Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,71

don’t worry about being his friend. The way to succeed with Si is to simply make him the best magazine you possibly can.”

It was, of course, exactly what I wanted to hear. But for once I was not reassured. The memory of my latest encounter with Si floated into my mind.

I’d marched proudly into his office to announce that once again I’d scored a million-dollar advance for a Gourmet cookbook. He gave me a glacial stare. “Why are you taking less than you got for the first book?” he demanded.

I thought he’d misheard me. “I’m not! They’re paying us a million, just like last time.”

Si’s look was pure contempt. “Exactly! A million dollars in 2004,” he enunciated every word, “is not the same as a million dollars in 2001.”

My face went red and I stood like an errant schoolgirl whose dog has eaten her homework. “How much do you want?” I asked meekly.

“More,” he said.

“You won’t get it,” our agent had insisted when I called later that day.

“Then there won’t be a cookbook. Si’s the one who signs the contract,” I replied.

“And to my surprise,” I told Truman, “the publishers blinked. They were afraid he’d simply walk away. They agreed to advance us a million and a quarter.”

Truman laughed. “There’s nothing new about that,” he said. “It’s classic Si. A few years ago he raised ad rates and Steve was apoplectic. He went storming into Si’s office, saying the marketplace was resistant and we needed to lower them back to where they’d been. Si looked up and said, ‘Raise the rates another ten percent.’ Steve was so angry I thought he was going to explode. But it worked! What you have to understand about Si is that when it comes to business, he enjoys the game. Editorial, however, is another story; he is deeply respectful of the editorial process.”

“Then why are you walking away?” I didn’t actually ask the question; I knew the answer. Truman had obviously enjoyed his job. He’d started groundbreaking magazines, relishing the excitement of looking into the future and figuring out what was next. He’d rejoiced in every opportunity to break new ground, and if nothing had changed, he’d have no reason to leave. Mene, mene, tekel, upharsin: He must have seen the writing on the wall.

But where did that leave me and my merry little band? I reluctantly accepted that I had two choices. I could follow Truman out the door, or I could do my best to make my peace with this new reality.

We parted outside the restaurant and I waved goodbye, standing for a long time as Truman wended his way across the crowded sidewalk. When I could no longer see him, I turned and walked back to Condé Nast.

From now on, I thought, I’m on my own.

THE SCENT OF FRESH ORANGES perfumed the air, and biscuits baked in the oven. Bacon sizzled in the pan, filling the kitchen with the generous aroma of hickory smoke. The tantalizing promise of coffee and cocoa hovered in the background.

When I was a restaurant critic, forced to eat out every night, breakfast became the most important meal of the day. I rose early every morning to make omelets and pancakes, bake coffee cake, knead bread, and I never lost the habit. I found comfort in the aromas wafting through the house, a sensory alarm clock that woke my sleeping men. I loved the way they’d tumble into the kitchen, hair still wet from the shower, teasing each other as they prepared to face the day.

I looked forward to our morning meal with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. This day, however, I was on the warpath. “Listen to this!” I picked up The New York Times and shook it in their faces. “I’ve been reading about a new shop on the Upper East Side dedicated to ‘children’s food.’ ”

Michael set his coffee on the table, carefully positioning it between the orange juice and maple syrup. “What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s no such thing as children’s food! It’s a cynical modern invention. And it’s sending kids the wrong message, telling them they’re a separate species who couldn’t possibly like whatever the grown-ups are eating.”

“But most kids don’t like the food their parents eat.” Nick poured an ocean of maple syrup onto his pancakes. He was sixteen now, with the appetite to prove it.

“And whose fault is that?” I was not unaware that, behind my back, the guys were flashing each other the resigned