Free Cook the Books by Jessica Conant-Park, Susan Conant Page B

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?”

EIGHT
    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