by Ruth Reichl
As Ian and Alan waded among the flock of goats, trying to select the finest animal, the butcher stood to one side, sharpening his knife. He prayed over the chosen goat, thanked him for his life, and dispatched the beast with a single slash to the throat. As he delivered the carcass into Ian’s hands, he said quietly, “I know you guys will treat him well.”
It was a solemn moment, for the goat represented something much bigger than food to these butchers. It was hope for the present—and a prayer for the future. Looking back, it occurs to me that it was the perfect metaphor for gourmet.com.
THE MINUTE I WALKED INTO Di Palo’s, with its familiar scent of salami, prosciutto, chilies, and cheese, I could feel my body begin to relax. That cheerful swirl of scent and color always makes me happy. Lou Di Palo pulled off his apron and gave me a brief hug; from behind the counter, his brother Sal and sister Theresa smiled and waved. I’d probably live longer, I thought, if I stopped in every day.
“We’ve known Ruthie forever.” Lou released me and turned his charm on Tony Case, the Adweek editor who was following me around to get color for a story. “In those days she was just a neighborhood kid who liked to cook.”
“I used to come here,” I added, slipping into the familiar comfort of this conversation, “and stand on the endless line while Lou romanced the Mafia moms.”
They were small, those women, always dressed in black, with thick stockings and sensible shoes. But at the sight of me—the only young person in the shop—they straightened up and circled around, firing off fast questions. “You like to cook?” Their fingers jabbed, their bodies rocked as they reeled off favorite recipes, desperate to share their secrets. They yearned to pass them on to the next generation, but their children didn’t care for cooking. I was a last resort.
“I was standing right here when I learned to make that fresh pasta in my first cookbook,” I told Tony. “And I still use the Sunday sauce another lady gave me.”
“Mrs. Bergamini.” Lou fished in his pocket for a small triangular knife. “What a cook!”
“And what was the name of that great baker?” I asked, remembering the small bakery around the corner he’d sent me to.
“Anna Pappalardo! I miss her bread.”
It was the best bread I’ve ever eaten, baked in an ancient brick oven the diminutive couple had somehow carried onto the boat from Bari. Their loaves—just a few every day—were sturdy as the stones they resembled. But when you picked up a knife and sheared off a slice, a mysterious fragrance came floating out that made you think of a forest on a sunny day in fall. Each bite was like tasting history, like savoring the first loaf of bread ever baked.
Lou closed his eyes and began tapping on one of the enormous wheels in the center of the shop, working with the concentration of Michelangelo hammering into marble. It broke into two plump crescents, and golden shards tumbled onto the table. He picked one up and held it out. “Look at that! This is the fall cheese, made when the grass is ripe and the milk so rich you can taste the wildflowers in the field.” He set the shard on a square of wax paper; it crinkled musically.
“Taste that! You know all Parmigiano is made only of milk, but this particular cheesemaker keeps the milk from each cow separate. After a while you learn to tell the difference.”
The consummate storyteller, Lou reeled off one tale after another as the editor scribbled and the photographer snapped pictures, framing us between great blocks of cheese and hanging salamis. This, I thought, is the image Tony had been wanting: a kinder, gentler Condé Nast.
Lou removed a small white ball from the bowl on the counter and peeled open the plastic wrap. “I want you to taste our mozzarella.” As he sliced into the soft orb, the cheese sent creamy liquid spurting across the counter. “See this?” Lou corralled it with his knife. “Refrigerate mozzarella and you kill it. When it gets cold the milk solids tighten, going from liquid to solid, and the cheese never recovers. It changes the taste and the texture. We make it fresh every day, from the milk of Jersey cows, and we never allow our cheese to see the inside of an icebox.” He handed us each a slice and we put them on our tongues, as reverent as if he were offering us Communion. The disk was rich, round, virginal, and as the flavor reverberated through my body I thought it had been far too long since I’d worshipped at this particular altar.
