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crazy. You know how it is with chefs, though, right?”
    “Yes, I do.” In fact, I knew all too well. Chefs were often wildly passionate about their careers, and good jobs were hard to come by. The testosterone-fueled atmosphere of the restaurant kitchen, combined with the frenetic pace of cooking, gave rise to lots of cursing and hazing. Over the past year, Josh had regaled me with countless kitchen-insider stories. I knew more than I cared to about the politics of the restaurant world. Most of what went on in the industry was entirely crazy: endless power struggles among the waitstaff, the kitchen crew, the managers, and the owner. I was tuckered out just thinking about it.
    “Anyhow,” Ellie said, “the chef that Digger beat out for the job is totally pissed off, as you can imagine. I do have to take some credit, though, for my guy snagging this job. All the big-name chefs like Hank Boucher have managers, right? So I took it upon myself to act as Digger’s manager and agent. It puts him in a more powerful light if I call up and schedule his interviews. I’ve been helping him direct his career and position himself to become a major player in the Boston chef circle.”
    Ellie sounded more than a little proud of herself. I, however, found her role ridiculous. Yes, nationally known chefs had managers and agents, but those celebrity chefs actually needed people to organize their schedules, make travel arrangements, set up interviews and television appearances, and do general PR. Digger, on the other hand, simply did not need a manager! He was a great chef, but he was by no means a household name. Furthermore, he was the last person on earth who’d enjoy being managed by anyone. He was loud, crass, direct, and confident, and as much as he might have wanted to get a great job, he didn’t strike me as ambitious for the kind of fame and fortune that Ellie seemed to have in mind. He just loved being a chef and didn’t need the spotlight on him to keep loving his work. I couldn’t believe that he liked having his girlfriend take over his career.
    “That all sounds great,” I lied. “What type of food is he planning on doing at the Penthouse?”
    “He’s still working on the menu and trying out recipes, but he should have that all finalized soon. I have an idea. Why don’t you bring this cookbook guy, Kyle, to meet with Digger and sample some of the dishes he’s working on?”
    “That would be wonderful. I’d love to see him again, too. Where is the restaurant?” I asked.
    “Unfortunately, it’s not ready. They’re still installing the new equipment and painting. Digger has been doing everything here, from his apartment. I’d let him use mine, but my kitchen is even smaller than his, so you two would have to come here.”
    I was disappointed that I couldn’t take Kyle to a more impressive setting than Digger’s home kitchen for our first collaboration. Young chefs like Digger, even at high-end restaurants, earned low salaries; they made far less than the servers did. He probably lived in a cheap apartment. His kitchen was sure to be old, small, and ugly, but it would have to do. Besides, I knew that his food would speak for itself no matter where we were, and Hank would never have to know that his son had sampled Digger’s food in a crummy apartment rather than in a luxurious dining establishment. Once the Penthouse opened, Kyle and I could go there for the full experience.
    “That sounds fine. Do you know when he’ll be free?” I asked. Ellie was, after all, Digger’s manager, or so she said. Maybe she was entitled to pencil us in.
    “I’m sure that Digger will want to talk to you himself since you’re a friend. But let me give you all of my contact information so you’ll have it for later.” Ellie began reeling off cell and fax numbers, e-mail addresses, and the best hours to reach her. “And now let me get your number and address so that I make sure you get an invitation to opening night.”
    As