Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,26

the park, took kids out for pizza, made elaborate weekend plans. And he happily spent entire afternoons wandering the aisles of FAO Schwarz with my son. “Don’t worry about us,” Nick said importantly as I left for the airport. “Bob and I are going to be bachelors together.”

I suspected that meant brownies on demand, no baths, TV at all hours. I didn’t care. Nick was happy. As I stood waiting to board the airplane, it hit me that for the first time in months I did not feel guilty.

Then reality intruded. “Ruth!” The voice was familiar. “You going to L.A. too?”

It was Paul Goldberger and David Remnick. Paul had been culture editor when I arrived at the Times, which made him, briefly, my boss. With his pale skin, small nose, and soft mouth, he always made me think of an extremely dapper rabbit. He was, as usual, beautifully dressed, clutching the most elegant carry-on I’d ever seen. Glancing at the rope dividing us, he said incredulously, “Are you flying coach?”

“Book tour,” I explained.

The two men exchanged glances. “But you’re at Condé Nast now,” said Paul. “You’re an editor in chief.”

“I’m not actually on the payroll.” Why did I feel so defensive? “I don’t start for almost two months.”

“But you shouldn’t be traveling like that.”

It sounded like an accusation; I was supposed to be a member of their club, and I obviously didn’t know the rules.

“Where are you staying?” His voice was hopeful.

My heart sank; no redemption here. “The Hilton,” I mumbled.

“The Hilton…” Paul’s voice went squeaky with distress. Once again the two men exchanged glances, and I could feel my face getting hotter. Even the hotel’s location—the intersection of L.A.’s two noisiest thoroughfares—was undesirable.

At that moment the loudspeaker announced that the first-class passengers were about to board, and the men loped toward the plane with the unhurried assurance of privilege. I looked after them, clutching my battered suitcase. I had never traveled first class in my life.

I worried the entire flight that they would see the friends who were collecting me at the airport. It would do my Condé Nast cred no good to be caught climbing into a battered, rusted-out old pickup.

I need not have worried. By the time my carriage came wheezing and hiccupping to a stop, the Condé Nast limos were long gone. “Sorry we’re late,” said Laurie.

Some things don’t change.

In the mid-eighties, when I became the restaurant critic of the Los Angeles Times, I kept running into the same young couple when I went out to eat. Did they, I wondered, spend all their time in restaurants? You couldn’t miss them; they were extremely conspicuous in the small Asian and Mexican restaurants they seemed to favor.

He was pale and puffy with long, thinning hair and the mushroom complexion of someone who rarely sees the sun. She was tall, with golden skin, wild black hair, and a lean body that seemed to be all legs. No matter the weather he wore a scuffed black motorcycle jacket, while she favored bright prints in clashing colors. They were such an improbable pair that every eye invariably swiveled toward them.

For months we pointedly ignored each other. Then a waiter in some tiny Koreatown restaurant specializing in tofu insisted we share a table. We were the only non-Asian patrons in the place, and the man refused to take no for an answer.

Slowly, reluctantly, we began to talk. Jonathan Gold turned out to be the music critic of the city’s alternative paper, LA Weekly, but there seemed to be no subject on which he lacked an opinion. The girlfriend, who also worked at LA Weekly, was as silent as he was voluble. Most of the time she sat watching him with large liquid eyes, nodding thoughtfully as he spoke.

He was a classical cellist and rap music aficionado who was close to people with names like Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre. He also claimed to have eaten at every taco stand in the city. I found this hard to believe, but it turned out to be true. Jonathan also knew a stunning amount about Thai and Korean food and could go on for hours about the distinctions between the foods of Uzbekistan and Tajikistan. I found him slightly pompous, irritating, and utterly fascinating. I was pretty sure he felt the same way about me—minus the fascinating part.

Over the next year our edgy relationship did not prevent us from sharing many meals. Jonathan always talked a lot; his girlfriend rarely said much.