Karen Danick’s impeccable PR instincts had hit on the perfect way to frame the story about why Adweek had named me Editor of the Year for 2007: She wanted me to show Tony that I was not like the others at Condé Nast. “You think AnnaGraydonDavidPaige spend their time shopping in Little Italy?” she asked. “You’re not like them. I could hardly believe it the first time I met you! Before the interview, I had my hair blown out, a manicure, and my makeup done. Then I walk in and what do I find? You’re wearing some weird jacket with apples printed all over it, your hair is a huge frizzy mess, and you don’t have a drop of makeup. In fact, after I was hired the first thing Maurie said was, ‘You have to get her to do something about her hair’!”
Now, riding the subway back uptown, I saw how right she’d been: Tony had been charmed by this little outing, and we laughed all the way back to the office. But the laughter died when I saw Robin’s face.
“They need you in the art department.” Her voice had gone strangely flat and she was giving me a significant stare, trying to telegraph something. What? “Richard”—she gave the word great emphasis—“said to bring you over the minute you returned.”
I gathered that Richard’s problem was not for outside ears; he wanted me on my own. “Be right back,” I said to Tony, following Robin down the hall.
The moment we were out of earshot, she put out an urgent hand. “It’s not Richard; it’s Tom Wallace. You’re to go upstairs right away.”
Adrenaline shot through me; what was wrong? Riding the elevator to the tenth floor, I tried to think what this summons might be about. Gourmet was coming in on budget. Newsstand sales were strong. We were racking up awards: ASMEs, Emmys, Beards. And now this Adweek honor. I was dutifully creating the website. What could possibly be wrong?
Tom didn’t beat around the bush. “You’re getting a new publisher.”
“Now?” I went rigid with shock. “Giulio’s leaving? Before he can capitalize on Adweek? Why stop the momentum when things are going so well?” I thought about the way ads went down when publishers changed; the timing was terrible.
“You know how these things work.” Tom was all business. “Giulio’s done an excellent job and he deserves a bigger book. Paige Rense is unhappy with her publisher, so Si’s decided to move Giulio to Architectural Digest.”
“Who’s coming to Gourmet?”
“We haven’t decided that yet.”
“I guess we know who counts around here.” It was foolish to let my bitterness show, but I was too angry to care. “I really don’t believe this.”
Tom stared at me so coldly that I hardly recognized the nice man I’d once known. “Don’t be naïve; that’s the way it works,” he said. “You should know that. When publishers do well they move on; I had five publishers in fifteen years at the Traveler. You’ll be fine. What you should be concentrating on right now is the website; how are things moving on that front?”
Afraid I might say something I’d regret, I did not answer. “I have to go. The reporter from Adweek is waiting to finish the interview.”
“Don’t say anything about this,” he cautioned as I left. “We haven’t made the announcement, so you have to keep it to yourself. Si just wanted to make sure you were the first to know.”
And he didn’t have the decency to tell me himself! Things had really changed; for the first time since I’d arrived, I did not feel that Condé Nast was on my side. It was a cold, lonely feeling and I stalked down the hall, so upset my hands were shaking. I needed to calm down.
I went into the nearest bathroom and stared into the mirror;
a bright red spot burned on either cheek. I turned on the tap and let the water run cold, then kept splashing it on my face, over and over, until the spots were gone.
“Crisis?” Tony looked up as I entered my office. He politely averted his eyes from the damp patches on my shirt.
“Nothing major.” I could feel my smile sitting slightly askew, but he seemed not to notice. “We have to make a few adjustments. It’s the nature of the beast.”
“So”—he took out his pencil—“let’s talk about your publisher. How do you and Giulio get along?”
* * *
—
WHEN THE INTERMINABLE interview finally ended, I stormed down the hall to Giulio’s office.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” I shouted.
He looked guilty and miserable. “They made me promise not to. And until today I wasn’t sure it was going to happen.”
“But how could you let this happen now?”
“Do you really think I had any choice?” He seemed genuinely chagrined. “They said it was my call, but you know it wasn’t.”
