Save Me the Plums

by Ruth Reichl

  “Can’t you do something?” Richard pleaded. “The resolution and dynamic range are so much better with analog film.”

  I shook my head; it was a done deal. “A bad omen,” Larry predicted. “The next thing you know they’re going to cut back on the quality of our paper.”

  Richard’s disappointment filled me with despair. I’d always been able to protect my people; now I felt impotent, and I worried about what was coming next.

  It made me think about the moment, early in my career, when I’d finally understood what set Alice Waters apart from other chefs. I’d been interviewing Mark Miller, who had left Chez Panisse to open his own restaurant, Fourth Street Grill, and when I asked about his former boss he said, “Alice has no head for business.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Just look at that salad she’s so proud of,” he replied. “First she pays half of Berkeley to tear up their lawns and plant mesclun for her. Then she sells huge heaps of it for peanuts. I bet she loses money on every single salad that she sells.”

  When I mentioned this to Alice, she was unconcerned. “I want everyone to taste what salad should be,” she told me. “If I had my way I’d just hand everyone a bottle of olive oil and another of vinegar and take them out to a great garden and say, ‘There it is, help yourselves.’ ”

  I understood that attitude. Working at the Swallow, our communal Berkeley restaurant, I was constantly sneaking in provisions to keep the food costs down. I brought in my own herbs, spices, stocks, and homemade jams, willing to do anything to improve the food that I was cooking.

  Mark didn’t miss a beat. “The problem with most chefs,” he said, “is that they think it’s all about creativity. They don’t understand that a restaurant is, first and foremost, a business.”

  But it gave me an idea. How much could film cost? “What if I paid for it myself?” I asked Larry.

  The look he gave me said I’d lost my mind. “Do you have any idea what it costs to process film?” Then, demonstrating once again his uncanny ability to intuit my thoughts, he added, “This isn’t Berkeley. Believe me, the readers won’t notice and Richard will get over it. And”—he gave me a stern look—“if you’re thinking of running to Truman, don’t. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

  I let it drop. But it made me wonder how Truman was feeling now that Florio had gone. Despite their mutual dislike they’d been, in some strange way, perfect partners. Si had hired a flamboyantly competitive businessman and a passionate advocate for creativity, pitted them against each other, and sat back to watch the fireworks. In the past he’d maintained a delicate balance between the two, but now his thumb was firmly on the business side of the scale. For Truman, who’d always nurtured his people, it could not be a happy situation.

  It took less than a year before Robin was leaning over my desk, her face pregnant with portentous news. “James Truman just quit!” She whispered the four words as if they were too explosive to say out loud.

  I jumped back, as if the shock were physical. “Are you sure?”

  Stupid question.

  “Si’s secretary just called. She said Truman strolled into Si’s office this morning and told him he was leaving. Just like that! Can you imagine? I’ve heard he makes two million dollars a year…and he’s walking away. Do you think there’s anybody else who’d do that?”

  “Probably not.” Unlike others at Condé Nast, Truman seemed bored by glamour and disinterested in money.

  “Oh, God.” The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. “I hope he doesn’t replace Truman with someone like Chuck. Have you heard who’s in the running for the job?”

  Robin nodded solemnly. “It’s a done deal.”

  “Already?”

  “He picked Tom Wallace.”

  “Oh, no!” The editor of Condé Nast Traveler was a nice man, a smart man, but he had none of Truman’s odd, inscrutable brilliance. This did not make me feel safe.

  Diana had worked with Tom, and in her blunt fashion she was frank in her dislike. “The Traveler was so much fun when Harry Evans”—the magazine’s founding editor—“was there.” She’d said it more than once. “But all the joy went out of the job when Tom took over.” Her face always grew cloudy as she recalled the experience, and she used words like “sober,” “sensible,” “dependable.” I thought he sounded very much like Chuck.

