmy nods, not totally convinced by that. “Anyways. He’s fixed your screen.”
Fak holds out your phone, and you’re surprised to see it actually looks well done.
“Wow.” You tap the screen a few times, and your phone turns on- the screen is well attached, no weird adhesive or issues in sight. “That’s amazing. What do I owe you?”
Richie rolls his eyes. “You don’t owe that fat fuck anything. He’s always eating our shit, he’s basically been freeloading this whole fucking time.”
Carmy says “Cousin, stop-” the same time you say “yeah, shut up.” You both look at each other, mildly amused by the way it’s clear you’re on the same wave length.
“You don’t have to pay him.” Carmy agrees, and you tilt your head, feeling a little bit shocked.
“Really. Why not?” You cross your arms, and Carmy thinks he likes seeing this, hearing you speak in that argumentative tone. You’re somehow just what he imagined. “I broke my phone. There are probably shattered pieces of glass on the ground back there-”
“Infinitesimal ones, yeah-”
“Still a danger to food. I could sweep back there, but since I’m sure you won’t allow that, Chef-” You start gesturing at Fak, who looks at you in sheepish alarm, while Carmy feels something inside him both enjoy being called chef by you, and feel mortified at the prospect. “He did me a service, I should owe him.”
“Whaddya say, big boy?” Richie leans in real close, over the bar, to the point where his cheek is just barely grazing your own. You don’t move- you’re used to shitty power plays, and you just hold your ground and glare. “Why not let the pretty lady pay you?”
“Jesus fucking christ, cousin.” Carmy pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re more pathetic than a dog in heat right now. Get some standards.”
It’s fairly unprofessional, coming from Carmy of all people, and Richie wants to say it- say that he’s only being all tough man right now because you’re gorgeous, and Richie only thinks any reason why a man would stand up for a woman is because of that- but you burst out laughing and Carmy looks more enthused than he ever usually does.
“Dog in heat- God, I love that.” You hold your chest for a moment. “I wanna write that down. Sorry, writer habit.”
You pull up your phone -make a new note, write it down- and you look up to see a weird amount of tension. Richie is staring down Carmy, while Carmy is running his hands up and down his arms, staring back. Inviting something.
You have no idea what’s going on. Fak takes that as his cue to leave.
“Carmy only said that because you’re a writer or whatever and he spent all of yesterday reading your reviews-” Richie flinches when Carmy moves a little, and then continues. “And he’s actually a huge fucking dumbass in real life. Obviously spent all day coming up with that one.”
“Charming, Richie.” You sit back in your seat. “I don’t think I need to care that much about what you think.”
It’s hardly a big bomb of a sentence to say, but from the way Richie reacts, you would think you just called his mother a whore. He mutters something about New York and goes back to work on something- or smoke a few cigarettes, based on how quickly he leaves through the back door.
Carmy is absolutely embarrassed- you can tell from how he’s rapidly running his hands through his hair, and honestly? He’s worried now that you’ll have him correctly pegged a loser- but you just shake your head and offer a smile. An olive branch.
“So you’ve read Pamela Palmer’s overly advertised work on New York Times, huh?” You shrug. “I literally spent six years there and have like- maybe what, twenty or thirty mediocre reviews actually published to show for it?”
“Thirty-one, actually.” Carmy decides to just commit to the fact that he’d been a weirdo. “You have a collaborative one with-”
“Suzy Michaels, yeah.” You furrow your brows, twist your mouth into a frown. “That was more her place to shine, anyways.”
“You kidding?” Carmy leans on the counter, stares out to the back kitchen in case they hear him. “I don’t think your work was mediocre at all.”
He wants to say more- say a bigger compliment that he actually means- but he can’t seem to manage it. There’s already a lot that’s happened today, and Carmy doesn’t feel like he can work the words out.
But he looks up and sees genuine gratitude on your face- a real grin, and he likes what he’s said. Thinks it’s good enough.
“That means a lot coming from the winner of the…” You scrunch up your nose. “Fuck, I forgot what it was called. But it was pretty momentous when it happened, people in my office were talking about you being the youngest award winner and all.”
Carmy closes his eyes briefly, glad that he doesn’t have to chime in with what award he won, because it would be so fucking pretentious, and you’ve already basically called him one of the best. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. Where’d Fak go?” You sigh in disbelief. “It would’ve been better if I paid him, y’know? Would’ve been easier on my mind about this whole phone thing.”
“It was my fault.” Carmy says again, and he knows, you’re going to say you should’ve just stayed out in the front, and you know that he knows, so you just compromise.
“It was both our faults.”
“Heard.” He chimes in reply, and he half expects you to ask what that means, but you instead point a finger to him, as you raise your root beer to that. Carmy watches the liquid tip back into your throat, the bobbing and tension of your skin, until he remembers to look away.
Richie wasn’t kidding when he said you were a pretty lady.
“Here’s an idea.” You look towards him, and he stares- not quite at you, for some reason, but he’s there- “What if I get a sandwich? I’m kind of hungry, and I’m curious to know what the food is like here. Plus I kind of owe you.”