“C’mon, be honest, you wanted it.”
He was too decent to lie. “It’s a bigger book. It’s a challenge. But if you move on to something else, I’ll always want to do it with you. You know that. We’re an awesome team.”
“Not anymore.”
“They’re bringing in a really good guy to replace me.” Always a salesman, he began his pitch. “Have they told you about Jeff?”
“What they told me is that they don’t know who’s going to be my next publisher.”
“That’s not true. A friend of mine is coming over from Parenting. I’ve known Jeff a long time; we worked together at GQ and I know you’ll like him. He’ll do a wonderful job.”
“Why don’t they give it to Tom Hartman? He’s been your deputy from the beginning. He knows the clients, and we all love him.”
“They don’t think he’s ready.”
“They didn’t think you were either.” I almost said it.
* * *
—
I GOT BACK to find Robin gnawing on her nails. “Jill Bright wants to talk to you.”
I sighed. “What now?”
The head of Human Resources could sound cheerful on the grimmest occasion. Now she was positively chirpy. “We’ve decided to bring someone in from outside as your new publisher.” She said it as if Christmas had arrived early. “We think you should meet him. When would you like to do that?”
“The sooner the better, I guess.”
“He’ll be there in half an hour.”
Jeff Wellington was a pale version of Giulio: about the same age, nicely dressed but without the striking looks and instant charm. Still, his smile was warm and he said all the right things: He liked what we were doing; the magazine had momentum and he planned to capitalize on that. This was a fantastic opportunity and he was thrilled to be returning to Condé Nast.
“A bit bland,” I told Nick and Michael, “but he seems like a good guy. The magazine’s on solid ground. I hope it will be okay.”
By six the next morning, when the hair and makeup people were fluffing me for another day with Tony, I had worked myself into an even more optimistic frame of mind. Giulio thought a lot of Jeff. I had liked him. Condé Nast had not abandoned Gourmet. It was going to be okay.
Tony and the photographer were waiting in my office, and I spent all morning cavorting for the camera. For the final shot they asked me to hop onto the low radiator in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That’s it!” said the photographer, squinting into the viewfinder. “The lights of Times Square are glowing behind you and the entire city’s at your feet. It’s perfect. We’re done here. Let’s break for lunch.”
The moment they were gone, Giulio peered around the door. “Is the coast clear?”
He came in and carefully shut the door. Something was wrong; my door was never closed. “Has anyone called about your new publisher?”
I let out my breath. “No worries. Jeff came by last night and we talked. I liked him.”
Giulio stared at me for a moment. “But nobody’s spoken with you today?”
“I’ve been with Adweek all morning.”
He ran his hand across his short hair, an almost desperate look in his eyes. Haltingly, he said, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, so don’t let on that you know, but there’s been a change of plan. They’ve decided that Amy and I are just going to switch jobs.”
I stared at him, aghast. “Let me get this straight: Yesterday Amy was being pulled away because Paige Rense wasn’t happy with her. But now they’ve decided that although she’s not good enough for Architectural Digest, she’ll do for Gourmet? Oh, that’s swell.”
“It is swell,” he insisted. “Amy and Jeff are both friends of mine, but she’s here at Condé Nast, so there’s no ramp-up. She’s got corporate’s backing. She knows luxury. It’ll be a seamless transition.”
Once a salesman, I thought bitterly; he can’t help himself. “You know as well as I do that if this is a promotion for you, it’s a demotion for her.” My anger was so sharp I could taste the bile in my throat. “They can’t think much of Gourmet. What a great message to send our advertisers!”
“Really, Ruth,” he kept saying over and over, “this is a good thing.”
I did not believe that. Happily, however, I had no idea of what lay ahead. So all I said was, “Could their timing be any worse? They might as well kill the book now.”
THE BAD THINGS HAPPENED FAST.
