Chapter Text
june 5th, 2018
THE Windy City. A city full of culinary gems, and a constant churn of new flavours to chase.
I'm Sasha Korrigan. British social media influencer, amateur chef, certified foodie and dedicated bullshitter to thousands of followers. On Instagram, I'm @Sasha_SauceBoss. I've been documenting my 'food journey' for almost a year, and have created a safe space for myself and my followers.
It's also where I run away from my life. Specifically, I'm running away from Ethan.
Ethan's only personality trait was owning two Labradors and he had a crippling fear of anything spicier than black pepper. I'm serious, it was like... a proper fear. We were meant to be married three days ago. I was meant to walk down the sodding aisle of a seventeenth-century chapel.
I never made it to the fucking aisle.
I'd been standing in the hotel foyer, staring at a giant ice sculpture of two entwined swans, which were a symbol of eternal love apparently, when I realised I would rather be trapped in a lift with a dozen angry wasps than spend the rest of my life with the most fucking boring man in existence. So I took the honeymoon fund, leaving behind a custom-made wedding dress, a four-figure seating plan, and was on the first flight out of dodge fifteen hours later.
The further I got from that terribly beige wedding, the more the metallic tang of freedom coated my tongue. I landed in the Windy City, found a shitty flat above a laundromat in Logan Square. It's perfect. Nobody here gives a fuck about my follower count, or knows my fucked up family. And so every day, for the past three days, I have dragged myself out of said tiny, overpriced flat, camera and phone in hand, and documented my escape.
Instagram knew nothing of the dress, the RSVP list, or the first available flight out of Heathrow. They just saw the aesthetically pleasing shots of bao buns and artisan coffee with quick-witted captions. My followers, bless their cotton socks, ate it up.
Sasha, you're living the dream!
So brave to explore!
The real problem, beyond the existential dread and the dwindling savings, was the lack of purpose. Eating your way through a city is fun, for a bit. But I needed a job. Something that would justify my goddamn existence outside of pictures of loaded fries. And, I was desperately short on cash. My amateur chef status, bolstered by a handful of online courses and a well-curated social media feed, wasn't exactly opening doors to Michelin-starred establishments.
I'd applied to a dozen places including a patisserie down in West Loop, a gastropub in River North, even a smoothie bar, for fuck's sake. No luck. My CV was a patchwork of social media management and what I optimistically like to call recipe development and it clearly wasn't cutting it in a city that took its food very, very seriously. I even got politely rejected by a quaint little bakery for the third time today, and I found myself wandering through a less-than-picturesque side street and I had to stop myself from punching a whole through one of the many boarded up shop windows.
My phone, low on battery, buzzed with a notification: New follower, EthanJonesOfficial. He was probably trying to reach out, to understand. As if there was anything to understand beyond 'I don't want to marry you, fuckface.'
Blocked.
And breathe.
The scent of something rich and savory hit me. That's when I saw it. A fluorescent sign, half-flickering.
THE ORIGINAL BEEF OF CHICAGOLAND.
"The Best Damn Italian Beef."
It looked and sounded like a war zone. The sign was faded, the windows were fogged up with condensation and grime, and the noise escaping the place sounded like a combination of shouting, arguing and clanging of metal. Honestly, the place looked like a grease fire waiting to happen.
"Come on, Sasha," I muttered, to myself. "You ran away from a fuckin' wedding, a little hot beef isn't gonna kill you."
Pushing open the heavy door, I was met with a blast of heat and a cacophony of sounds. The sizzle of meat, the guttural roar of orders being shouted in what sounded like fluent Chicago-Italian. The air was thick with the aroma I'd smelled outside, amplified tenfold. It was everything my online world wasn't. Real. Raw. And loud as fuck.
The front of the house was a long, gleaming stainless steel counter, Behind it, a whirlwind of activity. Men handled platters of thinly sliced beef, steaming hot wells, ladled gravy, and assembled sandwiches with lightning speed. It was somewhat seductive, watching the way their hands moved with such efficiency. Hell, I was starting to wonder what else they were good for.
Yeah, I have a thing for hands, what's the big fucking deal?
