Cook the Books (8 page)

“Thanks.” Kyle couldn’t keep his eyes off the baby. A good sign! The man loved children and probably wanted a family of his own.

“Here, why don’t you hold Patrick for a minute, and I’ll put the material on my desk.” I rose from the couch and passed the baby to Kyle. “Just keep him close to your body. He likes being held tightly.”

I helped position the baby in the crook of Kyle’s arm. Cooing and sighing, the easygoing Patrick nestled right in. Reluctantly, I approached the box that my employer had set down.
Ugh.
I had just started to make progress on the first, much smaller, batch of notes Kyle had given me, and now I had this new mess to tackle. How on earth could Kyle imagine that randomly tossing papers into a big box was any way to approach writing? What if I handled my graduate school work like this? What if spent the semester haphazardly flinging notes into a box? Well, maybe Kyle was overzealous in his research and too busy to impose any coherent order on all of his findings. I carried the box to the bedroom and set it on a chair. Hours and hours of deciphering and typing lay ahead of me, but I would, of course, be paid for my time.

I heard the unofficial back door to the apartment open, the door at the top of the wooden fire escape that everyone in the building used as an outside staircase. Then I heard Adrianna’s voice: “Oh, hi, Kyle.”

When I stepped into the living room, Adrianna looked at me quizzically, as if she wanted to ask what Kyle was doing in my apartment holding her baby.

“Hi, Ade.” I smiled at her. Her hair was now gloriously tinted in various shades of blonde that lit up her whole face, and her rose-colored tweed coat brought out the pink in her cheeks. After a few hours away from her baby, she looked as refreshed as if she’d had ten straight hours of sleep followed by a day at a spa. “Kyle and I are going to dinner at Incline,” I told her. “Part of our cookbook research.”

Adrianna’s eyes widened. “That place is supposed to be fabulous.” She reached for Patrick. “Kyle, you’re a natural with kids. Patrick tends to fuss when people he doesn’t know hold him, but he really seems taken with you.”

“The feeling is mutual. He’s absolutely adorable.” Kyle beamed at the two. “I love kids. I hope to have my own someday.”

Ade winked at me, none too subtly. “Well, I should get home. Owen should be back soon. He’s grilling burgers again, if you can believe it. I’m probably going to start mooing any day now.”

“Why don’t you come to dinner with us? You can bring Patrick,” Kyle offered.

“Thanks, but I’m beat. Patrick has taken to nocturnal living. He was up most of last night, which means I was up most of last night. Owen insists that he gets up every time Patrick does, but what he really means is that he is
disturbed
every time the baby cries. I’m the one who actually gets up and has to stay awake feeding him.” She rolled her eyes, but she smiled as she tossed her blonde mane to the side. “Enjoy your meal. I expect a detailed report on how delicious everything is. Thanks so much, Chloe. I feel like a new woman after getting my hair done. And Kyle, it was really nice to see you again.”

Kyle nodded at Ade. “You, too. You’ll have to come out another night with us. We’ll have more restaurants to try out. I’d love your input.”

I hugged Ade and Patrick good-bye and promised to call her tomorrow with a rundown of tonight’s food.

By the time we were seated at Incline, I was ravenous. Taking care of Patrick wasn’t a hardship, but it did require a lot of energy and left little time to snack. The stress of the horrible morning had depleted me, too. I scooted my chair close to the table and checked out Kyle. He really was very good looking, especially in the light of the candle at our table. I loved his rough stubble and the golden streaks in his hair. Did Kyle think that I, too, looked good by candle-light? I’d changed into my carefully chosen outfit, spritzed on some perfume, and touched up my lipstick before we’d left. Even though this was a business dinner, we could still get swept away by the romantic atmosphere. The walls in the long, narrow restaurant had been painted chocolate brown, and the dark room was just as cozy as I remembered.

I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned in a bit. “So your father has left Boston already? Where is he off to now?”

Kyle sighed and reached for his wine. “Yes, he’s gone, thank God. I think he and his trophy wife are off to Telluride for most of the week. I don’t think I could have taken much more of him. My father is riled up about this book, and he’s really riding me to move it along. And I do want to make it happen. I think it could be a really successful start to the series.”

