Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,5
figure out what that is.”
I stood up. “I’m flattered you’ve thought of me. I’m certainly not the obvious choice, and I wish that I could do it. But if you really want Gourmet to be the best it possibly can be, you need someone with experience.”
Truman didn’t move. “Think about it.” He said it with confidence, as if he was sure I’d change my mind. I reached for my purse. “I’m pretty sure that if I were foolish enough to accept your offer, we’d both be sorry.” Still he sat there, unmoving. What was he waiting for?
“Paparazzi,” he mumbled, pointing toward the door as if he could see a phalanx of photographers waiting outside. “We don’t want them to catch us leaving together.”
I laughed out loud, finally understanding what those cryptic words on the phone had meant. Outside again, I looked around to see if there really were photographers lurking about. The sidewalk was empty; I wondered if Truman would be disappointed.
It took a full block before I realized that I had just turned down the chance to run the magazine that had inspired all the work I’d ever done. I began to wonder if I’d been rash.
Everything I’d told Truman was true: It was a watershed moment in American food and I yearned to do more than simply write about restaurants. That article about being ashamed of being a critic had been straight from the heart; in the back of my mind I always heard my mother’s contemptuous voice saying, “Aren’t you ever going to do something more important than tell people where to eat? Is this why we sent you to college?”
I thought too about my son. Nick was almost ten now and starting to complain bitterly about my working hours. He wanted a mother who was home at night to cook dinner and help with homework. It didn’t seem like much to ask.
I’d spent nearly six years at the Times, and lately I’d been feeling it was time to move on. I loved my job and the people I worked with. We food reporters were a tight-knit group; we read one another’s stories and cheered our colleagues on. And in my early days the editors had been remarkably protective of me; it was years before they let me know how controversial my first reviews of small Asian and Latino restaurants had been. “We didn’t think you needed to know,” they said. But I’d been writing restaurant reviews for more than twenty years, and few people last that long. Eating out fourteen times a week takes a toll on your body, and being away for most meals does not improve your family life. And after so much time on the restaurant beat I was eager for a challenge; I could practically write reviews in my sleep. That fall I’d brought this up so frequently that my friend Marion Cunningham insisted I visit her astrologer. “I know you don’t believe in it,” she said, “but whenever I’m at an impasse I visit Alex. It’s always helpful. I’m making an appointment for you. My treat.”
Feeling slightly silly, I’d actually gone to see the man. To my surprise, he told me things about myself I’d almost forgotten. He knew about the crippling panic attacks I’d finally overcome and my deep resistance to change. At the end of the reading, as he was putting his charts away, Alex looked up to offer a final thought. “The stars tell me that you’re going to be getting a new job very soon.”
“Do you know what it is?” I asked. “Do you know what I’ll be doing next?”
He shook his head. “All I can tell you is that you are going to learn a great deal. And that it will completely alter your life.”
“YES, YES, YOU TOLD ME all that.” On the phone a few days later, Truman sounded impatient. “I’m not asking you to take the job; I’m just asking you to talk with Si Newhouse. When we met I thought I was looking for an elegant dinner party, but you persuaded me that we should be asking for a great deal more. I’d like Si to hear your thoughts. Would you be willing to meet him for lunch?”
Conflicting emotions coursed through me. I was flattered: Truman thought Si Newhouse would be interested in my opinion. Also curious: After my tea with Truman, I’d read up on Newhouse, and I was intrigued. He spent millions on his magazines and never seemed to