I pull the cupcakes from the oven and set them on the cooling rack, and then arrange the sandwich and a glass of cold milk on a tray and walk from the test kitchen down to Mimi’s office. “You’re a lifesaver,” she says when I present her lunch. She gulps at the milk and flashes me a drippy white mustache, proud like she just invented sliced bread. I humor the display with a lackluster thumbs-up.
I’m grateful to escape back to my kitchen. I suppose the space is technically the property of Schimdt & Delancey, but for the past two and a half decades I’ve reigned over it—stocking it with state-of-the-art supplies, filling it with the aromas of thousands of delicious concoctions, tending to it with the love of a mother. This is my home, where I can cook and experiment and eat and listen to whatever kind of music I want, with little disturbance. I’ve truly struck gold: I live in New York City with access to the world’s best restaurants, and because of this sprawling, state-of-the-art facility I haven’t had to settle for the typical Manhattan apartment kitchenette with one square foot of counter space and an oven more finicky than a vegan with a gluten allergy. The appearance of Mimi on the scene has been a mild annoyance, for sure, but I’ve weathered such storms before.
I start in on the red velvet batter. When I pitched ideas for summer recipe packages a couple of months ago, it was pre-Mimi, and Louisa nixed a hot dog taste test. Too many nitrates, she said. So it’s desserts again, for the third year running. The twist this year is cupcakes for birthday picnics, since apparently August is the most popular birth month. I’ve gone through twenty pounds of sugar so far this week. Let’s hope Mimi has a sweet tooth.
In the afternoon I set the cupcakes out on the free table and then step away to avoid the staff stampede. I discovered long ago that if you feed people, you remain on their good side no matter what else you do.
“OMG, delish,” says Zoe, spitting crumbs from a mouth full of cake.
“The frosting is to die for. How do you do it?” Jane asks, reaching for a second serving.
“It’s nothing,” I say, deflecting the compliments. Most of these people can’t tell the difference between a halfway-decent dessert and a divine one (I can’t believe the junk tourists line up for at the trendy bakeries in the city). It’s true of our readers, too, who count cream of mushroom soup and freeze-dried stuffing as kitchen staples. Nevertheless, I hold our recipes to a higher standard. Louisa mostly shared this sensibility and gave me free reign, though after I ran a recipe for beef bourguignon with an ingredient list a page long (in my defense it was for the Christmas special), she called me into her office to read aloud all the complaint letters; after that, I had Ed pass the food mail directly to me so I could selectively share reader comments with the big boss.
I spot Drew, photo editor by trade, but a serious cook, too. “What do you think?”
She’s nibbling on a red velvet variety. “Is there a hint of cinnamon in here?”
“There is!”
“It’s tasty. Though I’d lose a bit of the cocoa—it overwhelms the other flavors.”
“Interesting.” I take a bite. She’s right. I snag the last cupcake from the platter and carry it into Mimi’s office.
“Oh, thank you, but I’m off sugar this month.”
Yeah, right, I think, glancing at her hips; she must be at least a size 12. “Just a taste? We’re planning to run these in the August issue. The pages have to ship this week.”
“See what Laura thinks—I trust her opinion.”
I nod. Laura, the new assistant, informed me on her first day that she’s a very picky eater and doesn’t care for cheese, most sauces, or legumes; no way am I going to ask for her opinion.
I spend the rest of the day tweaking the red velvet recipe and dreaming up ideas for the autumn issues: We could do Indian stews, or root vegetables in potpies and ragout, or a whole Greek feast from olives to baklava. It’s hard to remember during a June heat wave, but when the weather cools, people recommit to spending time in the kitchen and creating sumptuous meals for their families. Fall is my favorite season for food. If the new boss isn’t going to weigh in on the recipes, I’ll take that as a blank check. Hopefully her next diet will involve those preportioned meals sent to her doorstep so she won’t want to taste anything I prepare.