  I didn’t know Tom well, but he lived in my building, and in my first week at Condé Nast he’d invited me to lunch at the Four Seasons and tried to initiate me into the mysteries of the world I’d entered.

  “Si will leave you alone.” He took an earnest sip of his sparkling water. Unlike many of his peers, Tom did not seem to consider lunch at the company’s most glamorous canteen an opportunity to get sloshed. “He doesn’t like to interfere. But I enjoy his company, and I make sure to ask him to lunch every couple of months. He’s very smart about the business, and you can learn a lot from him. If you take my advice you’ll spend as much time as you can with Si.”

  I remembered how disappointed I’d been. I’d been looking for advice on attracting great writers, but he’d wanted to talk about business. It was a far cry from any counsel Truman ever offered, and it did not bode well for the future. Farewell the fights, I thought; Tom would never stand behind Chuck’s desk mocking him. And he certainly wouldn’t make me bets about my covers.

  Deeply depressed, I sent Truman a note to say how sad I was to see him go. His reply came bouncing back. Was I free for lunch? This was a surprise. Truman treasured restaurants and was an ardent cook who loved talking about recipes. Once he even gave me an unusual tool for chopping vegetables. “I love my alligator,” he’d said, dropping it on my desk. But in the six years we worked together, we’d shared nothing more substantial than tea.

  It was a raw January day, and I pulled my coat around me, shivering slightly as we walked west on 43rd Street. “You must be the only person in the company who has the courage to quit,” I said as we crossed Eighth Avenue.

  “Probably. But a quote from Joseph Campbell kept going through my head. Do you know his work?”

  “The comparative-mythology guy? I’ve read The Hero with a Thousand Faces, but it was a long time ago. I don’t remember much.”

  “You should read Myths to Live By. The idea that’s been resonating with me is his notion that we must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned so as to have the life that is waiting for us. I’m curious about what the future might hold.”

  “You don’t have a plan? You’re just going to wing it and see what happens?”

  He turned his head, offering me his snaggletoothed smile. “At the moment I do have a plan. I want to stop at the tennis club and buy my girlfriend some lessons. Do you mind?”

  Condé Nast people didn’t perform minor tasks for themselves. They routinely sent minions. As I trailed Truman into the club, I thought how pleasantly prosaic this was. He would have no trouble adjusting to the real world.

  Lunch was lovely, but nothing of consequence was said, and as it ended I took a deep breath. “Can I ask you something?” This was probably my last chance to get his advice.

  He looked amused. “About Si?”

  What else did we talk about at Condé Nast? “I know I should try to spend more time with him. A lot of editors do. But he makes me so uncomfortable that every time he asks me to lunch, I come up with an excuse.”

  Truman studied me frankly. “I think you’re missing out,” he said at last. “He has an interesting mind and he’s knowledgeable on a great many subjects. But with Si things aren’t personal; I don’t think he operates out of friendship or loyalty. I can’t tell you the number of times he’s returned from lunch with someone who’s supposedly in favor saying, ‘You know, we really ought to fire her.’ So if you want my advice, here it is. Don’t try to second-guess him. And don’t worry about bein
g his friend. The way to succeed with Si is to simply make him the best magazine you possibly can.”

  It was, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. But for once I was not reassured. The memory of my latest encounter with Si floated into my mind.

  I’d marched proudly into his office to announce that once again I’d scored a million-dollar advance for a Gourmet cookbook. He gave me a glacial stare. “Why are you taking less than you got for the first book?” he demanded.

  I thought he’d misheard me. “I’m not! They’re paying us a million, just like last time.”

  Si’s look was pure contempt. “Exactly! A million dollars in 2004,” he enunciated every word, “is not the same as a million dollars in 2001.”

  My face went red and I stood like an errant schoolgirl whose dog has eaten her homework. “How much do you want?” I asked meekly.

  “More,” he said.

  “You won’t get it,” our agent had insisted when I called later that day.

  “Then there won’t be a cookbook. Si’s the one who signs the contract,” I replied.