“Hm, okay.” Carmy points up to the menu. “Only because the restaurant is dead.”
“Deal.”
/
It doesn’t take very long for Sydney to come out with a plastic tray loaded with fries, a bowl of piping hot stew, and best of all, a sandwich. Crusty bread, soft, tender beef, and an ample serving of gravy.
You approach the dish with your hands- Sydney’s really eyeing you as you do, and you look up to see maybe everyone in the back crowded behind the door, watching you.
“You told everyone what I used to do, huh.” You eat a fry. It’s good, crunchy, light, not too starchy.
“Well it’s not everyday a former writer for the fucking New York Times walks in, Pam.” Sydney tries to motion, make everyone back there move, but Ebra and Tina and Marcus and Carmy and even Richie, they’re all stubborn.
“Whatever.” You do a little wave, and only Marcus waves back to you. “They should know I spent a bit being a shitty barista, too.”
You lean in to the sandwich, inhale, and then take a bite, and it’s honestly… really good. You chew for quite a while- it’s a beef sandwich, it’s expected- but the flavour is ridiculously in depth, where you can tell they’ve either marinated or smoked part of the beef for quite a while before cooking and shredding it, leaving it far more nuanced then a typical diner beef sandwich. You catch spices in there that wouldn’t typically be caught dead in an all American sandwich. The gravy, too, tastes really salty and heavy with fat- it’s good, again, because the beef is so lean. To top it all off- the bread is fresh and crusty, and it stands it’s own against being incredibly soggy.
As you chew, you know they’re all staring still, waiting for a response of some sort, but after years of testing out food and reviewing in public, you’ve mastered your facial responses. You have a great poker face.
You turn to Sydney.
“Yes?” She leans in.
“Damn.” You cross your arms, repeat everything you’ve just thought. “It’s almost perfect.”
“Almost?”
“Well, it could use a vegetable or something other than lettuce to cut through some of the sodium content, but I know that’s not this kind of dish.” You clarify. “So I guess for all intents and purposes- it’s perfect.”
“No remarks about the atmosphere, the plating?”
“You want this to become a two out of five rating?”
“Heard.” Sydney nods, and heads to the back to tell everyone.
/
After finishing your food- many comments from Richie about how he knew you weren’t too stuck up for their sandwiches, and Sydney telling him to fuck off, while Carmy admits that their menu could use some work, but they do try on some things- you’re ready to go home.
It’s only about 2:00 PM, though, which means it’s too early for Sydney to leave. So you bid her goodbye and decide to head back to her place, where you can drop off your stuff, greet her ailing father, and just chill out a bit.
You lie down on the couch there, just taking a moment to breathe in. Everything today had been so fun, you’d die for a chance to just be in the food industry in a notable way again. Not cooking, no, but just… writing.
What does it matter if no one cares about who you are? You know what most publishers and editors say. You’re not a name people care about yet. You’re no Suzy Michaels, who now has a memoir to her name, and you’re not gritty enough to work at becoming her anymore.
You’re practically no one at all.
You swallow, feeling an overwhelming urge to cry, and then pull up your phone again. Just as a little distraction.
You remember cbearzatto was the last person to look at your story, and you put one and one together almost instantly.
“Ah, no shit.” You press on his profile, and sure enough, it’s basically empty. No profile pic, the bio reading “chef”, and no posted pictures either. You click on his tagged pictures, and there’s just one.
From a few years ago, someone’s tagged Carmy in a picture where he’s wearing a proper chef’s outfit. Good coat and name written and everything, and from what you can make of the background, it’s a fairly swanky restaurant, too. He must’ve used to work there.
You wonder if Carmy is a little like you in that way. Maybe he too wanted to return somewhere closer to his roots, closer to what he actually wanted to do. Or maybe you’re just projecting a whole lot.
But you realize if someone like him, if people like Sydney and Tina and Marcus and Carmy can appreciate you, then maybe you’re not so worthless. Maybe you’re just waiting for your chance to shine.
/
Carmy ends up letting Sydney leave early, just as she had predicted. Around 5:30.
It’s not that he wants to, but he can’t exactly afford having everyone on staff if no one’s coming in to buy shit. Other than you.
He’s way in over his head. The Beef isn’t doing so hot, and Richie and Sugar are constantly coming at him in different ways, he’s barely sleeping and scared to be near anything that could expose his grief, not to mention all the money that’s owed to Cicero- Carmy literally feels insane sometimes. He’s drowning in issues.
His phone dings, next to all the papers and things that Carmy is trying to decipher. He’s expecting another text from Sugar.
Instagram: pampalm started following you.
He runs his hands through his hair, checks his phone again. And sure enough, the notification is still there.
Carmy doesn’t even really use social media, he has like a whopping ten followers at any given moment, and he’s just bad at it in general. Figures that someone with barely any friends would be struggling there on the internet too.
But this makes him actually smile a little, because for once, he feels wanted in a way that’s not because of food or family, because of ties that he has no choice but to bear. You chose to follow him, and he follows you back.
He’s glad he peeked at your story.