Save Me the Plums

by Ruth Reichl

  “Yes. But it wasn’t as good as the food you cook.” My son has always known exactly how to play me.

  “It’s kind of late.”

  “Please.” He looked up at me. “Please.”

  What the hell, I thought; end the day on a high note. “How about spicy noodles?” They could be ready in a flash.

  Nick nodded, happily following me into the kitchen, bare feet slapping against the floor. He hoisted himself onto the counter and, as the scent of ginger, scallions, and black beans rose around us, regaled me with tales of his day.

  I boiled the pasta and tossed it into the wok, swirling it with a flourish. As I ladled noodles into Nick’s bowl, I inhaled the scent, thinking how much better this was than anything the restaurant had served us. I reached for another bowl, and we took them into the living room, sat down on the sofa, and slurped noodles together. “I’m really going to like it,” he said, “when you’re home every night to cook dinner.”

  SPICY CHINESE NOODLES

  •••

  ½ pound Chinese noodles, dried egg noodles, or spaghetti

  Peanut oil

  ½-inch-long piece of fresh ginger

  2 scallions

  1 teaspoon sugar

  2 tablespoons Chinese black bean paste with garlic

  1 tablespoon Chinese bean paste with chili

  ½ pound ground pork

  Sesame oil

  Cook the noodles in boiling water until al dente (the time will vary with the type of noodle). Drain, toss with a half tablespoon of peanut oil, and set aside.

  Peel and mince the ginger (you should have about two tablespoons).

  Chop the white parts and slice the green parts of the scallions.

  Mix the sugar and the two kinds of hot bean paste, and set aside.

  Heat a wok until a drop of water skitters across the surface. Add a tablespoon of peanut oil, toss in the ginger, and stir-fry for about half a minute, until the fragrance is hovering over the wok.

  Add the pork and white scallions and stir-fry until all traces of pink have disappeared. Add the bean sauce mixture and cook and stir for about 2 minutes.

  Stir in the green scallions and noodles and quickly toss. Add a drop of sesame oil and turn into two small bowls. This makes a perfect snack for two.

  OF ALL THE KITCHENS I’VE inhabited, my favorite was the high-ceilinged Victorian room in Berkeley with its ancient stove. Bedraggled ferns dangled from macramé-covered pots, and Stella the cat was always perched atop the highest cupboard, purring loudly. We never knew how many people would show up for dinner, so we always cooked for a crowd; for ten years I fed at least a dozen people every night.

  Everybody pitched in. Stella sat regally surveying the scene as we rolled pasta out by hand on an ancient chitarra, cured our own sausages, cleaned squid, and stretched a single chicken to feed us all.

  We’d lovingly constructed that kitchen, board by board, sourcing every single item at the flea market: the industrial stainless-steel sink that stretched across an entire wall, the granite for one counter, and the butcher block for the other. We lived communally, so there was always someone sitting at the round table in the corner, nursing a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. I cannot remember a single moment, day or night, when the kitchen was empty.

  I loved the light in that room, the way the sun bounced off the lemon-yellow walls, making the wood gleam. I loved the cozy feeling, the camaraderie, the music that was always playing, and the curved glass bowl sitting on top of the refrigerator, filled with eggs. (It was a Dale Chihuly reject, rescued from a glassblowing workshop where I’d once cooked.) The last thing I expected was to walk into Gourmet’s test kitchen and feel that it was much the same.

  * * *

  —

  I’D HEARD A lot about the magazine’s kitchen over the years, and I’d always imagined a large, imposing room filled with gleaming stoves, modern equipment, and frighteningly scientific cooks armed with stopwatches and thermometers. But when I pushed open the door, I found that the room was smaller and far more modest than I’d anticipated. The four ordinary stoves looked a lot like the one in my apartment, and the jumble of counters and tables lent the room a slightly cluttered air. It was a home kitchen writ large: cozy, messy, and filled with delicious aromas. The cooks, all women, were chatting noisily, like neighbors who had gathered for a party. I wanted to pull up a chair and spend the day.

  As I stood there drinking in the scene, a pale thin woman in a chef’s coat suddenly shouted, “Taste!” Picking up forks, the cooks came running from every corner of the room, skidding to a halt before a nut-topped chocolate cake. It was, I thought, a little early in the morning to be eating sweets.

  “Let me remind you all that it’s just a yaffy.” The thin woman said the word with obvious distaste, as she took the first bite. She swallowed and held out her hand. “I’m Kempy, deputy food editor.” She turned to a slim, startlingly pretty blonde. “Don’t you think the chocolate’s weak?”

  The blonde put out a protective hand, as if to shield the cake from criticism.

  “Is Zanne here?” I asked.

  Kempy, her attention focused on a short woman with a broad face who was frowning down at the cake, did not answer. The short woman worried the chocolate with her fork. “I think the crumb needs help,” she pronounced.

  “This,” said Kempy, “is Lori. She’s a very talented baker. And that”—she pointed to the blonde, who’d obviously made the cake—“is Amy. She’s a wonderful baker too.” Gesturing around the circle, Kempy introduced the six cooks, who were all studying the cake with extraordinary focus.

