by Ruth Reichl
I marched up the sidewalk, daring anyone to step into my path. Nobody did. When I reached the corner I found a young woman ineffectually waving her arms in hopes of attracting a taxi. As a yellow cab hurtled toward us, I stuck my hand commandingly into the air and it screeched obediently to a halt. The other woman made a feeble move in its direction, but I pushed her aside and dove through the door, thinking that such people did not belong in New York. If she didn’t know how to get her own cab, she certainly wasn’t entitled to mine. “But, but, but . . .” she was sputtering as the door slammed in her face.
“Forty-ninth and Second,” I told the driver. “And step on it. Go uptown and through the park at Seventy-ninth; it will be quicker. Take Fifth to Fiftieth so you don’t hit bridge traffic. And see that you make all the lights.”
“Mumph,” said the driver, but he did as he was told.
I sat, stiff-legged and silent in the back of the taxi, glowering at the meter as it clicked upward. When it was time to pay the fare I counted out the change, added a parsimonious tip, and snapped my handbag shut, twisting the key in the lock. I could feel the driver glaring at my back as I walked toward the restaurant.
A young couple was just ahead of me, swinging their hands as they dreamily approached the door. The man looked scrubbed, and even from behind I could see the excited pink tips of his ears through his shiny blue-black, slicked back hair. He wore no coat, and I could tell that his double-breasted black suit was well pressed and well worn, most likely rented along with the patent leather shoes on his feet. The woman was even younger; she could not have been much more than twenty, and the face beneath the feathery black hair was round and trusting, with full lips stained the color of strawberries. A beige chiffon dress foamed beneath her coat, bubbling down to her knees and up to a strapless bodice pinned with a large purple orchid. They looked young and callow, poor and hopeful. “They don’t belong here,” I thought, marching grimly behind them. If they had hesitated for even a moment I’d have shoved past and through the door.
But there was no halt in their dreamy progress, and I followed them in. Marion looked up as we entered. She seemed perfectly at ease in the uncomfortable chair by the fireplace, wearing her usual uniform: black pants, black jacket, crisp white blouse. Her silver hair was pulled back around her naked, gorgeously wrinkled face, and the turquoise eyes staring at me with such intensity seemed enormous. The young couple turned in unison to see who was behind them.
“Is it Emily?” asked Marion. When I nodded she got up in one smooth move and came forward to gravely shake my hand. “I’m very happy to know you,” she said.
Tweed ignored the young couple, walking around them as if they were not there. “Ladies,” she said, reaching for our coats, “right this way.”
“They were ahead of us,” said Marion softly.
“They’ll wait,” said Tweed curtly. Her tone made it abundantly clear that she hoped that they would not.
She led us into the dining room where Carol and I had eaten lunch. Tonight the fire was lit and the tables were filled with wistful couples in search of romance. The roses had been pushed off the plates and, for the most part, lay gasping for water on the cloths. The brassy blonde to our left, however, had stuck hers into her décolletage, and it peeped out between her breasts, accentuating the low cut of her dress. Her portly, bald date was having a hard time keeping his eyes off the flower. “Hooker!” I thought acidly and edged my seat away.
Tweed returned with the young couple I had followed into the restaurant and seated them to our right. With a short happy cry the woman picked up her rose and pushed the stem behind her ear. I grunted; between the rose and the orchid she looked like a walking florist’s ad. Tweed shot me an apologetic glance and the word “pathetic” reverberated in the air between us.
“I’m going to ask the hostess to give us a different table,” I whispered to Marion. “I don’t feel we belong in this dining room.”
Marion’s face took on the strangest look. Thinking that she didn’t understand, I lowered my voice to explain. “Just study the room!” I said, pointing left. “He’s undoubtedly paying for the pleasure of her company. And they,” nodding right, “look as if they’ve been saving up for this meal. We ought to have a better table.”
