by Ruth Reichl
He stood and stammered to a start, launching into a speech so disjointed I began to fear he’d drift off in the middle and simply stare into space. Then, amazingly, his cadence changed, picking up speed as he proudly enumerated the year’s achievements. Circulation was soaring, ad revenues rocketing, and his pride was so palpable that as he rambled to a close someone at the next table murmured, “Si certainly seems pleased with himself.”
“Why not?” It was a publisher I didn’t recognize, making no attempt to keep her voice down. “We blew past Hachette, we blew past Hearst, and now we’re right on the heels of Time Inc. The New Yorker’s stopped hemorrhaging money, and all the people who laughed at Si are being forced to eat their words.”
I was grateful to the anonymous publisher; I now knew exactly what to say. “It’s really a pleasure,” I began as Si sat down, “to be working for a company that trusts the intelligence of its readers. I think you’re the only American publisher who does. You must be proud it’s finally paying off.”
He looked at me for such a long time that I wondered if I’d overstepped. At last he nodded. “Yes,” he said, stabbing a fork through the crust of his chicken potpie; it shattered with a satisfying crack.
I looked around, searching out Giulio, hoping he’d noticed where I was seated. When I finally found him—at Maurie’s table—all the pleasure drained out of me. He was apparently among the doomed.
Christmas presents were always delivered while we were at lunch, and Robin was waiting with undisguised impatience to see what Si’s card said. Extracting it from the envelope, she read Si’s large, spiky script: “ ‘I have the greatest regard for the fine magazine you’re making.’ ”
“Is that good or bad?” I was still clueless when it came to deciphering the inscrutable Condé Nast code.
“Very good.”
She handed me a small turquoise box tied with a big white bow. “This one’s from Florio.”
“Do you know what it is?”
She smiled. “Take it home and let Nick open it; I think he’ll like it.”
What, I wondered, could Tiffany possibly produce to thrill a thirteen-year-old boy?
* * *
—
“COOL!” SAID NICK when I handed him the box at dinner. Untying the ribbon, he extracted a soft felt bag with TIFFANY & CO. printed on the flap. When he gave it a shake, a shiny silver object came tumbling out. Nick held it in the palm of his hand, staring down at his reflection.
“A yo-yo?” Michael was incredulous. “Steve Florio sent you a sterling silver yo-yo?”
“Cool!” Nick said again.
Michael made a strangled sound. Nick and I both turned to look at him.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as Nick stared down at the gleaming yo-yo as if it held a secret he was trying to decode.
Michael looked at me. “Do I really have to spell it out?”
I regarded the lustrous toy, and then I reached over, took the thing out of Nick’s hand, slid it back into the fuzzy blue bag, and set it in its box. The turquoise cube sat on the table, throbbing color as we all stared at it. For a moment no one spoke. Then the phone began to ring, and with a look of enormous relief Nick ran to get it.
“It’s for you, Mom.” He handed me the receiver, mouthing, “Florio.”
There was no preamble, and Florio didn’t beat around the bush. “It’s Giulio.” His voice was crisp, carrying none of its usual ingratiating charm. “His numbers aren’t good, and we think we made a mistake. We brought him along too fast.”
“What are you saying?”
“He’s not ready. We thought he could be a publisher, but we were wrong. We want to get you someone more seasoned, but before I make the change, I wanted to check with you.”
“It’s only been a few months….” I began. “Don’t you think you should give him a chance?”
“If that’s what you want.” Florio was all business. “Merry Christmas.”
Michael said nothing. Nick was quiet. The silence grew as they stared resolutely at their plates. “Say it,” I said. “Whatever it is. Just say it.”
They looked at each other. Michael cleared his throat. “Are you sure you should have done that?”
“Why not?”
“Now it’s on your shoulders.” He pointed at the turquoise box as if it contained all of Condé Nast. “If the numbers keep going down, Giulio’s not going to be the only one who fails. It’s going to be your fault too.”