As I stared at him—and tried not to salivate—I could see that behind the well-groomed façade was a very exhausted guy. During the short encounter I’d had with Hank Boucher, I found him draining, so I could only imagine what it was like to spend days rather than just minutes or hours with the domineering chef. “Okay, so what’s your plan for putting the book together?”

“Oh . . .” Kyle shifted in his chair. “I’m not clear on that yet. But I do have some ideas. Do you want to hear them?”

I grinned. Kyle was disorganized, but he was eager and interested. I said, “Shoot.”

“There are lots of cookbooks out already that feature the big-name restaurants and chefs. Certain restaurants in every major city are always showcased in magazine and newspaper articles. Over and over, they’re the ones that get the attention. Sometimes deservedly so. Sometimes not, if you ask me. I’d like to do something different with this book. What about the fantastic but unheard-of restaurant on a small side street that serves the best braised lamb shank? Or the neighborhood Greek place where the owner’s mother rolls out phyllo dough by hand every day? All the spectacular ethnic restaurants in this city that cook up some of the best food in Boston but never get the spotlight? There are some very talented chefs who work at places that never get the attention they should because they don’t have the financial means to market themselves and to buy high-priced ads in
Boston Magazine.
”

I nodded eagerly. “That’s brilliant, Kyle. Hidden treasures. We could spotlight unknown chefs and get recipes from restaurants that really deserve praise.”

“As much as I love eating at restaurants like this one, the chef and the owner here don’t need the publicity. And honestly? Half the time the food at these places is so overrated that it’s obscene. Most of what’s in that box I brought to your house are pieces I started on chefs at those unheard- of places. I’d like to focus on the small places that diners would love if they knew about them.”

“Yes, but from a marketing standpoint, I think we should do a mix of high-end, well-known restaurants and the unknown ones that we really love. The big names will help sell the book.” I began a mental list of my favorite hole-in-the-wall places to eat. “I haven’t seen what’s in the new box of material,” I said. “I don’t know where you’ve been already. But do you have any particular restaurants in mind? Have you been to Boston before or is this your first time?”

“Actually, I went to school here for a short time, so I know the city a bit.”

Before I could ask where, a server arrived with our plates. One whiff of the bouillabaisse and I knew that I was in for a treat. I reached under the table and pulled out a notebook. One of us had to take notes about our plans for the book, and the last thing I needed was to have to decipher yet more of Kyle’s illegible scribbling. “Let’s start by making a preliminary list of restaurants and types of restaurants. Tell me all of the places you’ve already eaten at, which chefs you’ve interviewed, and who has given you recipes. And what other restaurants are on your list to try.”

I wrote furiously as Kyle did his best to recollect where he’d been and whom he’d interviewed. I was hoping that if he spelled out the information, I’d be able to make sense of the pile of notes that awaited me back home. As it was, I ended up having to remind Kyle of a number of restaurants that were mentioned in the notes I’d already typed up. I gripped my pen tightly as I patiently prompted him to wrack his brain and remember meals he’d had. “And where else would you like to try?”

“Jasper White’s Summer Shack, Oleana, Mistral, L’espalier, Harvest—”

I produced an exaggerated snore. “Kyle!”

“What? What did I say?” He wasn’t joking; he looked truly dumbfounded.

I dropped my pen in exasperation. “Those are arguably some of the best, most famous restaurants in Boston.”

“Yes? So?”

“Exactly the kinds of places you just said you didn’t want to focus on.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right. It’s just that my father mentioned those and . . . well, it
is
his name on the book.”

My guess was that Hank Boucher was as unimpressed with Kyle’s progress on the book as I was and that he’d shouted out restaurant names in an attempt to prompt his son to do something—anything—about the book.

“Fine,” I said. “We can use the famous restaurants, but once we visit the kinds of undiscovered places you were describing earlier, we’ll add them in and have a good balance that will impress Mr. Boucher.”

Kyle brightened. “There’s a little Italian restaurant just outside of Kenmore Square that I’ve been dying to go to. How about we start with that one? Friday night?”

“Agreed. That’s the kind of place that might be a hidden gem. Maybe we’ll leave with an amazing family recipe for
bracciole
.”

