Cook the Books (5 page)

“Anyhow,” Ellie said, “the chef that Digger beat out for the job is totally pissed off, as you can imagine. I do have to take some credit, though, for my guy snagging this job. All the big-name chefs like Hank Boucher have managers, right? So I took it upon myself to act as Digger’s manager and agent. It puts him in a more powerful light if I call up and schedule his interviews. I’ve been helping him direct his career and position himself to become a major player in the Boston chef circle.”

Ellie sounded more than a little proud of herself. I, however, found her role ridiculous. Yes, nationally known chefs had managers and agents, but those celebrity chefs actually needed people to organize their schedules, make travel arrangements, set up interviews and television appearances, and do general PR. Digger, on the other hand, simply did not need a manager! He was a great chef, but he was by no means a household name. Furthermore, he was the last person on earth who’d enjoy being managed by anyone. He was loud, crass, direct, and confident, and as much as he might have wanted to get a great job, he didn’t strike me as ambitious for the kind of fame and fortune that Ellie seemed to have in mind. He just loved being a chef and didn’t need the spotlight on him to keep loving his work. I couldn’t believe that he liked having his girlfriend take over his career.

“That all sounds great,” I lied. “What type of food is he planning on doing at the Penthouse?”

“He’s still working on the menu and trying out recipes, but he should have that all finalized soon. I have an idea. Why don’t you bring this cookbook guy, Kyle, to meet with Digger and sample some of the dishes he’s working on?”

“That would be wonderful. I’d love to see him again, too. Where is the restaurant?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, it’s not ready. They’re still installing the new equipment and painting. Digger has been doing everything here, from his apartment. I’d let him use mine, but my kitchen is even smaller than his, so you two would have to come here.”

I was disappointed that I couldn’t take Kyle to a more impressive setting than Digger’s home kitchen for our first collaboration. Young chefs like Digger, even at high- end restaurants, earned low salaries; they made far less than the servers did. He probably lived in a cheap apartment. His kitchen was sure to be old, small, and ugly, but it would have to do. Besides, I knew that his food would speak for itself no matter where we were, and Hank would never have to know that his son had sampled Digger’s food in a crummy apartment rather than in a luxurious dining establishment. Once the Penthouse opened, Kyle and I could go there for the full experience.

“That sounds fine. Do you know when he’ll be free?” I asked. Ellie was, after all, Digger’s manager, or so she said. Maybe she was entitled to pencil us in.

“I’m sure that Digger will want to talk to you himself since you’re a friend. But let me give you all of my contact information so you’ll have it for later.” Ellie began reeling off cell and fax numbers, e-mail addresses, and the best hours to reach her. “And now let me get your number and address so that I make sure you get an invitation to opening night.”

As I dutifully dictated my information, I wondered whether the Penthouse’s owner knew that Ellie was taking it upon herself to invite people to the restaurant’s big night. “Thanks so much for your help,” I said. “It was nice to talk to you. And I hope I’ll meet you soon.”

“Of course. I’ll see if I’m free to be there when Digger cooks for you and Kyle. It’ll be like a double date!”

“Kyle is—” I was on the verge of explaining that Kyle and I had a strictly professional relationship but then thought better of it. What did I care if Digger and Ellie thought that we were dating? And if word got back to Josh that I was seeing someone, then fine! Let him stew on that one. “Sounds great.”

“I’ll page Digger right now and have him get in touch with you. Bye, Chloe.”

I hung up the phone. It was obvious that Ellie was enthusiastic about Digger and his career, but she sounded like a strange match for Digger, too bubbly and positive for the sarcastic, pessimistic, tough chef. But what did I know about love?

I was foraging in the fridge for the makings of dinner when the phone rang.

“Chloe!” Digger shouted at me. “What’s up, babe?”

“That was fast,” I said with a laugh.

“Yeah, my girl has me on a short leash. She just called me and instructed me to call you immediately. She says you have a PR opportunity for me, and I’d better get my ass in gear and get ahold of you.” Metallic noises echoed through the phone so loudly that I had to pull the receiver away from my ear.

“Where are you? What is that racket?” I asked.

“Sorry. I’m at the restaurant tonight, and they’re trying to get the new stoves in here. It’s a goddamn nightmare. Christ, this sucks. Hold on. I have to stop these guys.” Digger began yelling and cursing in his usual colorful manner and ended with, “How do you jackasses think you’re going to move that stove in when you haven’t taken the other one out yet? Evolution in reverse, right here, huh? Sorry, Chloe. So what’s up?”