WHEN DIANA STRODE INTO MY office to announce that she too was leaving, all my fears came roaring back. Laurie had gone. Gina had gone. Giulio was in trouble. And now Diana was walking out the door.
“Why?” I moaned. Even to my own ears I sounded like a child.
“I’ve decided to retire. I’ve got enough money saved, the book’s running smoothly, and it’s time for me to go.”
“I warned you,” said Truman. “Diana gets restless. She enjoys creating new things and fixing broken ones. Gourmet’s not new, it’s no longer broken, and the day-to-day operations pose no challenges to her.” He gave me a searching look, saw my fear, and misunderstood. “You can’t take it personally,” he said.
There was no point in trying to explain. But as a parade of art directors trooped through my office, I grew increasingly uneasy. I met talented art directors, pleasant art directors, creative art directors—but none of them inspired me as Diana had done. She had given Gourmet a signature look, and none of them struck me as capable of building on it. On the dreary, rainy afternoon when Robin ushered the latest candidate in, I was in despair.
The man was slight, so thin that the large black umbrella he clutched looked like it weighed more than he did. In the other hand he carried an enormous portfolio, which seemed to be tugging him forward like an impatient dog. Richard Ferretti dripped across the office, brushed back his long black hair, and joined me at the table.
He slid his résumé in front of me, and I sighed as I examined a long list of clients from Coach to Revlon. Although it included many magazines, they were all in the past, so I began with the obvious question: “Why would you want to go back to working at a magazine?”
“I don’t want to work at a magazine.” As he smoothed back the strands of shiny blue-black hair, I wondered how old he was. His lean, intelligent face seemed much younger than his résumé indicated. “I want to work at Gourmet.”
“Why?”
He looked directly at me, startling me with the intensity of his gaze. “Because I love to cook and I like what you’re doing here. But the visuals could be so much stronger. You need to take more chances.”
When I just stared at him, he rose, went over to the rack of back issues, and extracted a few. Opening the first to the big “Gourmet Entertains” centerfold, he threw it down before me. Then he did the same with the others. “The food’s beautiful.” He gestured at an elegantly set table. “Often the setting is too. But that’s it. These are random pictures of pretty food. And it would be so much more powerful if you were telling stories.”
Pulling out a notebook, he began to sketch. “We could create a script for every menu and shoot it like a movie. Nobody’s ever done that, but think about how much more exciting it would be. You’d be able to imagine yourself sitting at the table with these people, know what their relationships were and what they were talking about. We could invite the readers to join us at a party every month.”
This is what went through my mind: Why didn’t I think of that? What else did this extraordinary person have to teach me?
“There’s so much you could be doing!” He got up, so animated now that a force field seemed to surround him. “All the food magazines use the same photographers. Why limit yourself when there are so many other talented people? What if we used photographers who have never shot food before? Think how different they’d make everything look; it would give us
a whole new perspective.”
“And what else?”
“I’d like to shoot a real party, in real time.”
This was ridiculous. Our photo shoots required weeks of preparation; we arrived at each location with at least two versions of every dish, along with extra plates and props. We chose the models, coordinated their clothes, spent hours setting up lights and considering angles. “You’d never have enough time to shoot a real party in natural light. It would get dark; the food would get cold; people would look wrong. You’d miss most of it.”
“We might.” He was matter-of-fact. “On the other hand, we might get something extraordinary. We could hire news photographers; they’re used to shooting fast, no second chances. If it worked, we’d end up with a kind of immediacy that would set it apart from every other food shoot you’ve ever seen. Why not try? It could be amazing!”
Richard was just getting started; he overflowed with ideas. “I’d like to work with the cooks, think about the visuals as they’re developing the recipes. Afterward is too late. And I’ve always wanted to shoot a meal that looks like one of those Dutch master paintings.”
