Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,22

I’m going to get? Oh, yes,” she added, “I also have a message from Marcella. She really wants to meet with you. I think she and Victor want to write a column.”

I’d met Marcella Hazan only once, at a book event. Her fans had walked in bearing armloads of books, eager for her to sign them. I absolutely understood; even now when I’m asked which cookbook I’d choose if I could have only one, it’s always a Marcella classic. “I love your simple tomato sauce,” I’d told her then. “It’s my son’s favorite dish.”

But the moment the words were out of my mouth, I wished I could snatch them back—this was no way to impress her. Marcella’s tomato sauce might be the world’s easiest recipe: It has only three ingredients.

“The one with the honion?” she asked in her syrupy Italian accent.

“That one,” I said, overwhelmed by such strong synesthesia that I could smell the tomatoes and butter slowly slumping into each other as they simmered into sauce. It is the most comforting aroma I know.

“I like it too.” She gave my arm a generous pat.

Marcella is gone now, but each time I make that sauce she’s there, just briefly, standing with me at the stove, patting my arm.

“Should we give them a column?” I asked Zanne.

“I’d be happy to get her recipes,” she said. “But Victor has a reputation for being difficult. Why don’t you meet with them and see what you think.” She handed me a fork. “Have you tasted the yaffy?”

I took the fork cautiously, knowing that this was a test. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing and give them the impression that I didn’t know what I was doing. It was bad enough that the editors thought I was clueless.

I could feel their eyes upon me as I studied the jewel-like little cake, considering my options. I could begin by commenting on the praline topping: Was it too sweet, too bitter, perhaps too burnt? Maybe the pieces should be smaller? The chocolate was another obvious target; I’d suggest using one of higher quality. Should I speak up for the mascarpone?

Then the fork met my mouth, and my body was flooded with sensations as the dark, dense, near-bitterness of the cake collided with the crackling sweetness of the praline. The flavors tumbled about, a sensory circus that was finally tamed by the rich smoothness of the frosting. It was all I could do to keep from reaching for a second bite, extremely hard to hide my smile. I knew this cake.

The cooks’ eyes bored into me. “I’m guessing”—I tried to sound tentative—“that this cake has an English pedigree.”

“How did you know?” Amy’s voice rose in surprise.

Zanne did a little double take.

“Unlike Americans, the English don’t overdo the sugar in their chocolate cakes.” The cooks gazed at me with obvious respect, and Zanne nodded sagely. “That praline’s a nice touch; lovely texture. And I wouldn’t mess with the mascarpone; cream cheese reads so carrot cake, don’t you think?”

“But it’s only a yaffy,” objected Kempy.

I ignored the interruption. “And I do think you should try better chocolate. Maybe Scharffen Berger?”

“Scharffen Berger?” Again, Zanne looked impressed. The high-end chocolate was new to the market, and she had not expected me to know it. I was, after all, a critic, not a cook.

“It’s excellent chocolate, and I find it really makes a difference in baking. And it seems to me that the cake might benefit from more eggs.” I looked at Amy. “Give it more body and improve the crumb.”

“Not a bad idea.” All eyes swiveled to Amy. “The recipe only calls for one egg,” she explained.

I turned toward the art director. “A couple more eggs would give it more height too….” Her lips began to curve into a triumphant smile and I hastily added, “But I don’t think it needs it. It’s such a gem of a cake.” The smile vanished.

“That was excellent.” Zanne’s eyes danced. “Thanks. I hope you’ll be joining us for tastes. We’d love to have your input.” She turned to address her troops. “Amy, you know the drill. Try it again with Scharffen Berger. I think you should do it with Ghirardelli and Guittard too. And try adding two more eggs.”

“Zanne!” Kempy was obviously annoyed, and I tried to remember what Zanne had told me about her deputy. Was there some friction between them? The two had been working together for more than twenty years. “We’re completely backed up, and it’s just