I quickly described Kyle’s project. “So, do you think we could meet up with you to taste some recipes? Maybe do a short interview?”

“Did you even turn the frickin’ gas off, you morons?” Digger screamed. “Chloe, I don’t know. I’m mobbed here these days.”

“Please? It’s Hank Boucher’s book, after all. How could you not want to be in that?”

The chef said something that I couldn’t hear because of the banging in the background, but I did catch him saying, “How about Saturday morning? Ten o’clock at my place.”

“Awesome. Thanks so much. It’ll be good to see you.”

I scrawled down the address he gave me. Just before I hung up, Digger let loose a stream of four- letter words. I smiled. I missed that guy. As crass as he could be, he had a wonderful heart and a gooey soft spot that I adored. I’d last seen Digger in August, when Josh and I had gone out to dinner at a Brookline restaurant, but I could tell that Digger hadn’t changed.

There was Josh, creeping into my thoughts again. Instead of distracting myself with dinner, schoolwork, or television, I went into the bedroom and pulled a thick scrapbook from a shelf. I crawled onto the bed and lost myself in the pages. I’d been putting the scrapbook together to give to Josh as an anniversary present. I’d saved cards he’d given me, movie ticket stubs, takeout menus from our favorite places, pictures of the two of us, and lots of other memorabilia. The pages went on and on. Well, I rationalized, I was doing well most of the time, wasn’t I? Yes. So I was entitled to a night of misery here and there. I ran my finger over a picture of my chef. I missed that gorgeous face. I missed everything about him. Even so, I had blocked his e-mails and had changed my cell number after he’d kept leaving me messages. I didn’t want to read his words or hear his voice. I couldn’t. Why? Because as furious and confused as I was by his abrupt departure for Hawaii, I still loved him. Crap. I threw the book onto the floor and covered my eyes with my hands. I inhaled and exhaled deeply a few times, willing myself not to fall apart.

I sat up and shook my head. I had work to do! I took my laptop and Kyle’s folder off the desk in my bedroom and carried everything to the living room, where I sat on the floor and spread the mess of notes on the coffee table. I spent an hour categorizing the papers: recipes for appetizers, soups, salads, poultry, meat, seafood, and dessert. Kyle had a number of lists, all full of ideas for chefs to contact, restaurants to look into, questions to ask chefs for biographies and interviews. He included suggestions for where pictures of the chefs could be taken and noted that the chef from Triba had a very attractive wife. Maybe they could be photographed together? I rolled my eyes. It took me over an hour to make a dent in the disastrous heap. Kyle wasn’t kidding when he’d said that he needed help! I typed up six recipes, saved the file, and shut down the computer.

I decided to give Kyle a quick call to let him know we could meet up with Digger.

“Hello, Kyle? This is Chloe.”

“Ah, Ms. Carter. This is Hank Boucher, here. My son said you might be calling.”

Oh my God! I was talking to
the
Hank Boucher. I’d seen this man countless times on TV and in print, but actually to be talking to him right now? How cool! I’d have bet anything that he was about to invite me out to a fabulously expensive restaurant, too. L’espalier, maybe? I’d kill to go there.

“Mr. Boucher! Oh . . . it’s an honor,” I stammered foolishly.

“I understand you’re my son’s typist, correct? Have you finished?” he asked sternly.

Typist? I was more than a typist! Famous chef or not, Hank was not going to refer to me as a typist. “Actually,” I said with annoyance, “I am assisting Kyle with the research angle of the book.”

“Sure, sure. Sorry. What is that secretaries want to be called these days? How about
administrative assistant
? Is that better for you, dear?”

Oh, I got it: Hank Boucher was an asshole. The realization was more than a little disappointing.

I cleared my throat. “I’ve been able to arrange a meeting with one of the chefs from Simmer, Digger. He’s about to open a very upscale restaurant called the Penthouse. He’s agreed to share some of his recipes for the book, and we can sample some of the dishes that he’s trying out for the new restaurant. Will you be joining us? Saturday morning at ten.”

“Certainly. Where is this restaurant located?”

“Actually, we’re meeting at the chef’s apartment, because the restaurant is in the middle of construction right now.”

“An apartment?” Hank made no attempt to hide his disdain. “Lord, where is this place?”