Kyle rubbed his hands together in excitement. “Yes, exactly.” He looked directly at me, smiled, and then reached across the table and brushed his hand across mine. “What would I do without you?”

DURING
the next week, I divided my time equally between school and Kyle’s notes—or an effort to make sense of them, anyway. My classes this semester were slightly better than they’d been the previous year, mostly because I had more electives this term than ever before. I’d chosen my classes with an eye for ones that would irritate me as little as possible. It amazed me that no one from my graduate school had shown up at my place to demand that I immediately remove myself from the program. Since I was far from the model social-work student, I did my best not to call attention to myself, lest the dean expel me for failure to show even the slightest hint of enthusiasm for my impending profession.

I blamed my lack of militant devotion on my dead uncle Alan, who had inserted an infuriating clause into his will that made my inheritance contingent on the completion of a graduate program.
Any
graduate program. I could hear his desperation from the grave. I found it mildly insulting that my uncle had thought so little of my professional drive that he’d had to manipulate me into pursuing higher education. Having chosen social work on a whim, I’d regretted the choice almost every day since. My few bursts of interest had been short lived. I’d made few friends at school, undoubtedly because my fellow students smelled my loathing for social work. Also, I consistently failed to show up at the state house for various protests, and I avoided letter-writing “parties” where I was expected to devote hours to composing thoughtful or irate letters to senators and representatives. I refused to study in the library, which I entered only when necessary and which I fled as soon as possible. I could practically hear my classmates groan when I was assigned to one of their study groups, since I was unable to speak passionately about topics such as narrative therapy and ethics in medical settings.

My dissatisfaction increased when an Internet search revealed that instead of enduring the classes that I hated, I could have enrolled at what were probably nonexistent universities that offered interestingly titled online courses that would have required no interaction with anyone: “You Can’t Make Me! Highly Effective Treatments for Resistant Clients” and “Can We Meet at Starbucks? Clients and Ethical Issues.” I loved the idea of courses with dialogue in the titles, but my school offered no such inspiring classes. As I hated to admit, there were, however, elements of school that I enjoyed. Granted, most of my courses this semester had generic, meaningless names like “Working Across Boundaries” and “Using Theories in Social Work.” Consisting as it did of vague concepts, the content of the courses made it easy to write essays. But I did enjoy some of my studies. My class on attachment had been quite interesting, and the class on working with individuals was coming in handy at my internship at the mental health center, so there were moments when I didn’t cuss out my program. Not many moments! But a few. Still, my strategy was to keep my head down and barrel ahead as I awaited the arrival of my May graduation. As much as I disliked school, I also couldn’t accept doing poorly, so I busted my hump to get good grades.

As for my job, I stayed up late every night that week working on Kyle’s box of chicken-scratch writing. Touched by his desperate desire to present the evidence of capable work to his famous father, I dutifully transcribed all of his notes and recipes, and I spent an excessive amount of time converting scrawled bits of chef interviews into coherent paragraphs. The file on my computer was growing, but it was nowhere near close to being book length. At the end of every day, I e-mailed Kyle the number of hours I had worked. On Friday afternoon, when I received an overnighted envelope with a check made out to me from Hank Boucher’s office, I blinked and read the amount again. I hadn’t added up my hours in my head, but the number was much bigger than I’d expected.

At seven o’clock on that same Friday night, I took the T and went to meet Kyle at the Italian restaurant he’d chosen, Contadino’s. It was so cold out that I was glad I’d worn my puffy down parka, but why I’d bought a white parka was beyond me. I should’ve known that it would have a one- in-six-million chance of staying white for long. But the cute fake-fur collar had suckered me in. Standing outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms to stay warm and stared in the window at a neon sign that beckoned me to come in and try the AL YOU CAN EAT P ST . So the sign was missing a few letters. That was okay. And the dirty windows could be cleaned. Despite the frumpy exterior, the place deserved a shot; it was exactly the kind of hole- in-the-wall that might serve up fantastic fare. The door squeaked loudly as I entered what honesty forces me to call the ratty restaurant. I cringed at the worn carpet and red pleather booths. Plastic leather would’ve been bad enough. But pleather with rips? I joined Kyle, who was already seated at one of the booths. Except for Kyle and one table of rowdy, drunk college kids, the place was empty.