The place was packed with screaming patrons. People crammed into the narrow space, moving too fast, shouting their orders into the void. I hovered near the entrance, feeling ridiculously out of place. I checked my reflection on my phone screen, smoothing down my hair out of habit. Stop it, Sasha, I chided myself. You're not trying to impress anyone here. You're just here to eat.
"Next!" a gruff voice bellowed, slicing through the din. A man with a stained The Beef t-shirt slammed a tray of ginormous sandwiches onto the counter, while muttering into a phone that looked like it had been run over by multiple trucks. He was buzzed, blue-eyed, and looked like he hated every second of his life. The recipient of the food seemed to effortlessly navigate the crowded space, grabbing her order and vanished into the throng.
"What do you want?" he snapped into the phone, then glared at me, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
Okay. No gentle greetings here.
"Yes, hello," I began, my throat suddenly dry. "I'll just have the Italian Beef, please." I was hoping that might politeness would shame him into being civil. It... did not work.
He hung up the phone with a loud clatter and pointed a finger at me. "We got beef, we got juice, we got people who wanna eat it. We don't got time for your little YouTubes." He gestured dismissively toward the small camera I'd hung around my neck. "You want it wet or dry, sweetheart?"
"Wet or dry?" I repeated, blinking.
"Yeah, wet or dry," he repeated, his tone laced with an exasperated impatience. "You want gravy on it? Or nah?"
"Dipped, please," I bristled, "If you can manage that without having a fucking stroke."
"Dipped. Dipped. Oh, she wants it Dipped. Look at this lady, she's ordering it correctly," he announced to the blank wall, rolling his eyes.
"My name is Sasha," I said tightly. "And if you've got a problem with people enjoying your food, perhaps you should work somewhere that doesn't fucking involve customer interaction."
"And if you've got a problem with a little straight talk, maybe you should go back to eatin' your fancy cucumber sandwiches and leave the real food to the men," he shot back, wiping his greasy hands on his equally greasy t-shirt.
This was exactly why I ran away from Ethan. I was tired of being told to be smaller, quieter, and more palatable.
I opened my mouth, ready to unleash a deep critique of his shitty customer service skills and his overall life choices, when a new voice cut through the clamour.
"Cousin! Ease up on the clientele, man. We need these people to feed the machine!"
"She's holdin' up the fucking line!" He yelled back before focusing back on me, scribbling something down on a piece of paper and shoving it towards me. "You want it dipped, you can have it dipped. You want peppers, you can have peppers. You want to stand here all day askin' stupid fucking questions, you can do that too. Next!"
Huffing out a small sigh, I snatched up the piece of paper and shuffled to the next station. As I waited, mesmerised by the blur of motion, my eyes landed on a crumpled Help Wanted sign taped carelessly to a back wall next to a WE LOVE JESUS sticker.
'Experience Preferred. Must be willing to work.'
If they call shitty customer service working, then they were doing a phenomenal job.
A man stepped out from the back, wiping flour on a blue The Beef t-shirt. Tanned skin, thick, wavy black hair. Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes, which were the color of dark, rich coffee. I couldn't help but raise a brow.
"Ignore him. He's got a stick up his ass most days," the new man said, gliding around the counter to stand between me and the scowling man prepping my order. "Michael. I run this circus."
"Sasha," I managed, feeling the heat rise on my cheeks.
Michael grinned. "Sasha. That's a good name. What is that, Scottish? Irish?"
"English, mostly." I shrugged.
"Wow. We get those from time to time." He leaned against the counter, his gaze steady and curious before giving the man a pointed look. "She ordered a Dipped, Richie. Let's make it a good one, yeah? Extra jus."
"I'm fuckin' doing it, man." The man, whose name I learned was Richie, grumbled and went back to his work. He expertly sliced a thick slab of roasted beef, piled it onto a soft bread roll, and then dunked the entire creation into a steaming vat of rich, brown liquid. A vibrant mix of peppers and spices was spooned on with a generous hand.
Michael laughed, focusing his attention back on me. "He's just mad because his wife is pregnant and she has all of these god damn fuckin' cravings and demands and shit and it's driving him insane."
I couldn't help the small laugh that escaped. "That sounds deeply personal."
"Everythin' in here is deeply personal," Michael shrugged, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I saw the camera. You doing a review?"
"I cook a bit, but mostly I just document food. I'm a food blogger. Trying to find inspiration, really." I admitted.