Hank Boucher and I were destined not to be the best of friends. I gave him Digger’s address, which was in Somerville. I was beginning to hope that Digger’s apartment was as tiny and shabby as I’d been assuming. Let Hank Boucher see how most chefs lived! Kyle would probably freak out when he learned that he was to take his father to a less- than-four-star location, but tough for him. For me, Saturday’s gathering would be interesting. I looked forward to seeing how the celebrity chef would handle himself in the kind of home kitchen that a working chef could afford. Still, I cautioned myself to be pleasant. Hank Boucher’s name was, after all, what would be selling the cookbook.

“It will be wonderful to meet you, Mr. Boucher. I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time and—”

“Chloe? Hi, it’s me.” Hank had obviously passed me off to Kyle. “What’s going on?”

When I’d filled him in, he agreed that we’d all meet at Digger’s place at ten. “Good job. I really appreciate your hard work. I can’t wait to see you again.”

I said good-bye. So Kyle couldn’t wait to see me again, huh? In that case, I’d have to spend some time choosing my outfit for Saturday morning.

I
watched the steam float off of my head as I flat-ironed my hair. I was not going to let Kyle see me with frizzy hair, that was for sure! And it wouldn’t hurt to have Digger see me looking polished, glamorous, and stable, either. Digger was undoubtedly in touch with Josh, and I wanted him to report to my ex that I was looking fabulous. In truth, I half wanted to throw on jeans and a sweatshirt and toss my hair in a ponytail, but I knew that it was good for me to have a reason to get up early and pull myself together this Saturday morning. I chose a stretchy button-down patterned shirt that I’d bought on sale at Ann Taylor Loft. I paired it with form-fitting black pants and tall black boots. Checking myself out in the full-length mirror, I was pleased to see that the pants were much more flattering than they’d been when my chef was feeding me all the time. Hah! Take that, Josh!

I left the house at nine and drove to Somerville. I’d realized the previous night that, as much as I wanted Hank Boucher to see how real chefs lived, I also didn’t want him walking into a truly revolting apartment. Because chefs were rarely at home, there was an excellent chance that Digger’s place desperately needed a good cleaning. His kitchen would be sanitary, but it might well be as messy as it was sterile. Granted, Digger’s girlfriend, Ellie, could have taken over civilizing his apartment the way she’d taken over promoting his career, but I didn’t want to risk it. Crummy equipment and small spaces were one thing, but a chaotic, neglected apartment would reflect badly on me, and I didn’t want to give Hank any reason to fire me. Consequently, in case I needed to tidy Digger’s apartment before Hank and Kyle Boucher arrived, I intended to get there early.

I checked my Google Maps printout as I scanned side roads for the turn to Digger’s. Spotting the sign, I made a left onto a long street filled with three-decker apartment buildings, but before I was anywhere near Digger’s address, I was forced to stop. Peering around a big van in front of me, I could see that, beginning a few blocks up, the street had been totally blocked off. Who did street work on a Saturday morning? And where were the detour signs? How annoying! And was it really necessary to stop all traffic? Lights flashed down the street, and a few cars had stopped close to some sort of barricade. Even without this mess, it would’ve been hard enough to park around here with three-deckers smack-dab one right after another, each jammed with tenants. I growled and pulled my car to the right, into a minuscule parking place, a permit-only spot for residents, but what choice did I have? I’d get a visitor permit from Digger, or I’d take the ticket. Didn’t the Somerville parking honchos know that I had important work to do? Men to impress? Baby-supply bills to pay off? I got out of the car, slammed the door, swung my tote bag over my shoulder, and hit the lock button on my remote.

Then the smell hit me. Smoke.

I whipped my head toward the stopped cars ahead of me and scanned the area. The flashing lights weren’t coming from construction vehicles but from a fire engine. I rushed along the sidewalk until I reached what turned out to be a police barricade, where a number of people were milling around, murmuring and shaking their heads. Across the street from where I stood were the remains of a three-decker, the outside charred black, the windows smashed in, the ugly shell drenched in water. The horrendous stench of wet, charred wood filled the air. Foul, filthy water lay in puddles in the street. I clapped my hand over my nose and looked down at the scrap of paper in my hand, the one with Digger’s address. His house was number 432. I glanced up. To the left of the ruined building was number 430. I scrambled ahead a few steps and looked at the building to the right of the burned-out three-decker: 434.