Jessica Conant-Park - Cook the Books

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?”

DURINGthe 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.