Next: A Love Story

You have made me laugh since our first encounter.  You are kind.  You are attentive.  You teach me things – guiding me through new experiences, patient with my questions.  We’ve traveled the world together - Paris in the spring, Sicily in late summer, Thailand in early fall.  And if I could only see you more than three times a year – outside of my prescheduled dinners at Next Restaurant – I think we could really make this work.

You’re a complicated man, and perhaps that is part of your appeal.  You’re playing an especially difficult game of hard-to-get.  If you were the average industry man I might sit at the bar, casually sipping my wine and making flirtatious eye contact when you passed by. But no, you make a girl work for it.  I must literally buy a ticket to see you.

And so, every few months, you welcome me in, leaning in to whisper your delicious poetry.

“On the spoon you’ll find Chef Achatz’s black truffle explosion,” you murmer during Next: Trio.  “Take it in one bite.”  

What warm-blooded, gluten-eating woman could resist such sweet nothings?  I feel my heartstrings tighten like the crank of a duck press.

Am I crazy to think you may feel the same way?  Did I imagine the way your face lit up – just for a moment – when you saw me enter the dining room during Modern Chinese?  That you filled my wine glass more frequently at Bocuse d’Or - could it be that you were trying to get me drunk?

But how could I ever express my love in this context?  Perhaps I missed my chance years ago – when I could have slipped you a note during the Childhood menu: “Do you want to be my boyfriend?  Circle one: YES or NO.”

And even if you do feel the same, is any of this worth the risk? What if things don’t work out?  I remove my brut rosé-colored glasses and you’re not so perfect after all.  I’ll complain that you’re working too much, we never spend time together.  You’ll accuse me of flirting with the cute bartender at Green Street Smoked Meats, and you’ll be right.  And then, following the inevitable, wine-facilitated break-up, we’ll painfully divide up our belongings.  And who gets Next?  It may be your livelihood, but I’m a season ticket holder.  Okay, right, you can keep Next.  But I’m not conceding the West Loop – or even Fulton Market for that matter.

Alas, it’s not worth the pain and loss.  And so, I must continue to admire you from afar - until we meet again in Paris (Bistro menu).