At the end of the workday, Mimi and I catch the same elevator down. I refuse to participate in the stick-around-until-after-the-boss-is-gone game that everyone else is playing these days; when I’m done with my work, I leave. I notice a glob of cream cheese frosting on the lapel of Mimi’s jacket. “That stuff will stain,” I say, pointing to the white dollop. “Don’t rub at it. Mix bleach with warm water and soak it overnight. Have a good evening!” And then I flee.
The next day, a woman with long red hair appears in the office, looking adrift until Mimi runs up to her and they hug as if they were separated at birth. They spend the entire next hour holed up in Mimi’s office, huddled in conversation.
“Who is that, her sister?” I ask Zoe, who’s visiting my desk for her usual afternoon raid of my chocolate stash. I save the cheap milk kind for her; I’ve given up trying to convert her to high-quality dark.
“That’s the new executive editor,” she says. “Victoria LaRue. She’s from Starstruck, too.”
“Oh, great, another celeb-o-phile. Does Leah know?” We’ve never before had two executive editors on staff.
“Probably not. I already spied Victoria sizing up her office.” After Leah had triplets and shipped out to the suburbs last year, she convinced Louisa to let her telecommute two days a week. So far Mimi has let this arrangement fly, too, but I predict Leah misses one big meeting and either she has to start schlepping into the city every day again or she gets the pink slip. Leah edits the food pages and, even though she’s now usually covered in baby spit-up or changing a diaper as we Skype, her talent remains for transforming the language of my recipes into poetry.
“Ladies and … ladies,” announces Mimi, winking at Mark, our brilliant creative director and the only man on staff. She’s called us all to the conference room. “I want to introduce the brilliant Victoria. Victoria began her career at Yummy Weekly, where she covered snacking trends and kitchen gear with great skill and dedication, and then moved on to Starstruck, where she distinguished herself as one of the top reporters on celebrity diets and meal plans. I’m bringing her on deck as an extra hand to help us for the November relaunch, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Please join me in welcoming our new co-executive editor.”
“Yay!” yelps Victoria.
“Yay!” echoes Laura, and she, Victoria, and Mimi embrace with a degree of dedication I’ve only previously seen on reality TV, usually when former friends-turned-foes reconcile (I’m ashamed I’ve seen enough of that trash to know this). I suppose since all three of them come from Starstruck, that is their world. Mimi opens one arm and pulls in a reluctant Mark, who is not the type for group hugging. I sense this will become problematic.
At first I don’t notice anyone standing there, since I’ve got the food processer going and I’m singing my heart out to that cheesy new Helena Hope song: “We’d be lying in the sun, boy, I really thought we’d won. But, oh how I was wrong, how you strung me right along, told me I gotta be strong, left me with nothing but a song.”
But when I wheel around and see Victoria in my door frame, her facial features contorted into what I suppose is an expression of amusement, I freeze. In one motion I flip off both my radio and the food processer.
“I guess you didn’t hear my knocking,” she says. She’s violated the unspoken rule that no one comes up to my kitchen uninvited, and now she worsens the offense by entering the space before I grant her permission. She eyes a fresh batch of pistachio pesto. “Looks delicious.”
I can’t resist the urge to feed—I hand her a spoon. “Here, try. It’s for the weeknight dinner series. Pesto orecchiette.”
“Delectable,” she says. “I’d reduce the oil a bit, and maybe go with orzo or some other pasta people have
actually heard of.” I make an effort to lift the corners of my mouth. “So, listen. I had a conversation with Mimi about our food coverage, and I wanted to relay the main points back to you.” I’m already fuming that a discussion of Hers’ recipes happened in my absence, and Victoria ratchets up my rage by initiating a self-guided tour of my space, sniffing at a bag of basil, then squeezing an heirloom tomato. I wonder when she last washed her hands. “First off, from now on we want to limit recipe prep time to twenty-five minutes. No one has the time to spend hours slaving away in the kitchen.”
I’m surprised to find I’m prepared for this argument: “The average American watches four hours of TV per day,” I say bitterly. “I think they can spend forty minutes now and then making dinner. A twenty-five-minute limit means we won’t be able to include braised meat or pies with homemade crusts or even some soups. What about for special events?”
