Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,60

run wild.”

He fed me a chocolate concoction. At first all I experienced was rich cream and soft butter, then chocolate came surging to the fore, followed by a little trill of cognac and the faintest bitter tinge of coffee. As the carousel of flavors whirled through my brain, I dreamed myself into a painting by Renoir. I was in a Paris restaurant at the turn of the century, gazing into an ornate gilt-edged mirror. Champagne flowed and a band played soft music as a dessert cart, laden with tartes and bombes, approached. On top sat the pièce de résistance. My eyes flew open. “It’s a classic gâteau opéra!”

“You said you wanted a beautiful menu,” he said, “so I thought about shooting a romantic little love story based on Gigi.” He hummed a few bars of “The Night They Invented Champagne.” “I’ve been going through the movie frame by frame; it could be gorgeous.”

“What else is on the menu?”

“Zanne and Kempy say it’s been a long time since Gourmet did an elegant French meal. They’re thinking roast quail, perhaps with figs, in a voluptuous red wine sauce. Those beautiful eggs, for starters, scrambled with cream, spooned back into the shell, and topped with heaps of caviar. A leafy little salad in a champagne vinaigrette. Camembert so ripe it drips. Great old burgundies.”

“But it’s so complicated! Tell me honestly how long it took the cooks to concoct that gâteau.”

“Four hours.”

“Exactly! The readers always say they appreciate a challenge. Then they complain that our recipes take too much time.”

“It could be fantastic….” He didn’t try to hide his disappointment.

“Okay,” I conceded, “we’ll go with the Gigi menu. But only if the other menu is really casual and extremely easy.” I began thinking out loud. “All-American, maybe, with ingredients sourced from the supermarket. Maybe a menu from a fifties Western or something like that.”

“I have another idea,” he said. “Let’s not shoot a second film meal. So predictable. What if we focus on the audience instead of the film?”

“But all people ever eat at the movies are candy and popcorn.”

“You don’t have to go to a theater to watch a movie. What if they were at home, in front of the TV? We could have them in the dark, plates on their laps. Has Gourmet ever done anything like that?”

“Of course not.”

“Then it’s perfect.”

“I’m thinking chili and salad,” said Gina Marie Miraglia Eriquez when Zanne assigned her to the story. Gina Marie was a voluptuous Bensonhurst beauty, with long dark ringlets and a down-to-earth air. Her entire extended family lived within a few blocks of one another, and we listened enviously as she told about the meals her mother made. A dozen people—even the parish priest—sat down to Sunday dinners of homemade lasagna, marinated eggplant, beef braciole….It seemed like a charmed existence, something out of the past.

But Richard wasn’t interested in chili. “We can’t have people with bowls on their laps; it’s too hard to see the food. Besides, where would they put the salad? They’d be juggling plates, and it would be awkward. We need an entire meal that can fit on one plate.”

“Sloppy joes?” she suggested. “On biscuits?”

“Better.” Richard closed his eyes, picturing it. “But won’t the salad dressing make the biscuits soggy?”

“It doesn’t have to be salad. I’ll come up with another vegetable.” She stood to go. “But I have this idea for dessert: I want it to be like one of those candy bars you buy at a movie concession. You know, chocolate and peanuts.”

“Topped with popcorn?” I suggested.

“Too obvious,” said Richard.

FIRST TASTE

Gina Marie removed a tray of hot biscuits from the oven, and the scent of butter soared deliciously into the air. Steam rose as she split a biscuit and ladled a thick, savory stew over the top. The scent attracted a herd of cooks, who came galloping toward us, forks in hand.

Zanne swooped in for a bite. “Is there ketchup in here?” she asked suspiciously. “I swear I taste ketchup.”

Gina Marie rolled her eyes. “They’re sloppy joes,” she said. “Of course there’s ketchup.”

Zanne took another taste. “Kind of ordinary if you ask me. It’s not very Gourmet.”

“Maybe you should ramp up the vinegar,” suggested Kempy. “And add a little cumin.”

“That’s what you always say.” I couldn’t help myself. “Personally, I’d try a little lemon peel in the biscuits.”

“And that,” said Kempy, “is what you always say.”

Richard said nothing; he was staring intently at the stew. “It’s too dark,” he said. “Could you use turkey instead