The light outside faded. When Doc poked his head in to say good night, Richard and I were sitting in the dark, still talking, the words spilling from our mouths. “You’ve been taking risks, and there’s nothing more difficult. But I think you need to push the envelope even more.”
I glanced at my watch; we’d been talking for hours, and there was still so much to say. Reluctantly, I stood. “My family will be starving; I need to go home and cook dinner.”
“I need to go too,” he said, but we stood for a moment, wistfully regarding each other. Working with him, I thought, would be an adventure.
“You can’t afford Richard Ferretti.” Truman said it flatly. “He’s got his own business and he makes a lot of money.”
“I think he might come anyway.” I was absurdly optimistic. Truman shook his head, loath to disappoint me. He was visibly surprised when Richard said yes, and I was so excited that I began taking risks even before he came on board.
Whose idea was it to hire Matthew Rolston, famous for his Rolling Stone covers, to shoot our restaurant issue? Who thought of gathering a group of chefs and posing them like rock stars? I don’t remember. What I do remember is the excitement at the magazine as we began planning the cover.
The band we ultimately assembled featured the country’s hottest chefs playing “instruments” constructed out of kitchen utensils. Dallas chef Dean Fearing, who was then at the Mansion on Turtle Creek, strutted with a “guitar” made out of spatulas, pot lids, cooling racks, and pastry tips, as did Laurent Gras (he’d left Alain Ducasse to come to the United States and was currently chef at the Fifth Floor in San Francisco); Scott Conant of New York’s L’Impero was on kettle drums made of giant pots, using wooden spoons as sticks. Fronting the band, Suzanne Goin of L.A.’s Lucques was made up in deep goth, singing into a microphone made out of a whisk. Above it all was Eric Ripert of Le Bernardin, shaking an equally inventive “tambourine” above his head and seeming to leap straight off the cover.
Truman took one look and predicted it would be a newsstand disaster. “Run it anyway,” he said. “It’s worth doing.” It was October 2003, and chefs were becoming major celebrities, complete with screaming groupies. “You’ll be glad you did,” he said. “You’re the first to illustrate this trend.”
He was right on all counts: The cover didn’t sell, but it was a watershed moment. It did not look like any epicurean publication of the past. And it was only the beginning.
“The thing about Richard,” Zanne remarked at the end of his first week, “is that everyone on staff—male and female—wants to sleep with him.”
I looked at that elegant woman, delighting once again in her bawdy sense of humor, thinking it was absolutely true. Richard wasn’t flirtatious, but we all tumbled headlong into love with him. I think it was because he had a way of listening intently to every idea—and then making it better.
Most epicurean magazines employ stylists, whose mission is making food look pretty. Richard turned that on its head. Before the cooks diced their first onion, he weighed in on shape and color. “All the other magazines,” one photographer confided, “keep asking why my shots look so much better in Gourmet. I tell them it’s the Ferretti factor.”
We’d been planning an issue on movies and food, but Richard instantly raised the ante. “Close your eyes,” he commanded, walking into my office, “open your mouth, and let your imagination run wild.”
He fed me a chocolate concoction. At first all I experienced was rich cream and soft butter, then chocolate came surging to the fore, followed by a little trill of cognac and the faintest bitter tinge of coffee. As the carousel of flavors whirled through my brain, I dreamed myself into a painting by Renoir. I was in a Paris restaurant at the turn of the century, gazing into an ornate gilt-edged mirror. Champagne flowed and a band played soft music as a dessert cart, laden with tartes and bombes, approached. On top sat the pièce de résistance. My eyes flew open. “It’s a classic gâteau opéra!”
“You said you wanted a beautiful menu,” he said, “so I thought about shooting a romantic little love story based on Gigi.” He hummed a few bars of “The Night They Invented Champagne.” “I’ve been going through the movie frame by frame; it could be gorgeous.”
“What else is on the menu?”
