Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,16
of blueprints. “We’ll be moving to Four Times Square in a few months”—he put one knee down to keep the blueprint flat—“but if we act fast there’s still time to redesign your office.”
Office. I’d never even considered that. The only office I’d ever had was a repurposed broom closet at the L.A. Times, and nobody had consulted me on décor.
“Gail designed her office, but of course you’ll want something different.”
I looked down at the blueprint, noting that the windows on the space marked GOURMET EDITOR’S OFFICE stretched up Broadway for the better part of a block. The office was the size of a loft! What on earth was I going to do with all that room? I liked the coziness of the pod I shared with four other reporters at the Times, liked being surrounded by the friendly buzz of conversation. It was good to be able to look up and ask, “Has anyone ever eaten alligator? Can you describe the taste?” Now I had a bleak vision of myself, all alone in my regal space. The least I could do, I thought, was make sure my door was always open.
A decorator appeared, arms laden with sample books. She spread them across Truman’s desk, dealing them out like cards. The array of fabrics was so dizzying that it called to mind Gina talking about her mother-in-law’s decorator. What, I wondered, would her office look like?
“Gail selected this wallpaper.” The decorator pointed to a thick swatch of straw-colored fabric. “But of course you can have anything you want. Did you have a color scheme in mind?”
“I like bright colors.”
“Oh, good.” She seemed pleased. “Most of the editors stick to neutrals. Your office will be different.” She began handing me photographs of desks, chairs, and lamps.
“What I really want,” I confided, “is a big table where we can gather for meetings.”
The decorator frowned. “You don’t need a table; there’s a conference room for that.” She thrust more fabric samples at me. “This is your private office; you’re going to need sofas.”
“I want a table,” I insisted. “I’ll probably invite people in to lunch.”
“There’s a private dining room for that,” she demurred.
“A private dining room?”
“Of course,” she said nonchalantly. “Gourmet is a food magazine.”
“Actually,” Truman interjected, “the dining room belongs to the publisher. So if Ruth wants a table, she should have one.”
“As you wish.” She leafed resignedly through one of her books. “How’s this?” She pointed to a large round table, light wood delicately balanced on slim polished legs; the price would have covered every stick of furniture I’d ever owned.
“Beautiful,” I breathed.
The decorator scribbled something. “Do you like these chairs?”
They were beautiful too, a light buttery wood with red suede seats. She made another note and reached for a different book.
“Now,” she murmured, presenting it to me, “let’s discuss bathroom fixtures.”
“I have my own bathroom?” An image of the ladies’ room at the Times flashed through my head: The toilets leaked, the fluorescent lights hiccupped, and broken towel dispensers trailed paper across a cracked tile floor. “Does it have a shower?”
I’d meant it as a joke, but the decorator was apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but that’s not in the plans.”
I STOOD AT HOME, IN front of the mirror, rehearsing the speech. It was short and filled with bland platitudes, which I went over and over again in my mind as I rode the subway. I’m so excited about this opportunity! We’re going to do great things together! What else could I possibly say? I wouldn’t really start working at Gourmet until May.
The subway was crowded, the floor a slippery sludge of melting snow, the air steamy from all our wet wool coats. The man behind me was wearing an enormous backpack that kept jutting painfully into my ribs, no matter how much I squirmed about trying to keep from being poked. The woman sharing the metal pole with me had folded her newspaper lengthwise in a vain attempt to read it and my eye caught my name. REICHL GALLOPING…was all I could make out, no matter how I twisted and turned. It was hopeless.
Outside, I stopped at the first newsstand and bought a copy of the Post. And there it was—Keith Kelly’s column. Maurie hadn’t been so crazy after all.
Reichl Galloping to Run Gourmet
In yet another stunning editor shift at Condé Nast, New York Times restaurant critic Ruth Reichl has been tapped as the new editor in chief of Gourmet.
The 51-year-old critic, who takes great pains