Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,7

and I had a hard time persuading him to do it.”

Not that hard, I thought cynically; the Condé Nast cafeteria at 4 Times Square was rumored to be costing more than thirty million dollars.

“And,” Si continued proudly, “George Lang, of Café des Artistes, will personally oversee the menu.”

“Will they”—I couldn’t resist it—“be serving garlic?”

“Of course not!” He seemed genuinely shocked. “I have stipulated that no garlic will ever be served in the Condé Nast cafeteria.”

My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t wait to tell Michael and Nick. What else, I wondered, had this eccentric man banished from his kingdom? Carnations? Trench coats? The color purple? How strange working for him must be: I imagined him decreeing that my hair was too curly and must immediately be cut, or that Gourmet should devote an entire issue to bacon or some other favored ingredient. I was positive now: I did not want the job.

Relieved, I lost myself in the food, concentrating on my cuttlefish. Charred until it puffed up like a tiny zeppelin, it was slicked with olive oil, sparked with bits of arugula, and sprinkled with copious amounts of garlic. From across the table, Si glared at my plate. I was beyond relieved when the interminable lunch ended.

Outside, a chauffeur stood waiting by a black sedan. “Get in,” said Si. “Let me give you a ride.”

“No need.” Eager to escape, I pointed up the street toward the subway.

“You can’t take the subway!” Genuinely appalled, Si practically pushed me into the backseat. The traffic was terrible, and as we fought our way up Sixth Avenue the silence became so oppressive that I almost jumped out of my skin. He hadn’t asked a single question about any of the things I’d discussed with James Truman, and when I’d tried to bring them up, he’d put me off. What was I doing here?

Emboldened by frustration, I blurted out, “Why did you ask me to lunch?”

He eyed me coldly. Once again I had the impression that he considered the question rather stupid.

“James Truman said you wanted to discuss the future of food magazines.” God, that sounded pretentious! I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Besides, who did I think I was? What did I know about running food magazines?

For a full minute, Si did not respond. At last he said, “My friends in Los Angeles tell me that you are a wonderful editor.”

“Editor? I’m a restaurant critic.”

“But before you came to The New York Times you edited the food section of the Los Angeles Times. Have I got that right?”

I nodded, amazed that he’d done such diligent research. In my experience, New York media people looked down on West Coast publications, and I honestly hadn’t expected him to know about that.

“They say”—I thought again how stingy he was with words, how reluctantly he permitted them to leave his mouth—“that it was both excellent and original. My compliments. I want Gourmet to be the premier epicurean publication in the country, and I thought we should meet.”

So Truman had tricked me? “I’m very proud of that food section,” I said hastily, “but newspapers are not like magazines.”

Si waved an airily dismissive hand. “As I understand it, the Los Angeles Times has its own test kitchen and photo studio?”

I thought about the small test kitchen with its two homey cooks; compared to the famously capacious Gourmet kitchens, with their many food professionals, the L.A. Times facility was a joke. As for the photo studio…In my mind’s eye I saw Gourmet’s perennial caption: “Photographed in Gourmet’s studios.” I imagined lights, cameras, action.

“And,” he continued, “your section won many awards?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “But that still doesn’t mean I could run a magazine.”

“Many people,” he said stubbornly, “manage the transition. You’ve made a fine name for yourself at The New York Times. We are prepared to provide you with all the resources you require, and I am convinced you would make a remarkable magazine.”

“And I am convinced”—I can be stubborn too—“that you are making a huge mistake. Gourmet is an important publication, and you should hire someone who knows what she’s doing. That would not be me.”

The oddest smile danced across his face, and I realized that he was, at last, enjoying himself. He was a negotiator who liked the action, and my recalcitrance made it that much more fun. This had become a contest, and he was not a man who liked to lose. His voice became a low seductive purr. “You really should consider it.”

He sat back, quiet