“I hear you,” says Victoria. “But Mimi’s point is, we should be giving our readers permission to spend holidays relaxing and hanging out with their loved ones instead of slaving over the stove like they’re repressed housewives from two generations ago. Especially in this day and age, when everyone is so busy and we all have so little quality time with our friends and family. Those complicated, labor-intensive recipes aren’t realistic for the life of your average busy mom.”
This is all bullshit, of course; everyone has always been busy, and just because these days people would rather spend their free time scrolling through Facebook and stuffing their faces with Cheetos than cooking actual food for their families is not my problem. But there’s something about how Victoria’s speaking—a hollowness, maybe a lack of conviction?—that stops me from grabbing a butcher knife and chop-chop-chopping away my anger. It makes me think I can work on her, sway her from the party line.
“People connect through food,” I say. “It’s the glue of our gatherings. That’s as true today as it was back when cavewomen got together by the fire to gossip about the cute barbarian in the next cave as they roasted the wooly mammoths or whatever the hell their men brought home from the hunt.” Where do I come up with this crap? “Cooking is not some sort of throwback Feminine Mystique symbol of unfulfilled housewives; it’s a way to bond with the people you love, and a means to enjoy and savor something delicious together. At least that’s how I’ve always presented it in Hers. Are you familiar with the food coverage in Hers magazine, Victoria?”
She ignores the question and takes it upon herself to open my refrigerator. She buries her entire head in the cold air, as if she’s in her own home jonesing for a late-night snack. If she reaches for anything, I’ll pounce. “Another option we talked about,” Victoria says, shutting the fridge, “and this might help you include the kinds of recipes you want but cut out some of the steps, is to rethink what we mean by homemade. My idea is, let’s make readers feel great that they’re cooking, but also give them some shortcuts, some little cheats to minimize the drudgery of doing it all from scratch. So, we’ll make half of our ingredients ready-made. I’ve prepared a list of foods for you.”
She passes me a typed-up memo, and I scan the items—bagged lettuce, instant rice, precut vegetables, jarred pasta sauce, canned whipped cream, and then the clincher—cake mix. “Maybe we should just give the readers a list of restaurants to go to instead?” I say, my tone chilly. “Applebee’s, Chili’s, McDonald’s?”
“I see you have a sense of humor,” Victoria says flatly. “I think we’ll get along well.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“Last, I’ve been studying the reader mail, and they all want lighter options. Many of them are trying to lose weight.”
“If they eat reasonable portion sizes and limit sweets to special occasions, as we encourage in Hers, then our recipes fit very nicely into a healthy lifestyle.”
“Yes, but people like sweets and they tend to overeat,” Victoria says. “And who can blame them? Let’s give them options where they can eat large quantities and not feel guilty, rather than having to stick to measly little portion sizes.” This is the problem with America, I think; our readers are fat pigs. “Have you heard of the popular personality Ravenous Rhee?” Victoria asks.
My anger, previously at a simmer, now dials up to a boil. Last week when I found out the Food Network was giving that silly twit her own show, I actually threw my remote at the television; my cat cowered. Ravenous Rhee must have been raised on TV dinners and Ho Hos. “You mean the woman who thinks freeze-dried bananas, a bag of gummy vitamins, and three packets of Splenda equal a square meal?” I ask.
Victoria laughs. “I mean the woman whose newsletter has three million subscribers, whose cookbooks have topped the bestseller lists for six months straight, and whom Oprah has dubbed ‘the regular woman’s Martha Stewart.’ ”
“Touché.” I can respect Victoria’s feistiness, if nothing else. I know we’re not supposed to talk directly about what’s happening on staff, but I decide to challenge her: “Mimi’s replacing me with Ravenous Rhee, is that it?” I don’t actually believe it, since that woman would command a fortune in salary.
“That would be quite a coup,” Victoria says, then quickly backtracks. “I mean, no, no, not at all. She’s getting a monthly column in the food section is all, and we want you to oversee it.”