  Amy seemed determined to defend her cake, but with each criticism she looked a little sadder. “I could try using better chocolate?” She was almost whispering the words. “And the frosting—it’s nothing but mascarpone with a little sugar whisked in. I could play around with it.”

  “Mascarpone?” Kempy sounded alarmed. “We can’t ask our readers to source an obscure ingredient for a yaffy. Did you try cream cheese?”

  Amy shook her head, her thin body drooping in defeat. She seemed to take this very personally, shrinking back each time another cook stepped aggressively into the circle.

  “I’d up the sugar.” Lori was plying her fork again. “And maybe a touch of vanilla?”

  “I like Amy’s cake!” The voice was deep, and as he joined the group I thought how strange it was to see a man among this gaggle of cooks. I studied him: Solidly built, with a humorous, lived-in face, he was not wearing a chef’s jacket. Then I spied the camera in his hand and it came back to me: Romulo, the photographer, was now in the room.

  “Well, you would, wouldn’t you?” The voice was venomous, the accent slightly foreign. Australian? As a stylish young woman with long red hair stepped forward, I noticed Romulo stiffen. Like him, she wore civilian clothes. Her fork swept forward to snatch a corner. She put it in her mouth, which twisted slightly in distaste. Still grimacing, she turned to me, holding out a hand.

  “We haven’t met. Felicity.” Art director, I remembered. “We’re lucky this cake is only a yaffy, because we won’t have to shoot it.”

  “But it’s so pretty,” Amy interjected.

  Felicity shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter if it was the most beautiful cake on earth….” She looked straight at the photographer and shook her head. He lifted his chin defiantly and stared right back.

  An awkward silence descended on the room. Romulo shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, and in the sudden quiet the sound of the three kitchen assistants busily loading dishwashers and scrubbing pots grew very loud.

  Zanne Stewart chose that moment to make her entrance. An icon in the food world, she was a tall elegant woman who’d spent her entire career at Gourmet, working her way up from answering phones to ru
nning the test kitchen. Her stature, her impeccable taste, and her intimacy with everyone who counted in the food world—she knew Julia and Jacques and Marcella—were extremely intimidating. But I’d learned, over the years, that she had a hard-drinking past and an improbably bawdy sense of humor. Now I wondered what had made me think such a lively person could possibly preside over a sterile kitchen.

  Zanne’s helmet of hair swung across her face as she sheared off a slice of cake, the gesture so swift it sent the silver bangles on her wrist clanging. “We’ll shoot something else. It’s only a yaffy.” She turned to give me a quick hug. “Sorry I wasn’t here for the big show yesterday, but Julia was in town. I didn’t think you’d mind. She’s pushing ninety, and who knows how many more chances I’m going to get? Oh, yes,” she added, “I also have a message from Marcella. She really wants to meet with you. I think she and Victor want to write a column.”

  I’d met Marcella Hazan only once, at a book event. Her fans had walked in bearing armloads of books, eager for her to sign them. I absolutely understood; even now when I’m asked which cookbook I’d choose if I could have only one, it’s always a Marcella classic. “I love your simple tomato sauce,” I’d told her then. “It’s my son’s favorite dish.”

  But the moment the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back—this was no way to impress her. Marcella’s tomato sauce might be the world’s easiest recipe: It has only three ingredients.

  “The one with the honion?” she asked in her syrupy Italian accent.

  “That one,” I said, overwhelmed by such strong synesthesia that I could smell the tomatoes and butter slowly slumping into each other as they simmered into sauce. It is the most comforting aroma I know.

  “I like it too.” She gave my arm a generous pat.

  Marcella is gone now, but each time I make that sauce she’s there, just briefly, standing with me at the stove, patting my arm.

  “Should we give them a column?” I asked Zanne.

  “I’d be happy to get her recipes,” she said. “But Victor has a reputation for being difficult. Why don’t you meet with them and see what you think.” She handed me a fork. “Have you tasted the yaffy?”

  I took the fork cautiously, knowing that this was a test. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and give them the impression that I didn’t know what I was doing. It was bad enough that the editors thought I was clueless.

  I could feel their eyes upon me as I studied the jewel-like little cake, considering my options. I could begin by commenting on the praline topping: Was it too sweet, too bitter, perhaps too burnt? Maybe the pieces should be smaller? The chocolate was another obvious target; I’d suggest using one of higher quality. Should I speak up for the mascarpone?

  Then the fork met my mouth, and my body was flooded with sensations as the dark, dense, near-bitterness of the cake collided with the crackling sweetness of the praline. The flavors tumbled about, a sensory circus that was finally tamed by the rich smoothness of the frosting. It was all I could do to keep from reaching for a second bite, extremely hard to hide my smile. I knew this cake.

  The cooks’ eyes bored into me. “I’m guessing”—I tried to sound tentative—“that this cake has an English pedigree.”

  “How did you know?” Amy’s voice rose in surprise.

  Zanne did a little double take.

  “Unlike Americans, the English don’t overdo the sugar in their chocolate cakes.” The cooks gazed at me with obvious respect, and Zanne nodded sagely. “That praline’s a nice touch; lovely texture. And I wouldn’t mess with the mascarpone; cream cheese reads so carrot cake, don’t you think?”