“We’re fine right where we are,” said Marion. She squared her shoulders and planted herself firmly in the seat.
The waiter shook out the napkins and spread them across our laps. His jacket now fit him perfectly, and the English accent was intact. Told that only water was required, he made no attempt to hide his disappointment.
“Mineral, I presume?” he asked, and when he learned that New York water would be fine, his smile lost a little more of its luster. “Is there a host or hostess in this party?” he asked, soldiering on.
“Do you see any men here?” I snapped.
The man colored. “I beg your pardon,” he corrected himself. “Which one of you is the hostess?”
“I am.”
“Ah,” he smiled down at me, “good.” He began to shuffle the menus, and I put out my hand. “If,” I said, “you are looking for one of those menus with no prices, don’t bother. I have brought my guest to New York’s most expensive restaurant, and I think she should know precisely what this is costing me.”
“I understand perfectly,” he said with what sounded like actual admiration.
“Uh,” interjected the man to our right, “uh, could we get a drink?”
The waiter ignored him and went sailing off in search of fresh menus. The young man looked both crushed and embarrassed.
Marion was staring at me as if she had never seen me before, and I felt an explanation was in order. “I know that the menu with no prices is intended as a gracious gesture,” I said in Emily’s clipped voice. “I know it’s a way of allowing your guests to have no concern for the cost. But let me tell you this; dinner here costs eighty-six dollars a person, and I see no reason why that should be a secret.”
“Of course,” said Marion. “It’s a great deal of money. Who could blame you for wanting your largesse to be a matter of record?” There was no sarcasm in her voice, but I felt it was there, skulking in the background, and it made me squirm. I wished she had not given up alcohol; I yearned for a glass of wine.
“Are you certain a little wine would not appeal?” asked the waiter and I smiled, thinking he must have read my mind. But before I could answer, Marion did.
“We don’t want a thing,” she said. “But these young people on our right are getting thirsty.”
“Oh,” he said carelessly, “I’ll get to them eventually.”
“Why don’t you get to them now,” said Marion, her voice edged with steel. “They’ve waited long enough.”
The waiter took a step backward. He looked defiant. She stared him down, and at last he turned to take their order. “Is that really our business?” I murmured. Marion did not reply.
On our left the blonde had downed two martinis in rapid succession and was now waving her glass about, saying querulously “ ’Nother, wanna ’nother.” Meanwhile the young man on our right was saying proudly, “We will have champagne!”
“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter, bowing in such an exaggerated manner that the effect was more sneering than respectful.
When he brought the bottle in its metal bucket, he made a great display of pulling it out and ostentatiously presenting the label. Everything he did was correct but he somehow managed to convey contempt with every line in his body. Slowly he extracted the cork, making it pop loudly. He poured an inch into the young man’s glass and stood waiting, a bored expression on his face. When the young man made no move to pick up the glass, the waiter began to tap his foot, raising an eyebrow in my direction.
Marion watched for a moment, and then she leaned across the table and said, very gently, “He wants you to taste it.” The young man gave her a small grateful smile, picked up his glass, sipped. “It’s fine,” he said. Without looking down the waite
r splashed the wine into the glasses, filling them a little too full so that the liquid fizzed onto the table.
The young woman waited until he was gone and then picked up her glass and took a sip. Her eyes went very wide and then she sneezed. When I laughed—just a little—she colored deeply.
Marion gave me a look I could not fathom and picked up her menu. “I think I’ll have the lobster bisque,” she said more loudly than was absolutely necessary, “and then the scallops topped with that puree of hazelnuts and butternut squash. Raspberry chutney sounds wrong in that dish, but who knows, maybe it works. After that I suppose I’ll have the tenderloin. It’s the only dish that doesn’t sound overly fussy.”
We placed our orders and then the young couple placed theirs. The young woman gave Marion an apologetic look, turned to the waiter, and said, “Bring me what she’s having, please.”
“Oh, why can’t they mind their own business?” I cried.