  “And to my surprise,” I told Truman, “the publishers blinked. They were afraid he’d simply walk away. They agreed to advance us a million and a quarter.”

  Truman laughed. “There’s nothing new about that,” he said. “It’s classic Si. A few years ago he raised ad rates and Steve was apoplectic. He went storming into Si’s office, saying the marketplace was resistant and we needed to lower them back to where they’d been. Si looked up and said, ‘Raise the rates another ten percent.’ Steve was so angry I thought he was going to explode. But it worked! What you have to understand about Si is that when it comes to business, he enjoys the game. Editorial, however, is another story; he is deeply respectful of the editorial process.”

  “Then why are you walking away?” I didn’t actually ask the question; I knew the answer. Truman had obviously enjoyed his job. He’d started groundbreaking magazines, relishing the excitement of looking into the future and figuring out what was next. He’d rejoiced in every opportunity to break new ground, and if nothing had changed, he’d have no reason to leave. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin: He must have seen the writing on the wall.

  But where did that leave me and my merry little band? I reluctantly accepted that I had two choices. I could follow Truman out the door, or I could do my best to make my peace with this new reality.

  We parted outside the restaurant and I waved goodbye, standing for a long time as Truman wended his way across the crowded sidewalk. When I could no longer see him, I turned and walked back to Condé Nast.

  From now on, I thought, I’m on my own.

  THE SCENT OF FRESH ORANGES perfumed the air, and biscuits baked in the oven. Bacon sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the generous aroma of hickory smoke. The tantalizing promise of coffee and cocoa hovered in the background.

  When I was a restaurant critic, forced to eat out every night, breakfast became the most important meal of the day. I rose early every morning to make omelets and pancakes, bake coffee cake, knead bread, and I never lost the habit. I found comfort in the aromas wafting through the house, a sensory alarm clock that woke my sleeping men. I loved the way they’d tumble into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, teasing each other as they prepared to face the day.

  I looked forward to our morning meal with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. This day, however, I was on the warpath. “Listen to this!” I picked up The New York Times and shook it in their faces. “I’ve been reading about a new shop on the Upper East Side dedicated to ‘children’s food.’ ”

  Michael set his coffee on the table, carefully positioning it between the orange juice and maple syrup. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “There’s no such thing as children’s food! It’s a cynical modern invention. And it’s sending kids the wrong message, telling them they’re a separate species who couldn’t possibly like whatever the grown-ups are eating.”

  “But most kids don’t like the food their parents eat.” Nick poured an ocean of maple syrup onto his pancakes. He was sixteen now, with the appetite to prove it.

  “And whose fault is that?” I was not unaware that, behind my back, the guys were flashing each other the resigned look that appeared each time I climbed up on my soapbox. “Japanese children aren’t born with an innate craving for seaweed any more than American kids arrive in this world with a native taste for hot dogs. We learn to eat, and for most of human history children have done that by imitating their parents. But not anymore; now we’re feeding them a special menu of fried chicken nuggets and soda pop.”

  “I hate to break this to you, Mom…” Nick stopped, hesitating, knowing he was tiptoeing into difficult territory. “But when I was growing up, I never ate the same food as you and Dad.”

  “That,” I said loftily, “is entirely different.”

  * * *

  —

  WHEN NICK WAS small, Michael and I would lie in bed at night, listening to the nightmare sound of the deep, unforgiving coughs tearing through his body. He was always sick, but nobody seemed to know why. When a serious infection put him in the hospital, the doctors ran a battery of tests and discovered an immune deficiency. “This is why every sniffle turns into a medical crisis,” they said. They admitted it was a rare condition and they didn’t know much about it, but they also had good news. “It’s virtually unknown after the age of twelve. All we have to do is give him enough antibiotics to keep him alive until then.”

