Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,54
attraction. This was fine with me; I like interviewing people over lunch. You can learn a lot about people by watching them eat, and I wondered what I’d glean from my meal with John.
He walked in and looked around, seeming suitably impressed. He pointed to the Chinese-food line, where a famous actor was waiting. “Is that…?”
On any given day, the Condé Nast cafeteria was packed with celebrities whose agents had wrangled invitations. John slipped in behind the star and watched a cook toss tough nuggets of precooked chicken into a wok, add some limp, overcooked vegetables, and smother it all with garlic-free kung pao sauce. Tugging on his apron, the cook gave the mess a listless stir. “That looks dreadful,” said John, easing out of the line.
I herded him toward the sushi station, where “sushi chefs” were arranging presliced fish onto soggy seaweed. The skinny Vogue assistant in front of us leaned in to negotiate.
“Will you please cut my tuna roll in twelve?” she asked the chef.
“Eight!” he said curtly.
“Please.” She actually batted her eyelashes. “Please cut it into twelve. For me. I’m on a diet and it makes it seem like more.”
John gave a shout of laughter and edged out of the line to move on to the steam table, where a pair of GQ editors were earnestly discussing the merits of lukewarm fried chicken. He shadowed them as they surveyed a vast tray of macaroni paved in a thick orange crust. “I’d bet my life that’s not Velveeta!” said one.
John looked at the oozing tray and shuddered slightly. “But everyone says the food here is good!” His disappointment was palpable.
Only those who haven’t eaten here, I started to say, but prudently kept my mouth shut. You never knew who might be listening. “They make pretty good sandwiches,” I ventured, pointing to the interns jockeying for position in front of two white-coated workers. The men were conducting a frantic competition to see who could cram the most protein between two slices of bread, and John watched, mesmerized, as one stuffed a pound of bacon onto a single sandwich, then added a heap of tomatoes, a mountain of lettuce, and an entire avocado. Wrapping the towering concoction into white paper, he penciled “BLT” across the front and with a wink handed it across the counter.
“They know the interns aren’t paid,” I whispered, “but watch this.” The next customer, an older executive, ordered a Brie-and-prosciutto sandwich. The cook nodded briefly, picked up a dainty croissant, sliced it in two, inserted a sliver of cheese and a single slice of ham, and passed it across the counter. No wink.
“That,” said John, “is democracy in action.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess the counter guys figure anyone who spends twelve bucks on a sandwich doesn’t need their help.”
As I spoke, Si began to wriggle out of his booth on the far side of the room. I tugged on John’s sleeve. “C’mon. Hurry!”
Our timing was perfect.
We followed at a discreet distance as Si trotted through the cafeteria with his tray. John stared, rapt, as Si carefully separated the dirty plates and glasses. “I never knew,” he said, “how satisfying it could be to watch a billionaire bus his own dishes.” He gave me a sidelong glance. “But would you mind very much if we ate somewhere else?”
He’d aced the first part of the interview.
We rode the subway downtown and John stretched his long legs into the aisle, seeming comfortable. He did not ask why we weren’t in a limo, but he looked at me with those startling eyes and said, “My friends all call me Doc. I wish you would too.”
“Have you always been called that?”
“Just since college. I grew up in Iowa, and I was such a bumpkin my roommate said I reminded him of a country doctor. The name kind of stuck.”
“What college?”
He hesitated, looking so abashed that I was completely unprepared for the answer.
“Harvard.” He sounded embarrassed. I glanced at him with some surprise; every other Harvard person I’ve ever met has managed to drop the name in the first five minutes.
How could I not like him?
When we walked into Pearl Oyster Bar, Doc studied the small, modest restaurant with its long marble counter and took a deep breath. It smelled like clams, like lemons, like lobsters. “I was afraid”—he sank happily onto a stool—“you were going to take me to some stuffy uptown restaurant. This is perfect.”
We started with fried oysters, and I plucked one from my plate, showered it