"Mr. Pink," she cooed. "I need you."
"Cut it out, Carrington," I said. "The Mad Men reruns were last night."
"Wrong babe," she pouted, in a murmur like salted caramel. My chest hair did the Macarena. "I'm in a jam. I'm on the red eye for a convention in Boston, and I get so bored with PowerPoint presentations on personnel management and Good Will Hunting location tours.
"Deliver me, babe. Point me toward a lobster roll that'll unseam my fishnets. I'll even settle for chowder, if it'll muss my lipstick a little and call me a taxi in the morning."
By that point I was burning like a six-inch slice of challah in a 10-inch toaster. So I'm calling on you, Bites readers — you people who know every oyster-shuckin' inch of the nation's foodways, every brick-oven pizza and pot de creme where Zagat's fears to tread. Where should a lovely, lonely Nashvillian eat on her first trip to Boston?