He let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned. We got ourselves a real influencer. Welcome to The Beef, Sasha, from England." He rested his elbows on the counter, surveying me for a moment. "You just travel, eat, and film?"
"More or less," I said, trying to steady my hands as I waited for my sandwich. "It's work. Long hours, planning routes, editing until three in the morning. But yeah, mostly eating. I take photos too. Filming mostly, but I like the occasional Polaroid."
"Must be nice," he said with a nod as if he'd heard it all before.
"It is. " I conceded. "When I'm not thinkin' about terrible life decisions."
"Yeah. I get that. Lotta people runnin' from something," he said softly, "What'd he do? Cheat?"
I blinked.
How did he know it was about a man?
Fuck, I needed to work on my poker face.
I hesitated and shook my head, my face contouring uncomfortably. "A wedding. It was hideous, and the fiancé was boring."
"Boring," Michael drawled, a slow, approving smile spreading across his face. "Boring is the worst. We don't do boring here, Sash. You see this place? It's all chaos, all the time. But it's honest." He tapped the counter twice. "Stick with honesty."
"WHAT THE FUCK?" a woman's voice shrieked. "YOU TRYNA KILL SOMEONE?!"
Shouting. More clattering.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Michael looked at the chaos erupting behind him, and then back at me. "Like I said, not boring."
Richie slammed my sandwich down on the counter, wrapped tight in paper. The grease bled through instantly. "That'll be eleven forty-five. And a tip would be nice, seeing as I haven't punched anyone today."
"I was going to tip anyway, prick." I muttered, quickly fishing out a twenty.
Michael chuckled, taking the money and handing me the change before Richie could even grumble another comment while he scowled and walked into the back."Eat it over the paper, get the juice everywhere. That's the photo."
I stepped away from the counter and unwrapped the sandwich. The bread was soaked through with the rich jus, the beef was piled high, the gravy cascaded down the sides. It was messy, irresponsible eating, and I was going to love every second of it.
Michael watched me as I carefully lifted it, trying to avoid a full-on gravy avalanche. "You gotta commit to it, Sasha. Don't be shy."
I took a bite.
It was... glorious.
The beef was flavorful, swimming in a rich, savory gravy. The bread was soft but held its own. The giardiniera provided a sharp, spicy kick that cut through the richness and made my eyes water.
I let out a surprised groan. "Oh my god," I breathed, my mouth full. "This is incredible."
Michael grinned, "See? Told ya. Honest food for honest souls. Best damn Italian beef in the city. Maybe the world."
As I ate, a different male voice from the back of the shop barked, "YO MICHAEL! Get your little white ass out here!"
Michael sighed, but there was no real annoyance in it. "Duty calls. But it was a real pleasure meeting you. Come back anytime, yeah? You need a place to decompress, to figure things out, you're welcome here. We got plenty of gravy to go around."
"Thank you," I said, my voice choked with emotion I hadn't expected. "That's incredibly kind."
He just shrugged, "It's what we do. We feed people. And sometimes, we feed their souls a little too." He gestured to my half-eaten sandwich.
I laughed. "It might be the best thing I've my soul has ever eaten."
Michael's smile widened. "Now you're talkin'. Welcome to Chicago. May your beef be wet and your heart be healed." He gave me another of those dazzling smiles and disappeared through a swinging door.
I quickly set up my mini-tripod, trying to capture the chaotic energy of the place without getting steam on the lens, making appreciative noises, capturing clips for my Instagram stories. I'm surprised no one around me thought I was making some sort of kinky Porn video with the kind of sounds that came out of my mouth. As I devoured my sandwich, a plate clattered from a shelf in the back kitchen. A shriek, followed by a string of expletives.
I finished my sandwich, crumpling my wrapping and tossing it in the bin. Leaving the warmth of The Original Beef and stepping back into the biting wind, I felt a strange mix of emotions. I pulled out my phone, tapping out a quick caption and selecting a photo of the dripping-with-gravy masterpiece.
Sasha_SauceBoss: First taste of Chicago and... wow. Found a hidden gem, @TheOriginalBeef. This Italian Beef is something else. #ChicagoFood #RunawayBride #TheBeef #AuthenticAF #NewBeginnings