Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,6

count the cost. Would he, I wondered, be willing to buy the best writers for Gourmet? Would he really allow the magazine to be more than an “elegant dinner party”? I have to admit too that, despite my skepticism about the occult, I couldn’t get the astrologer’s words out of my mind.

Now, watching Si shamble through the celebrities at the city’s most expensive trattoria, Da Silvano, curiosity was winning. No one, I thought, would have taken him for one of the world’s richest men. The great media mogul was small, wizened, and dressed in an ugly olive-drab sweatshirt. He had a long, horsey face and gaps between his teeth. When I stood to greet him, he motioned me down with jerky little gestures of the hand.

“Tell me…” he said with slow deliberation, parceling out the words as if each one was precious, “what you think of the recipes in Gourmet.”

Recipes? Anticipating a lively discussion about the future of food magazines, I’d come armed with ideas.

“I don’t cook much anymore,” I replied. “I eat out fourteen times a week.”

His face fell, and he looked so dejected that I thought, oh, what the hell. “I did take a look at the recipes last week,” I admitted, “and I certainly wouldn’t make most of them. They struck me as a bit lifted-pinkie. In my opinion they should come down to earth.”

“Exactly!” The word rushed eagerly from his mouth, and I saw this was the answer he’d been hoping to hear. “My cook tells me they’re too complicated.”

To my horror, I groaned. He looked at me curiously. “And right there,” I explained, “you have the problem.”

“The problem?” His face had taken on the wary look of a child who fears he’s about to hear something he’d rather not.

“Your magazine is printing recipes for people who have cooks! That might have been fine in 1941, but these days only people like you have cooks. Gourmet is living in the past.”

Si recoiled, and I realized I might just have implied that he was old. I felt my face flush as I started casting around for something to say, venturing a few thoughts about the American food scene. Si appeared superbly uninterested, and after a few awkward attempts I gave up. He seemed to feel no obligation to keep the conversation afloat, staring across the table as if expecting to be entertained. The awkward silence stretched; I’ve never been much at small talk and I wished I hadn’t come.

With great relief I saw the waiter approaching our table. He was bearing a large antipasto platter, but as he set it down Si eyed the dish suspiciously. His nose twitched. “Is there garlic in there?” he demanded.

“Yes, sir!” The waiter said it with pride.

“I can’t eat garlic.” Si waved an imperious hand. “Take it away.”

The waiter looked agitated. “Sir”—he drew himself up—“does that mean the kitchen must avoid garlic in everything?”

Si gazed serenely up at him. “I told you,” he said sweetly, “I cannot eat garlic.”

The waiter remained rooted, not quite knowing what to do. I studied Si. When he’d suggested Da Silvano I’d been charmed; I’d recently reviewed the restaurant, saying how much I liked it, and it had seemed like an extremely gracious gesture. But now it struck me that an Italian restaurant was a strange choice for a man who shunned garlic. How would the chef manage? Would he even try? Si waved at the plate again and the waiter reluctantly picked up the rejected offering. I watched him hesitate outside the kitchen door, shoulders hunched in despair. He was, I knew, steeling himself for the chef’s wrath.

In 1998, unlike today, restaurants did not routinely ask if you had allergies they should know about, and most were oblivious to such requests. Now I turned to Si and asked, “Don’t you worry that the kitchen will try to sneak some garlic into your food?”

Si regarded me as if I’d said something stupid. “No,” he said at last.

It was my turn to stare. I’d spent years dining out with anxious allergics who, not content to arrive at restaurants armed with gluten sensors, EpiPens, and caffeine monitors, peppered the waiter with excruciating questions. Looking at Si’s complacent face I realized: Here was a man who was certain he’d get his own way.

As if to prove it, he said proudly, “Wait until you see the cafeteria Frank Gehry designed for our new offices!” His voice swelled with pride. “He’s never built anything in New York before,