Jessica Conant-Park - Cook the Books

“Nothing is going to happen, Adrianna.” Owen rolled his eyes at his wife’s worrying. “It’s a nothing little grill, and don’t forget that yours truly was a Boy Scout. I’m an expert when it comes to fire safety. My son and I are bonding this evening, so leave us alone to do manly things like play with fire. And burp.”

After reeling off endless baby-care instructions, Ade kissed Owen and Patrick, and then stood frozen at the front door, staring at her boys. “Are you sure you’ll be okay? I won’t be gone too long.”

“I promise we’ll be fine, babe. Please go out and have fun. You spend twenty-four hours a day with the baby. You deserve a few hours off, okay? I swear I’ll call you if we need anything.” Owen smiled reassuringly.

“Okay.” She sighed again and didn’t move.

“Ade, you’re making me feel guilty. If you don’t want to come, I understand,” I said.

“No, she’s going with you. Chloe, drag her down the stairs if you have to,” Owen ordered.

“I’m going. I’m going. Bye,” she said pathetically. “I love you guys.”

“We love you, too. Bye, Mommy.” Owen lifted Patrick’s hand and waved his son’s arm. “Have fun, Mommy.”

“Oh no, Adrianna! You can’t cry,” I insisted. “Not after you spent all that time on your makeup!”

“Fine. Let’s go.” She rushed out the door, down the stairs, and into my car.

We drove in silence to the downtown restaurant. I knew that once I got her inside she’d relax. There was no way she’d be able to resist a good meal, and Oracle had been receiving glowing reviews in both local and national publications. For once, I sprang for valet parking. Tonight, I didn’t want to waste time cruising Boston’s jammed streets and risk finding nothing but an itty-bitty space that would require parallel-parking skills superior to mine. As I got out of the car, I felt self-confident. We were on time. I was going to make a good impression on Kyle Boucher. I was going to keep Ade from crying. Most of all, I was going to get this job.

FORa Wednesday night, Oracle was crowded. I took its popularity as a sign that the food would be wonderful. The large dining area was almost entirely pale blue, as if the designer had wanted to create the feel of an artful house of ice: blue walls, blue linens on the tables, and even ice blue tile on the floor. The candles glowing from wall sconces and the miniature glass pendant lights hanging from the ceiling suggested a starry sky above the diners. It was magical! Better yet, contrary to appearances, the temperature was perfectly comfortable.

I approached the hostess stand. “I’m here to meet Kyle Boucher.”

“Excellent. Your party is already seated. Right this way.”

I followed the hostess to a corner of the restaurant, where a blond, goateed man in his early thirties sat alone. I recognized Kyle from his photograph, but he was much better looking than the small picture had indicated. He slid out of the semicircular booth and stood up. With a warm smile, he said, “You must be Chloe.”

“And you must be Kyle.” I shook his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. And this is my friend Adrianna.” Uh-oh! I’d forgotten to come up with an explanation for her presence at dinner.

“Adrianna, it’s lovely to meet you, too.” Kyle showed no sign of finding it bizarre that a job applicant had turned up for her interview with a friend in tow.

“I hope you don’t mind that I tagged along,” Adrianna said apologetically. “I have a three- month-old baby, and I practically begged Chloe to bring me with her tonight. I just had to get out of the house.” Talk about a true friend!

“I don’t mind a bit. The more the merrier,” he said graciously and gestured for us to take seats.

I scooted into the middle of the arched booth so that I sat between my friend and my potential boss. Kyle was indeed a good-looking man. Not that I cared, obviously, but he was tall, and his athletic build was visible even under his navy suit. His golden hair was neatly cut, but his goatee needed a trim. That slight hint of imperfection gave him a scruffy appeal.

The waitress appeared with our menus, and Kyle 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?”