Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,30

now I saw that there was another side to that coin: Nothing feels as good as building a team and empowering people, watching them grow and thrive.

A Condé Nast honcho once carped that I was “too accessible.” I considered that a great compliment. When I’d arrived a quiet haze of depression had been hanging over the office and it had now been replaced by animation, noise, constant conversation. People talked in the halls, gathered in the kitchen, so filled with ideas that the whole place felt as if it was humming.

Larry watched it all with an air of benign amusement. “It might be a good thing,” he conceded one day, “that you and Laurie are so new to this. You don’t know what’s not possible, so you just keep saying yes. It’s a bit anarchic, but it certainly makes life interesting.”

It would have killed me to admit it, but without Larry we’d have been lost. Nobody was thrilled with his new procedures—we were all marching to his tune—but each day the place ran a little more smoothly. We might resent his endless tinkering, but Larry made us all feel safe.

We were an odd trio, Laurie, Larry, and I, but we had perfect equilibrium, and before long we each began to understand our role in the institution we were creating. I was the cheerleader, the instigator, creating chaos, insisting we make changes right up to the last minute when someone came up with a better idea. The staid magazine, which had always operated at a stately pace, was now speeding along in a constant state of flux. Laurie was the nurturer, mopping up behind me, always calm, always available, always ready to talk. And Larry was the disciplinarian who kept us all in line.

But there was more to Larry than met the eye. He had an uncanny ability to see beneath the surface and an unerring instinct for talent. Over time he hired the most remarkable people.

“You sure about this?” I said when he introduced our new copy editor, a skinny Brit with bad teeth and a shaved head, dressed almost entirely in leather and enveloped in a cloud of invisible smoke. “He looks like the drummer in a punk band.”

“That’s exactly what he used to be,” Larry replied. “Two bands, actually: One was called the Art Attacks. The other was the Monochrome Set.”

“And you want him for a copy editor? Don’t you think he’s weird?”

Larry gave me his coolest stare. “And how, exactly,” he said, “would that make him different from you?”

Despite his appearance, John Haney turned out to be curious, meticulous, detail-oriented, and extremely literary; he was, in short, the perfect copy editor and a vital part of the new Gourmet we were creating.

The huge chasm between the old and the new did not become entirely clear for a few more months. But in the fall, when we moved into our new offices, Zanne suggested I invite Jane Montant, who had edited the magazine in its halcyon years, to come to tea. “It would be a gracious gesture,” she said. “Mrs. Montant would appreciate it. You should invite Ronny Jaques too; he was our photographer for many years. He lives in Europe, but he’s in town for a few days, and you really ought to meet him.”

Mrs. Montant swept into my office like a great yacht, towing the petite photographer in her wake. Even at eighty-three she was an elegant creature, with silver hair and a determined gait. She stopped stock-still in the center and stared critically around, making an obvious effort to hide her distaste for the brightly colored modern furniture.

White-haired and rosy-cheeked, Ronny was quite a contrast. Eyes twinkling, he gazed curiously at each object with the air of a friendly leprechaun, looking so young it was almost impossible to accept that he was nearly ninety. Ronny had worked for many magazines during a long and distinguished career, photographing everyone who mattered—royalty, stars, politicians. You instantly knew that this man was comfortable in his own skin.

“We had so much fun!” he cried as I poured them each a glass of wine. Tea, it seemed, held no interest for them.

“We did!” Mrs. M. turned to him. “Remember that day in Florence when the traffic was so terrible?”

“Of course.” The sparkling eyes took on a wicked gleam. “The traffic just stopped.”

“So”—she turned to me—“we got out of our rented car, left it in the middle of the street, and went to eat.”

“You mean you just abandoned