Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,69

been held twice a year became monthly affairs, and I grew depressingly familiar with the dreary tenth-floor conference rooms. Struggling with spreadsheets and financial reports, I found myself thinking wistfully back to Truman asking, “You don’t suppose Anna Wintour worries about budgets, do you?”

New bean counters seemed to appear at every meeting, and they had endless questions. “Why,” they wanted to know, “are you still using analog film when digital photography is less expensive?”

“Because Richard prefers the quality” was my perennial answer. It had always been good enough for Si, who wanted the best of everything for his magazines. But now he sat silently by as we went digital.

“Can’t you do something?” Richard pleaded. “The resolution and dynamic range are so much better with analog film.”

I shook my head; it was a done deal. “A bad omen,” Larry predicted. “The next thing you know they’re going to cut back on the quality of our paper.”

Richard’s disappointment filled me with despair. I’d always been able to protect my people; now I felt impotent, and I worried about what was coming next.

It made me think about the moment, early in my career, when I’d finally understood what set Alice Waters apart from other chefs. I’d been interviewing Mark Miller, who had left Chez Panisse to open his own restaurant, Fourth Street Grill, and when I asked about his former boss he said, “Alice has no head for business.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Just look at that salad she’s so proud of,” he replied. “First she pays half of Berkeley to tear up their lawns and plant mesclun for her. Then she sells huge heaps of it for peanuts. I bet she loses money on every single salad that she sells.”

When I mentioned this to Alice, she was unconcerned. “I want everyone to taste what salad should be,” she told me. “If I had my way I’d just hand everyone a bottle of olive oil and another of vinegar and take them out to a great garden and say, ‘There it is, help yourselves.’ ”

I understood that attitude. Working at the Swallow, our communal Berkeley restaurant, I was constantly sneaking in provisions to keep the food costs down. I brought in my own herbs, spices, stocks, and homemade jams, willing to do anything to improve the food that I was cooking.

Mark didn’t miss a beat. “The problem with most chefs,” he said, “is that they think it’s all about creativity. They don’t understand that a restaurant is, first and foremost, a business.”

But it gave me an idea. How much could film cost? “What if I paid for it myself?” I asked Larry.

The look he gave me said I’d lost my mind. “Do you have any idea what it costs to process film?” Then, demonstrating once again his uncanny ability to intuit my thoughts, he added, “This isn’t Berkeley. Believe me, the readers won’t notice and Richard will get over it. And”—he gave me a stern look—“if you’re thinking of running to Truman, don’t. He’ll tell you the same thing.”

I let it drop. But it made me wonder how Truman was feeling now that Florio had gone. Despite their mutual dislike they’d been, in some strange way, perfect partners. Si had hired a flamboyantly competitive businessman and a passionate advocate for creativity, pitted them against each other, and sat back to watch the fireworks. In the past he’d maintained a delicate balance between the two, but now his thumb was firmly on the business side of the scale. For Truman, who’d always nurtured his people, it could not be a happy situation.

It took less than a year before Robin was leaning over my desk, her face pregnant with portentous news. “James Truman just quit!” She whispered the four words as if they were too explosive to say out loud.

I jumped back, as if the shock were physical. “Are you sure?”

Stupid question.

“Si’s secretary just called. She said Truman strolled into Si’s office this morning and told him he was leaving. Just like that! Can you imagine? I’ve heard he makes two million dollars a year…and he’s walking away. Do you think there’s anybody else who’d do that?”

“Probably not.” Unlike others at Condé Nast, Truman seemed bored by glamour and disinterested in money.

“Oh, God.” The words came tumbling out before I could stop them. “I hope he doesn’t replace Truman with someone like Chuck. Have you heard who’s in the running for the job?”

Robin nodded solemnly. “It’s a done deal.”

“Already?”

“He picked Tom Wallace.”

“Oh, no!” The