“Zanne and Kempy say it’s been a long time since Gourmet did an elegant French meal. They’re thinking roast quail, perhaps with figs, in a voluptuous red wine sauce. Those beautiful eggs, for starters, scrambled with cream, spooned back into the shell, and topped with heaps of caviar. A leafy little salad in a champagne vinaigrette. Camembert so ripe it drips. Great old burgundies.”
“But it’s so complicated! Tell me honestly how long it took the cooks to concoct that gâteau.”
“Four hours.”
“Exactly! The readers always say they appreciate a challenge. Then they complain that our recipes take too much time.”
“It could be fantastic….” He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.
“Okay,” I conceded, “we’ll go with the Gigi menu. But only if the other menu is really casual and extremely easy.” I began thinking out loud. “All-American, maybe, with ingredients sourced from the supermarket. Maybe a menu from a fifties Western or something like that.”
“I have another idea,” he said. “Let’s not shoot a second film meal. So predictable. What if we focus on the audience instead of the film?”
“But all people ever eat at the movies are candy and popcorn.”
“You don’t have to go to a theater to watch a movie. What if they were at home, in front of the TV? We could have them in the dark, plates on their laps. Has Gourmet ever done anything like that?”
“Of course not.”
“Then it’s perfect.”
“I’m thinking chili and salad,” said Gina Marie Miraglia Eriquez when Zanne assigned her to the story. Gina Marie was a voluptuous Bensonhurst beauty, with long dark ringlets and a down-to-earth air. Her entire extended family lived within a few blocks of one another, and we listened enviously as she told about the meals her mother made. A dozen people—even the parish priest—sat down to Sunday dinners of homemade lasagna, marinated eggplant, beef braciole….It seemed like a charmed existence, something out of the past.
But Richard wasn’t interested in chili. “We can’t have people with bowls on their laps; it’s too hard to see the food. Besides, where would they put the salad? They’d be juggling plates, and it would be awkward. We need an entire meal that can fit on one plate.”
“Sloppy joes?” she suggested. “On biscuits?”
“Better.” Richard closed his eyes, picturing it. “But won’t the salad dressing make the biscuits soggy?”
“It doesn’t have to be salad. I’ll
come up with another vegetable.” She stood to go. “But I have this idea for dessert: I want it to be like one of those candy bars you buy at a movie concession. You know, chocolate and peanuts.”
“Topped with popcorn?” I suggested.
“Too obvious,” said Richard.
FIRST TASTE
Gina Marie removed a tray of hot biscuits from the oven, and the scent of butter soared deliciously into the air. Steam rose as she split a biscuit and ladled a thick, savory stew over the top. The scent attracted a herd of cooks, who came galloping toward us, forks in hand.
Zanne swooped in for a bite. “Is there ketchup in here?” she asked suspiciously. “I swear I taste ketchup.”
Gina Marie rolled her eyes. “They’re sloppy joes,” she said. “Of course there’s ketchup.”
Zanne took another taste. “Kind of ordinary if you ask me. It’s not very Gourmet.”
“Maybe you should ramp up the vinegar,” suggested Kempy. “And add a little cumin.”
“That’s what you always say.” I couldn’t help myself. “Personally, I’d try a little lemon peel in the biscuits.”
“And that,” said Kempy, “is what you always say.”
Richard said nothing; he was staring intently at the stew. “It’s too dark,” he said. “Could you use turkey instead of beef? I think it would photograph better.”
SECOND TASTE
Richard smiled down at the new sloppy joes. “They look so much better with turkey.”
Zanne reached out a fork. “Taste better too. Cleaner. But that cumin’s got to go.”
“I only put it in for Kempy,” said Gina Marie. “It’s not right. You know it’s not right. Can I please take it out now?”
“Okay.” Kempy was gracious in defeat.
“I’m still not sure about the ketchup,” Zanne mused, “but can we talk about the biscuits? They’re just not floating my boat. Can’t you do better?”