“The way you’re minding yours?” Marion retorted.
It occurred to me that age was not sitting well with her, and I suddenly found myself at a loss for words. There was an awkward moment of silence while I tried to think of something to say, and then the food arrived to provide conversational fodder. My appetizer, cumin-rubbed shrimp, was good for at least five minutes.
“That’s quite a trick,” said Marion when she tasted it. “A kitchen miracle: they’ve made those shrimp mealy and tough at the same time, and that’s not easy. If you were trying to achieve that effect, you probably couldn’t. What I imagine they did was buy head-on shrimp, let them sit too long, and then overcook them. Shrimp have an enzyme at the back of the head that makes them mushy after death. That’s why they’re usually sold headless.” She took another minuscule taste and nodded. “Yes, if you followed that recipe, you might end up with something this sorry. On the other hand, they’re no worse than my scallops—if that’s what these little white discs really are.”
At the next table the young woman was taking a timid forkful of her appetizer. Her face lighted up. “I never had scallops before,” she confided to her date. “I thought they’d be fishy or something. But these are okay; they don’t taste like nothing at all.”
“Did you hear that?” I asked Marion, mimicking the woman. “‘They don’t taste like nothing.’” I kept my voice very low. “That might be because they’re pollack or some other cheap whitefish cut to look like scallops. It’s a classic food cheat. No wonder the chef created that strange goop of a dish: the nuts, the squash, and the chutney are all there to disguise the fish and fool the suckers.” I nodded right. “Like them.”
“This makes me so angry!” said Marion.
“I know,” I replied. “It’s outrageous the way they cheat their customers!”
“Not that.” Marion’s blue eyes were appraising me, and I was chilled by their icy coldness. “You,” she said. “You’re what’s making me angry. These disguises have gone too far. I hate the person you’ve become.”
It was as if she had thrown her glass of water at my face. I could feel the makeup that covered it—the greasy foundation, the thick coat of powder, the lipstick with the chalky taste of cold cream. The wig felt so tight I could barely breathe, and I sensed the hair coiled beneath it, yearning to be released. The glasses balanced on my nose felt suddenly heavy and I snatched them off. And then I started to laugh, and the laugh went on and on until I was afraid I was going to choke.
“Oh, hon,” said Marion, when I had finally wound down, “I almost forgot that you were you. How can you stand it?”
I looked down at the terrible tweed suit, and suddenly I couldn’t. I had wanted to know what it felt like to be Emily, and now I knew: not good. I didn’t want to be her, didn’t want her clothes or her values or anything else to do with her life. It was extremely unpleasant to find how easily I had been able to summon this mean, petty person who was waiting inside me. Because if Brenda was my best self, Emily was my worst.
Marion was watching my struggle. “I keep remembering the first time I met you,” she said. “It was in San Francisco, at that party for James Beard. Your hair was wild and curly and your clothes were so colorful that you stood out in the crowd. The next time we met you were wearing two different socks—and you told me it was on purpose! We went back to that commune you were living in and you started cooking dinner. I think it was for a dozen people, but more kept showing up and every time the door opened you just smiled and threw a little more water into the soup. I kept looking for that person, but all I could see was—” She went silent and pointed across the table.
“Enough,” I said, “let’s forget about Emily, okay? She’s going to go away now, and we’re going to try to enjoy ourselves as much as possible in this ridiculous restaurant.”
After that, everything was fine. Marion told me about the cooking classes she’d been giving. “I put up signs all over the neighborhood saying that I was looking for people who had never cooked before, that I’d teach them for free. It’s fascinating. Do you have any idea what a recipe looks like to someone reading it for the first time?”
“None,” I said.
“It’s a foreign language! I told one of my students to toss the salad and he put the bowl on the counter, walked to the other side of the kitchen, and started throwing the lettuce into it.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No,” she said, “it happened. And if you think about it, why wouldn’t that make sense? My students want to know why the recipe says to cream the butter when there’s no cream in it, why bone and debone mean the same thing. If you don’t know the language, it’s just jibberish.”