I clutch at a paring knife and begin aggressively mincing a clove of garlic. “So Rhee will pitch me ideas and then I’ll give the yay or nay?”
Victoria shakes her head. “More like, she’ll share whatever trend she’s spotted in her niche of the culinary world or she’ll cook up new recipes, then you’ll test them out to make sure they work.”
“So I’ll be her assistant?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t describe it that way.”
“Of course you wouldn’t.” I steady my hand, still wielding the knife. “Victoria, I appreciate your stopping by. I’m going to get back to the weeknight dinners story, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” she says. “I’m glad we’re on the same page here.” On her way out Victoria’s hair swings behind her, the unnatural tint of cherry food coloring.
“What in the hell is this?” I slap Mimi’s latest memo down on Abby’s desk.
“Would you like me to read it aloud to you?” The managing editor smirks. I think she secretly enjoys my griping.
I read: “ ‘Starting tomorrow, Hers employees will set the example at Schmidt & Delancey of what it means to look polished and professional. To that end, we will no longer wear shorts and we will limit our donning of denim to Fridays.’ ” I look up at Abby. “ ‘Donning of denim’—is she serious?”
“The point is, Mimi would like to dress up the office a bit.”
“No shit.” I keep reading: “ ‘The ladies will make an effort with our hair and makeup, and wear high heels on a daily basis. If we choose to wear flats during our commutes, we will change into our heels before we enter the building.’ Um, I haven’t owned a pair of high heels since 1989.”
“Would you like me to take you shopping? We can slip out to Barneys at lunch.” I don’t laugh at what must be a joke.
“Abby, our dictator in chief is pretty much mandating the shortening of our calf muscles and deterioration of our knees. Plus she’s increasing the risk of falls. Does she really want to deal with a lawsuit when someone takes a face-plant in her stilettos and breaks a bone?”
“Debbie, I know you’re upset, but the truth is, Mimi has a right to instate a dress code.”
“What’s next—she’ll require Ed to wear a tux to deliver the mail?”
“Listen, why don’t you just keep a pair of comfortable wedges on hand and change into them when you come down to the office or visit the cafeteria? Use your company card for the shoe purchase; you can expense it.”
“Ugh, how come you’re always so goddamned reasonable?” I storm out of Abby’s office, clutching the offensive memo.
Back upstairs, I have an idea. I search through my back issues of Professional Chef, certain that wha
t I’m looking for appeared sometime in 2011. I flip to the fall issue, and freeze: The cover features Eileen Houtt, my partner and closest friend from back in culinary school; her big smile is familiar, only a bit crinkled with age and with an added dash of smugness. The coverline reads: “Houtt Commodity: Chicago’s most inventive chef makes a splash with chic new seafood restaurant.” I roll my eyes and toss it aside, then turn to the winter issue, where I find the story I want.
“Excuse me, she’s busy,” Laura says as I breeze by her cubicle and march into Mimi’s office. I slap the Professional Chef article down on her desk.
“Jesus Christ, what is this?” Mimi wails. I forgot just how gruesome the story’s images are. The burned, mangled foot looks like it belongs to some freakish monster, and the bruises span the colors of a painter’s palette.
“What this is,” I say, “is a story about people who wore improper footwear in the kitchen and then suffered the consequences: boiling Alfredo sauce splashed on the foot of a chef in open-toed shoes, and a prep cook who wore fashion boots, slipped on spilled olive oil, and fell flat on her back. She’s probably now paralyzed from the neck down.”
“Ah, I see what this is about,” says Mimi. “You’re upset about the memo.”
“Damn right I am. How dare—” I stop myself. I consider what’s at stake: my gorgeous, spacious kitchen, my Eden.
“Deborah, you’ve made your point loud and clear,” says Mimi. “How’s this? You may wear what you wish while cooking, but otherwise it’s time to step it up a bit from the white Reeboks. The rest of the staff needs some extra polish, too. I assume you know that Hers has become the frequent butt of jokes in the building. We’re known as the frumpy mom-types who haven’t updated our wardrobes since the Clinton administration.”
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