  Nick was normal in every other way. He was affectionate, athletic, and very energetic, so we kept his illness to ourselves. No active boy should be labeled “sick.” But he remained a sprite of a child, wiry and small, who seemed to exist on air. He steadfastly refused to eat anything that wasn’t white, and people joked about the restaurant critic with the extremely picky kid. And they laughed when I showed up at every party with an egg in my purse, just in case Nick got hungry.

  “He’s never eaten a fruit or vegetable,” I complained to his doctor when Nick was seven. “Shouldn’t I be worried?”

  “No sane child,” she said patiently, “ever starved himself to death. If you had to swallow antibiotics three times a day, you’d have no appetite either.”

  Still, I couldn’t help trying. “Won’t you just taste a snow pea?” I urged every night as I plucked vegetables from the moo goo gai pan we ordered from the Chinese takeout place down the street. It was the only dish Nick liked.

  “You know I don’t eat green things.” Carefully scrutinizing his plate for offending signs of color, Nick reluctantly picked up a fork and took a tiny bite, consuming his dinner with excruciating slowness. And every night I’d wonder how much of this had to do with the antibiotics, and how much of it was due to my job. A family should eat together.

  “Where are you eating tonight?” he’d ask, looking anxiously at my watch, knowing I’d soon be walking out the door. Our son made it very clear that while he had no interest in food, he’d much prefer not eating it with us.

  But I’ve never thought children should be forced to sit quietly while the grown-ups indulge in the stately theater of fine dining, and I didn’t want to inflict that on Nick. Still, I tried, at least a couple of times a week, to find a place he could enjoy, and for a person with no use for food, Nick was remarkably knowledgeable about New York restaurants.

  He could tell you, for instance, how fast the dance floor at the Rainbow Room revolved and exactly how long it took to circumnavigate the room. He knew that the Palm had the city’s finest hash browns and which chefs at Benihana—a bastion of white food—played the best tricks with your dinner, flipping bits of chicken high into the air.

  He would tear out of the elevator at Windows on the World to press his slight frame against the huge glass windows. It was like looking down on a toy village, cars nosing silently through crowded streets while
, off in the distance, planes took off and landed at faraway airports. “Being so high up makes you feel very important,” he said. Which was, of course, the point.

  When we went to Jekyll & Hyde—a funhouse of a place, complete with moaning walls and a band of musical skeletons—he insisted on writing the review. “This is a restaurant for kids,” he argued, “and I think a kid should review it for your paper.”

  He approached the assignment with great seriousness, thoughtfully tasting the curly fries (too spicy), the chicken (overcooked), and the corn (mushy). “It’s more like a talking playground than a restaurant,” he concluded, “and not nearly as good as Hatsuhana.”

  But as far as Nick was concerned, nothing was as good as Hatsuhana. His love for the venerable Japanese restaurant had very little to do with the food and everything to do with Osada-san, a small, gentle sushi master with an extraordinarily kind face and an almost mystical ability to discern his customers’ desires.

  For years he gave me the most exotic tidbits he could conjure up—pungent fermented squid guts, shiraku (he called the delectable cod sperm “children of the clouds”), and sawagani, tiny freshwater crabs the size of a Tic Tac. For Michael, he stuck strictly to tradition—tuna, yellowtail, and fluke. Then, turning to Nick, he would bow and say, “For you, something very special,” as he handed him a pristine bowl of rice.

  We were relaxed at those dinners, secure in the knowledge that Osada-san would never give us anything we didn’t like. Sometime around Nick’s eighth birthday he dipped a brush into the sweet, inky eel sauce and swished it across Nick’s rice. Surprised, Nick squinted down at the black squiggle. Then he picked up his chopsticks and took a tiny, tentative taste. Then he took another.

  Osada-san beamed.

  On our next visit Nick looked up innocently and said, “Do you have something else I might want to eat?”

  I was stunned—and a little hurt; he’d never trusted me that much. “Of course,” said Osada-san. I waited, fascinated, to see what the chef would offer up. To my deep disappointment, it was a madeleine.