For my part I talked about Carol, and for the first time I allowed myself to voice what I had been thinking deep inside: that she was not going to get better. And then, somehow, I found myself telling Marion what Nicky had said after our meal at the Rainbow Room.
“Do you want to know what I think?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I think it’s time for you to do something else.”
My heart lurched. “What would I do?” I asked.
She studied me for a moment and said, “I don’t know. But I have an idea. I know this astrologer . . .”
“I don’t believe in that stuff!” I said. “You know that.”
“I don’t either,” she replied. “But it doesn’t matter. This man is very wise, and he always helps me in a crisis. I’m going to buy a session for you. When you think you’re ready, give Alex a call. Believe me, it will be worth your time.” She wrote a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to me. And then, as if she had not just tossed a bomb onto the table, she took a bite of beef tenderloin and changed the subject. “This restaurant,” she said, “should be ashamed to be serving this meat.”
As the evening progressed the bald and the blonde, who were far more interested in liquor than in food, grew more raucous. Meanwhile, the young couple on our right were growing quieter and quieter, as if they understood that they were being cheated but were not quite sure how. Marion looked at their woebegone faces and I could see her struggling with herself. Finally she could no longer contain it. Leaning toward them, she said, “Forgive me if I’m speaking out of turn. But I don’t imagine that you come to restaurants like this very often.” As she spoke I was reminded of the woman at Daniel, Muriel, who had said something so similar. And then, of course, I thought of Brenda.
“No ma’am,” said the young man, pulling his shoulders back as if standing to attention. “I have been saving up for this evening. It’s the first time we’ve been to such a fancy restaurant.”
“You don’t look as if you’re enjoying it,” she pressed on.
“We are!” said the young woman. “We’re enjoying it very much. Aren’t we, Richie?” Her eyes entreated her date to support her position.
But he gave her an apologetic shrug and turned to Marion. “No,” he admitted, “we are not enjoying this.”
“Neither are we,” said Marion. “This is a very poor
restaurant.”
“But the books!” he said, looking very young, very earnest. “I read all the books and they said that this was the best place. The most romantic.”
“Unfortunately,” said Marion gently, “the books are not always right.”
And then Emily vanished forever, even though I was still wearing her black hair, and Brenda was speaking. “Let me pick up your check,” she was saying. “Take the money you were going to spend here and go to another restaurant. A good one.”
He was shaking his head. “Oh no,” he said, “I couldn’t let you do that.”
“Yes you could,” said Marion, and her smile was bright and encouraging. “Of course you could.”
“I’ll even tell you where to go,” I said. “I could make the reservation for you.”
“Where?” asked Marion, beaming at me.
“The Rainbow Room,” I said.
“I couldn’t let you do that,” he repeated.
“Yes you can,” I said. “It’s sort of part of my job.”
“What are you talking about?” he said, in a voice that conveyed all the things he was too polite to utter. He glanced under the table as if he expected to find a camera hiding down there. “What do you do?”
“What I’m supposed to do is make sure that people don’t waste their money in places like this,” I said.
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m a restaurant critic.”
He was wavering. I could feel it. “How do I know that’s true?” he asked.
In response I did something I had never done before. Right there in the middle of the dining room, I pulled Emily’s wig off my head.
The young woman gasped. And at the next table the blonde waved her empty martini glass and said, “I think I’ve had too many drinks.”
RESTAURANTS WHERE THE ROMANTIC DECOR IS THE DRAW
by Ruth Reichl
THE LAST TIME The Times looked at the Box Tree it was a pretentious place serving fancy, not very good Continental food for $78 a person, prix fixe. That was six years ago. Since then there has been a lengthy strike, which ended last month in a victory for the workers. You might think that would have improved the restaurant.