  “But it’s only a yaffy,” objected Kempy.

  I ignored the interruption. “And I do think you should try better chocolate. Maybe Scharffen Berger?”

  “Scharffen Berger?” Again, Zanne looked impressed. The high-end chocolate was new to the market, and she had not expected me to know it. I was, after all, a critic, not a cook.

  “It’s excellent chocolate, and I find it really makes a difference in baking. And it seems to me that the cake might benefit from more eggs.” I looked at Amy. “Give it more body and improve the crumb.”

  “Not a bad idea.” All eyes swiveled to Amy. “The recipe only calls for one egg,” she explained.

  I turned toward the art director. “A couple more eggs would give it more height too….” Her lips began to curve into a triumphant smile and I hastily added, “But I don’t think it needs it. It’s such a gem of a cake.” The smile vanished.

  “That was excellent.” Zanne’s eyes danced. “Thanks. I hope you’ll be joining us for tastes. We’d love to have your input.” She turned to address her troops. “Amy, you know the drill. Try it again with Scharffen Berger. I think you should do it with Ghirardelli and Guittard too. And try adding two more eggs.”

  “Zanne!” Kempy was obviously annoyed, and I tried to remember what Zanne had told me about her deputy. Was there some friction between them? The two had been working together for more than twenty years. “We’re completely backed up, and it’s just a yaffy.”

  “But it’s the only chocolate recipe in the May issue.” Zanne turned to explain to me. “The readers love chocolate. Our bestselling issue of all time had a chocolate cake on the cover.”

  “Let me shoot it.” Romulo gave the art director a challenging look. “It’s a very pretty cake and I could really romance it.”

  The redhead made a deprecating sound, deep in her throat. The photographer’s fingers twitched, but he said nothing and his adversary started for the door. There was another awkward silence.

  This, I thought, would be a good moment to step in. “Please,” I said. “What’s a yaffy?”

  Zanne gave me a grateful smile. “You Asked For It. Y.A.F.I. It’s one of our most popular features, one that’s been a Gourmet staple since the very beginning.”

  “But there’s something about yaffys you don’t like.”

  “You noticed! The truth is, chefs are terrible at paring their recipes down for home cooks. The ones they send us never work, and we end up having to do them again and again to get them right.”

  “Must get expensive,” I said.

  “That’s one of the things I want to talk to you about.” She eased me gently out the door. “Got a minute?”

  Just outside was a table laden with food. “We put it out here so everyone can taste what we’re working on,” she explained. “It gives the editors a way of participating in the life of the kitchen.”

  “Nice touch,” I said. “I love the way your kitchen feels. So open. And the cooks—”

  Zanne interrupted me. “We call them food editors.”

  “Well, they’re cooks to me, and that’s a compliment. I don’t think you can be a good cook unless you have a generous soul. But that tasting process seems brutal; do you go through it for all the recipes or just the yaffys?”

  “All of them. We test our recipes until they can’t possibly get better. Sometimes we’ll test a recipe twenty times.”

  “Twenty times?” It struck me as obsessive to the point of insanity, but Zanne ignored my obvious shock. “How on earth,” she asked, “did you know that the cake was English? And don’t give me any more baloney about the English not overdoing sugar. For that matter, how did you guess the recipe was short on eggs?”

  “My impeccable palate, of course.”

  She stopped and stared, regarding me with new respect. “You’re really good! The food editors were blown away.”

  I was tempted, for just a moment, to let it lie. But nobody’s palate is that good. “It was crazy luck,” I admitted. “Last year when we were in London, Nick ordered chocolate cake in a little café—I think it was called Café Mezzo. He liked it so much I asked for the recipe.”

  “And you recognized it?”

  “It’s an
unusual recipe, and I’ve made it a few times. It really does taste better with Scharffen Berger. As I said, I got lucky….” We were walking again, but now I stopped her. “My turn to ask a question: What’s going on between Romulo and the art director?”

  She inhaled sharply. “The situation’s poisonous. Romulo’s been here for years. We all love him; he’s really talented and he has the most wonderful sense of humor. He can mimic anyone—I can’t wait to see what he’ll do with you. But when our art director retired last year, Felicity came in and started giving all the plum jobs to other photographers. He’s miserable.” She stopped and then added, almost reluctantly, “And he’s not the only one. You’ll see.”

  This cake is very easy, but the crushed-praline topping gives it a jewel-like quality that is rather spectacular. It’s hard to think of another dessert that offers so much for so little effort.

  JEWELED CHOCOLATE CAKE

  (Adapted from Café Mezzo)

  •••

  ⅓ cup cocoa powder, plus more for dusting pan (not Dutch process)

  3 ounces good-quality bittersweet chocolate

  6 tablespoons butter

  ⅓ cup neutral vegetable oil

  ⅔ cup water

  1 cup sugar

  2 eggs

  1¼ cup all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ⅓ cup buttermilk

  Preheat the oven to 300 degrees.

  Butter a deep 9-inch round cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper. Butter the paper and dust it with cocoa powder.