Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,42

say something, madam?” A waiter stood above me, holding a tray of glasses containing champagne and white wine.

“May I have some red wine?” I stood up, ducking to avoid his tray. The waiter gave me a look so disapproving that I took an involuntary step back.

“White wine only,” he intoned in a sepulchral voice. His reproachful hand made a stately gesture, indicating the pale carpet, pale walls, pale sofa. He pointed to the art and thrust the tray of glasses aggressively in my direction.

Chastened, I took a glass. Michael followed suit.

Clutching the bubbly, we strolled the perimeter, feeling uncomfortable and out of place. “Just pretend we’re in a museum,” I whispered to Michael. “If only there was someone we knew, someone we could talk to.” At that moment I spied Gina across the room and made my way toward her, thrilled by the sight of a familiar face.

My relationship with Gina was vastly improved, thanks to the travel editor. In a move that took us all by surprise, Pat had abruptly quit to care for an ailing husband. Before leaving, however, she had offered up the name of her handpicked successor, and Gina and I girded for battle.

“Never!” I told Larry when he suggested I interview the man. “I don’t want another Pat.”

“Just see the guy,” he urged. “You don’t have to hire him, but it would be a courtesy to Gina.”

I’d learned by then that Larry was always right. And it would cost me very little. But the last thing I expected was the man who came bursting into my office, crying, “Couldn’t I just bribe you to hire me?”

William Sertl threw himself into one of my red velvet chairs, radiating fellowship and energy. Large and rumpled, with a humorous face dominated by a long ski jump of a nose, he leaned forward and confided, “I’ve always wanted to work at Gourmet.” Shooting me a roguish look, he added, “If you want to know the truth, I’m pretty sure Pat suggested me because she knows I’d do a terrible job. And,” he added guilelessly, “if you respected what she was doing, that would be true.”

Larry refused to be charmed. “I know you liked him,” he said afterward, “but that man is not what we need.” I watched him consider his next words, but he was never one to pull his punches. “He’s too much like you and Laurie. How many free spirits can we have around here before the whole place falls apart?”

In the end, however, Larry conceded that hiring Sertl might be a good political move. “Gina will be grateful if you hire Pat’s candidate. And if he disappoints her, she can’t blame you.”

It did not take long before we all realized that we’d lucked into the perfect person for the job. In addition to being a seasoned travel expert and a wonderful editor, Sertl had a million contacts and was an extremely entertaining writer. He roamed Gourmet’s halls with the irresistible curiosity of a child, poking his long anteater nose into everybody’s business. This would have been annoying had he not been so effortlessly amusing; when you wanted to find Bill, all you had to do was listen for the laughter.

Once he strolled into a meeting saying, “Sorry I’m late. I was on the phone with Ann Patchett, who’s deep in the Amazon. She just found a turtle at some jungle marketplace and couldn’t bear to have it become somebody’s dinner. She wanted to know if she could expense it.”

“What’d you tell her?” Larry asked.

Sertl gave him his most innocent look. “I informed her of Gourmet’s policy, of course, the one that permits writers to expense any animal that rhymes with the name of their editor.”

We erupted in mirth and spent the rest of the meeting figuring out what other animals Gourmet might be obliged to purchase.

Gina proved no more immune to Sertl’s charm than the rest of us, and with the quarrel behind us, our partnership began edging into friendship.

“I’m so glad to see you,” Gina said now, lifting a glass of water from a passing tray. “I’ve been dying to tell you about the strange encounter I had over the weekend. You’re going to love this!”

She took a sip. “I ran into one of the old Gourmet editors at an afternoon tea.” She mentioned a name; it was one of the patrician white-glove women who had chosen to leave when I arrived.

“Do people still have teas?”

“Old Gourmet people do.” A little gurgle escaped.