Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,4

I forged ahead. “Gourmet is an important magazine, and it deserves better.” I thought back to “Night of Lobster,” which had so enthralled me as a child. “It used to be filled with such great writing; I remember reading M.F.K. Fisher and Annie Proulx in old issues. And did you know Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine first appeared in Gourmet? But now, just when the world is starting to get interested in food, you’re publishing articles about Louis Vuitton tennis-ball holders!”

I’d noticed that in a recent issue and it struck me as the perfect example of everything that was wrong with the magazine. Truman did not react; apparently he didn’t find it as ridiculous as I did. “As far as I can tell”—I tried to make the point—“Gourmet has become a place for rich people to plan their vacations.”

Truman sat back a bit, and it occurred to me that he was trying to put some distance between us. Suddenly embarrassed, I toyed with my teacup, trying to gather my thoughts. “You must think I have a lot of nerve. I spend my life telling rich people where to eat, and here I am criticizing your magazine for doing the same thing. But being a restaurant critic often makes me uncomfortable….”

“Why?”

“There are so many other food issues to write about!” I could feel myself climbing up on my high horse as I began ticking off subjects that interested me: the loss of farmland, disappearing fish, genetic modification, overuse of antibiotics….“A couple of years ago I wrote a piece for The New York Times Magazine called ‘Why I Disapprove of What I Do.’ ”

“I know; I read it.”

My head jerked up in surprise. “You did?”

Truman flashed me an impish smile. “That’s why I called; I thought it was interesting. I especially like the part where you said going out to eat used to be like going to the opera but that these days it’s more like going to the movies. I thought then that you would make an excellent editor in chief for Gourmet.”

I dropped my spoon, and it clattered against the thin porcelain. We both watched it vibrate against the saucer. Shocked, I said, “Editor in chief?”

“What did you think?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t think you’d offer me a job like that!” He grimaced; I’d raised my voice. “I was thinking you probably wanted a new restaurant critic.”

He looked so pained that I realized the man in charge of nineteen magazines didn’t hire restaurant critics; he’d expected me to know he had something major in mind. But how could I possibly have imagined this? To cover my embarrassment I asked a question: “How many employees does Gourmet have?”

“I don’t really know.” He waved a hand at an invisible army of editors. “Sixty or so.”

Sixty! The thought was terrifying. I couldn’t possibly manage sixty people. Everybody has issues with the boss, and all I want to do is please people. “I’m no manager,” I told him. “And I certainly couldn’t handle a staff of sixty.”

“Why not? You might have to clean house, get rid of everyone and bring in all your own people.”

I almost laughed; where did he think I’d find these “people” of mine?

He must have read my face. “Human Resources would help,” he said reassuringly. “That’s what they’re there for.”

Clearly, he wasn’t getting it. “Then there’s the matter of budgets.” I almost pulled out my checkbook to show him what a mess it was. “I’m terrible at managing money. What is Gourmet’s budget anyway?”

“I could get you that figure, but that’s not really your concern.” He sounded nonchalant. “You don’t suppose Anna Wintour worries about budgets, do you? You’ll have a managing editor to deal with money matters.”

I didn’t like his use of the future tense; he seemed to consider this a done deal. Didn’t anyone say no to Condé Nast? “I suppose,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster, “this managing editor will be one of the new people I bring in after I ‘clean house.’ ”

“Exactly!”

He had no idea who he was dealing with. I’d never fired a single person, even when I was an editor at the Los Angeles Times, and I certainly was not about to start now. I might be the restaurant critic of The New York Times, but at heart I was still a sixties rebel with a deep mistrust of corporate ways. My philosophy of management—if I had such a thing—would have gone like this: “Everybody’s good at something. You just have to