One minute we were on top of the world and the next ads were shrinking, newsstand sales slumping, and fear was stalking the halls of 4 Times Square. That fall House & Garden closed, sending rumors rioting through the building. Portfolio was doomed! Men’s Vogue was toast! Layoffs loomed and huge cuts were surely coming.
We survivors danced on the edge of the volcano, unwilling to admit that anything had changed. New York began to seem like a giant publicity machine, whose main purpose was reassuring everyone that things were fine. It was the perfect moment to launch our website; people were eager to help us throw a party that made not a single concession to the new economic reality.
Karen persuaded Daniel Boulud to host the gala at Bar Boulud, which was just about to open. “Everybody wants to come!” she exulted. “I’m turning people away right and left! And wait until you see the donations we’re getting for the goodie bags!”
Gourmet had thrown many spectacular parties over the years, but this one was different. Daniel seemed to sense that an era was coming to an end, and he created a sumptuous feast that snaked down the stairs to the wine cellar, through the many subterranean kitchens, up to the bar, and across the entire restaurant. It was a spectacular edible odyssey.
The journey began in the wine room; I stopped to sample a mushroom risotto ball that crackled in my mouth, leaving a haunting earthy flavor in its wake.
In the bar, a chef stood beside an entire leg of Serrano ham, holding the delicate black hoof with one hand as he carved with the other. “These Iberian pigs stuffed themselves on acorns.” As I bit into the sheer rosy slice, I imagined I could taste nuts in the soft lacy fat at the edge of the meat.
In the next room, Daniel had set out salmon in a dozen different preparations. There were also little pink shrimp in bright billows of garlic-splashed aioli and octopus smoked until the lavender flesh was smooth as velvet.
I found Doc in the adjoining kitchen, hovering over the charcuterie. “Have you tried the boudin noir?” I ate one, and a memory of blood and metal shivered through my body. “Have another,” he said. “You need to fortify yourself for all the lies you’ll have to tell tonight.”
I moved on to another kitchen, where chefs were serving coq au vin. Doc was right, I thought, spooning up the stew and idly wondering where they’d found the old roosters that gave the d
ish its robust character.
“C’est bon?” asked Eric Ripert. We stood together, watching a chef pull fish and chips from a vat of merrily bubbling oil; setting it on a little square of paper, he showered it with salt and handed it over. Burning hot, the crisp golden batter shattered to expose the cool white sashimi-soft flesh of the fish. I held out my hand for another.
The trail wound through pâtés, foie gras, tiny game pies, and rabbit terrines, each more seductive than the last.
Upstairs the éclairs waited, long pastries bursting with pralines, chocolate, mocha. Scattered among the sweets were small scoops of grapefruit sorbet topped with white chocolate. The ice was spare and tart against the voluptuous sweetness of the chocolate, shocking you to attention. I was concentrating on the flavors when Karen began tugging at my sleeve.
“Can I borrow you for a minute?”
She dragged me off to explain to yet another columnist why it was better, so much better, that Epicurious had our recipes. “It offers us so many wonderful options!” I cried. Gourmet could concentrate on literature, travel, politics. “It’s a win-win situation for readers,” I gushed to another reporter. “Since Epicurious will have our recipes, we can devote ourselves to giving readers daily updated content on all the other topics that we cover.”
“Boy, you’re good.” Doc stood off to one side, looking slightly bemused, as I spun these tales for the reporters. “Do you think anyone’s buying it?”
“Only if they’re idiots,” I mumbled. But here was Karen, once again tugging at my arm.
“Can I borrow you?” Towing me toward the Post’s gossip columnist, she whispered gleefully, “We just caught a crasher trying to steal a coat! A very expensive one! It’s going to make all the papers!”
People romped from one station to another, eating as if this were their last night on earth. As the hour grew late, the vertiginous swirl of celebrities, press, and chefs grew progressively louder. I’d promised I’d be the last to leave, but by midnight I was regretting it. I’d had too much to eat, too much to drink, and people were still flooding through the door. When I met Doc again, over the ripe Saint-Marcellin and Époisses, I groaned.