Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,52

chefs! It would be a way of giving back to them!”

Karen’s chef parties became a Gourmet hallmark. They didn’t start till midnight and they went on until the last reveler—usually the sweet, younger, not-yet-famous Tony Bourdain—staggered into the dawn. Everyone came. People sang and talked and ate. People danced on the tables. People drank.

I loved every one of those parties, but the one I remember best is the one we threw just after Si made one of his rare visits to my office.

He’d sidled in the door, face slightly flushed with what I later understood was embarrassment, and lowered himself into the seat on the far side of my desk. Leaning over, he whispered, “You’re going to have a new publisher.”

I was too stunned to say anything—I’d had no warning—and Si shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “We’re giving Gina a start-up.” He looked out the window, down at the desk, anywhere but in my direction. “Teen Vogue. She wants to build something from the ground up, something of her own. She’s earned that right.”

“Who’s coming to Gourmet?”

Again, he did not meet my eyes. “We’re bringing in Giulio Capua. He’s been the associate publisher of GQ for a long time, and he’s due for a promotion. But we had to give GQ to Ron Galotti, so we looked around for something else for Giulio.”

It was hardly an enthusiastic endorsement, but Florio, ever the consummate pitchman, followed up. Minutes after Si left my office, Steve was on the phone, selling me on my new publisher. “You’ll love Giulio!” he gushed. “He’s a real talent, and I know you two are going to do fantastic things together!

“Art Cooper,” he confided sotto voce, a secret for my ears alone, “is devastated to be losing Giulio.” He painted a picture of the legendary GQ editor in chief, begging not to be deprived of his beloved AP. “But this,” Florio finished triumphantly, “is Giulio’s chance, his shot at the big time, and he’s going to knock himself out to show us what he can do. And you’re going to get the benefit of all that energy!” He’d saved a final parting shot. “You’re a seasoned editor now, so you can mold him in whatever way you want. Wait and see; you’re going to be thrilled by this change.”

I had no idea what to expect; none of the Condé Nast publishers I’d met were cut from the same cloth. Some, like the legendary Ron Galotti (widely believed to be the model for Sex and the City’s Mr. Big), were as brash and flashy as Florio himself. The New Yorker’s David Carey was quietly brilliant, Vanity Fair’s Pete Hunsinger the epitome of a gentleman, and Men’s Vogue’s William Li the personification of hip elegance. When I met Giulio later that morning, he turned out to be different from all of them. Lithe and athletic, with strongly defined features and deep-black eyes, he was as striking as a figure on an ancient Roman coin. He introduced himself and immediately started talking about food.

“You cook?” I was incredulous. Gina was so uncomfortable in the kitchen that the one time she’d attempted to make dinner, she set the oven on fire. “I’d never used it before,” she said indignantly. “How was I supposed to know they’d leave the instruction book inside?”

“I’m Italian.” Giulio shrugged, as if that said it all, and continued discussing recipes. It was a savvy charm offensive, but it worked; delighted by the notion of a publisher who cooked, I said impulsively, “We’re having a party tonight. Why don’t you come to Chef’s Night Out?”

“I’d like that,” he said. “I’ve spent my business life among fashion people, and I’m curious about this new world I’m about to step into.”

This party was at Eleven Madison Park, and chef Kerry Heffernan had outdone himself. The food was interesting and inventive and the liquor flowed. Around three in the morning, Giulio came looking for me. By then we were all disheveled, but his suit was as neat as if he’d just removed it from the closet, and if he’d been drinking he could certainly hold his liquor.

His face, however, glowed. “My mind is blown!” He pointed across the room, where Mario Batali was standing with Daniel Boulud and Eric Ripert.

I didn’t understand.

“They’re together,” he said. “Talking.”

“So?”

“Mario just told Eric he has a kid in the kitchen at Babbo who should be working at Le Bernardin. He said he was going to send him over tomorrow.”

“Chefs do that all