Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,21
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 running 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