Cook the Books

ordered a bottle of white wine for the table. Ade smirked at me, and I rolled my eyes. Since Patrick’s birth, Adrianna had been out at night only once before, when I’d insisted that she accompany me to a local bar. In full-blown mourning for Josh, I’d gotten it into my head that nothing but a night of beer and tequila shots would heal me. According to Adrianna, the evening ended with my performing an atrociously morose rendition of “Son of a Preacher Man.” On the walk home I capped the performance with a rather violent bout of vomiting. Perhaps I wouldn’t drink much tonight. Just one glass. Or two, maybe.
    “I guess I should start by telling you about the project I’m working on. Then you can decide if it sounds terrible or not. I won’t be offended if you rush out of here before dessert,” said Kyle, crinkling his eyes in a smile.
    “If it has to do with food, I’m sure I’ll love it,” I said. “Well, the cookbook I’m putting together is going to be a compilation of recipes from Boston chefs. My plan is to visit local restaurants, make sure the food is good, of course, and then solicit recipes from the chefs.”
    I immediately realized that Kyle’s plan had a major problem—namely, the existence of cookbooks exactly like his, such as the popular The Boston Chef’s Table. My job prospects seemed to be dwindling by the second. “Do you have a publisher lined up?”
    My face must have shown my concern because Kyle said, “Yes, and don’t worry. I know that there have been other Boston-based cookbooks, but this one’s going to be part of a series of books with recipes from restaurants in major US cities. Boston is the first of the series, followed by LA, Chicago, Seattle, Atlanta, and Miami. My father is actually the name and the force behind the books. You may have heard of him. Hank Boucher?”
    “Wow,” I said, stunned.
    “No way.” Adrianna’s mouth dropped open.
    Hank Boucher was a nationally known chef who, according to all of the tabloid shows and entertainment magazines, catered everything from celebrity weddings to award-show parties. He was almost as well known as Wolfgang Puck or Mario Batali. I’d seen him on television and in magazines many times.
    Kyle laughed lightly at our expressions. “So I gather you do know who he is. That’s my father. And so the cookbook series is going to be his, with the titles including his name. This one will be Chef Boucher’s Favorite Recipes from Boston. I really need help fast because I’m racing against a deadline. Then I’m off to LA to work on that book.”
    “Do you live in Boston?” I asked.
    Kyle shook his head. “No, I’m just renting a small apartment near Boston Common. I’ve been in town for a few months already, but I haven’t exactly gathered much material.” He cleared his throat. “And, see, my dad is in France right now, but he’ll be coming to Boston tomorrow to check on my progress, and... well...”
    “You don’t have anything to show him?” prompted Adrianna.
    “Correct,” he said sheepishly as he nodded at her. “That’s where I hope Chloe will come in. But first things first. Let’s order, shall we? If the food here is as good as it’s rumored to be, Chloe might have her first assignment: soliciting the chef here for a recipe.”
    We opened our menus, and I read every delicious line. “It certainly looks incredible.” Considering the exorbitant prices, it had better be. Well, I’d just charge the meal to my credit card and pray that Kyle hired me.
    As if reading my thoughts, Kyle said, “Please order whatever you like. This is my treat, of course. In fact, order more than you like. We should taste as many dishes as we can so we can see which ones we might like for the book. And Adrianna,” he said to my friend, “you especially should eat a lot, since you probably have no time to eat while taking care of a tiny baby, huh?”
    Ade nodded. “That’s very true. It’s amazing how much time I spend holding Patrick, my son, rocking him, nursing, trying to get him to sleep. Not to mention doing the obscene amount of laundry the kid generates. Half the time I’m too tired to think about finding something to eat, never mind actually cooking anything. I’m usually in bed by eight o’clock, so forgive me if I nod off,” she said jokingly. “The other mothers in my new-moms’ group all say they do the same thing.”
    “I didn’t know you went to a moms’ group,” I said. How could I not