Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,35
the elevator. Florio, in person, had been so completely convincing that I’d forgotten the Fortune magazine reporter who had caught him brazenly lying about everything from the company’s numbers (wildly exaggerated) to his military record (nonexistent). Still, I gaped at Truman, shocked by his candor.
“Steve is the world’s biggest liar.” He said it with vehemence. I can’t imagine much love was lost on the other side either: It is impossible to imagine two characters with less in common.
I turned, looking back down the corridor. Right in the corner, where it veered left, was Si’s office. It was flanked by Florio’s on the right, Truman’s on the left, a little Bermuda Triangle of animosity. I wondered what had compelled Si to set himself squarely in the middle of an editorial director and chief executive officer who didn’t get along. He was famous for the long hours he spent at the office, so he must enjoy it. But what did he get out of this ongoing acrimony?
“I’m assuming Steve called you up here,” Truman was saying. “Why? What did he want?”
I punched the elevator button. “I don’t have the faintest idea. All he did was talk.”
“That,” he said emphatically, “is one thing he’s very good at.”
* * *
—
“WHAT DID HE want?” Laurie asked the minute I returned.
I repeated what I’d told Truman. “It was bizarre.” I described how Truman had stood behind Florio’s chair, shaking his head over the lies. “I don’t think those two men have a single thing in common. Steve’s a big, brash swaggerer who enjoys spending money. I think he’s so accustomed to lying he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. Meanwhile, Truman’s so self-contained….He told me he spends a month every year at a silent retreat in some Buddhist monastery. I can’t understand why Si would want to spend most of his waking hours with two men who can’t stand each other.”
“Some people are fueled by conflict,” she said matter-of-factly. “But it’s lucky for us that he can tolerate such different personalities. It’s kind of amazing the way he doesn’t interfere, just sets everything in play and watches what happens. Do you think anyone else would hand you a magazine and let you do what you want with it?”
Laurie had a point. Truman offered suggestions and Si occasionally questioned a cover, but neither had ever demanded that we make a change.
“I suppose,” I said, “he believes in letting people make their own mistakes.”
“Yeah. And when they make too many he gets rid of them. Don’t forget that. You’ve never been very good at managing up, but this time you should cultivate a few friends in high places.”
“Florio invited me to lunch at the Four Seasons.”
“You have to go!”
To be honest, I was looking forward to it. I could not understand how I could like such a corporate creature, but for some reason I’d found Florio extremely endearing.
* * *
—
WALKING INTO THE Four Seasons, I couldn’t help thinking of my mother. For months before the restaurant opened in 1959, Mom pounced on every single word written about the luxurious new establishment. “It’s called the Four Seasons because it’s going to change with each season,” she informed Dad and me. “Not just the menu, but the entire décor will be redone every three months!” She regaled us with breathless descriptions of the interior, designed by Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson, describing in minute detail the dramatic Richard Lippold sculpture hanging above the bar. “It’s supposed to look like bronze icicles,” she said. But what intrigued her most was the famous Picasso curtain.
“Think of it like a museum,” she said the first time we went, leading us into the bar as if we were entering the Promised Land. I couldn’t help noticing that inside this luxe landscape, Mom became a different person; she even seemed to breathe more happily in here.
While Mom and Dad nibbled nuts and nursed martinis, I enjoyed the city’s most expensive glass of orange juice. But a single drink, no matter how slowly you sip, can last only so long. Mom sighed when Dad asked for the check, looking wistfully around: She longed to stay for dinner.
Still, the restaurant’s spell stayed with Mom as we dined on fifty-cent sausages down the street at Zum Zum. Grateful for her continued happiness, Dad picked up her hand, wiped away a spot of mustard, and kissed it. “Someday,” he promised, “I’ll take you to dinner at the Four Seasons.”
Sadly, he never did. Now, entering a