“ The Evil B.B. Chow” by Steve Almond. (Algonquin Books 708 Broadway New York, NY. 10003) $22

Somerville is chock full of writers, but among them, Steve Almond is special. As mentor to young writers at Boston College and at our friends at Grub Street, he sparked both the teacher and example to be emulated.

In person, reading his works aloud, as he did for the last two Somerville News Writers Festivals, he was sublime and ridiculous. At last year’s festival, he paused to apologize to the students from a St. Clement’s High School English class sitting with their teacher, before diving into adult material. Then, he with a smile that made everything all right, he said he hoped they would learn something from the story.

Almond’s guest appearance at one of our contributors meeting to talk about “Candy Freak” was such fun, he is hands-down regarded as the best speaker we have ever had.

In my favorite two books by Almond, “My Life in Heavy Metal” and “Candyfreak,” I was struck most by the protagonists’ yearn for human connection.

They yearn despite their posturing, their well-studied ironic distance and their outwardly jaded approach to life.

Almond has always been a scholar of romance. He knows its back paths, complexities and infinite varieties with the confidence of an Indian scout. Yet, he is often too painful to read, for he knows all my sins and all my secrets, and lays them bare on the page.

In his new collection of short stories, “The Evil B.B. Chow,” Almond explores contemporary relationships in our all that sizzle, but too little steak society.

In the title story, “The Evil B.B. Chow,” Almond introduces us to a young woman who has been burnt by too many cads in her past.

She manages to drop her well-honed defenses for a seemingly awkward but endearing young Asian doctor. In this passage, Almond describes the woman giving in to a seemingly genuine moment of despair the young doctor shares with her about the loss of a little girl in surgery:

I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.” And now I can feel myself throwing the last anchor of discretion overboard, giving into the pleasure of giving in, of tending to his tears, his hurt, his deep want of love, what he is offering me, what his tears offer, is the deepest measure of love: unfettered access to his emotions.

Shortly after this the woman finds out that doctor is a charlatan in the game of love.

In a heart-wrenching passage the duped woman licks her wounds: “I’m weary of moving through life in this way, punished for my capabilities, betrayed by the glib promises of love. I’m weary of managing these disappointments. I’m weary of my body’s gruesome tick.”

Here Almond really is a fly-on-the-wall on this woman’s brain. I hands down believe in the authenticity of her voice and feelings Almond pulls this off where a lesser writer might have made it stilted or maudlin.

There is another sad/comic story that has a great conceit and execution “Wired for Life.” Here another young woman in the throws of a personal crisis throws herself at a middle-aged Chinese computer repairman.

The way Almond describes the repair store made me think it was a dead ringer for the one I frequent on Beacon Street in Somerville. In this unlikely pairing of yuppie and repairman there is surprisingly spark of connection. Almond leaves you wondering if you should laugh or cry at the end.

I also enjoyed the descriptions of Boston and the local environs peppered throughout the book. Here is a right-on description of the first day of spring in Harvard Square: “It’s the first day of spring and the streets finally smell again: tar and garbage, sesame, a sweet old perfume.

Everywhere, the righteous folk of Cambridge are strolling the polleny avenues, letting the breeze sift their hair. Not even the punks around the T can muster a decent rage, just bits of loud theatre, and Harvard Yard seems almost bearable in this mood, rid of its suicide Students are draped across one another, unbearably young, auditioning for sex in chunky shoes.”

If you have been in the Square, then you know Almond’s been there.

This is a fine collection of short stories by a top-shelf Somerville, Mass. writer.