Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,72

look that appeared each time I climbed up on my soapbox. “Japanese children aren’t born with an innate craving for seaweed any more than American kids arrive in this world with a native taste for hot dogs. We learn to eat, and for most of human history children have done that by imitating their parents. But not anymore; now we’re feeding them a special menu of fried chicken nuggets and soda pop.”

“I hate to break this to you, Mom…” Nick stopped, hesitating, knowing he was tiptoeing into difficult territory. “But when I was growing up, I never ate the same food as you and Dad.”

“That,” I said loftily, “is entirely different.”

* * *

—

WHEN NICK WAS small, Michael and I would lie in bed at night, listening to the nightmare sound of the deep, unforgiving coughs tearing through his body. He was always sick, but nobody seemed to know why. When a serious infection put him in the hospital, the doctors ran a battery of tests and discovered an immune deficiency. “This is why every sniffle turns into a medical crisis,” they said. They admitted it was a rare condition and they didn’t know much about it, but they also had good news. “It’s virtually unknown after the age of twelve. All we have to do is give him enough antibiotics to keep him alive until then.”

Nick was normal in every other way. He was affectionate, athletic, and very energetic, so we kept his illness to ourselves. No active boy should be labeled “sick.” But he remained a sprite of a child, wiry and small, who seemed to exist on air. He steadfastly refused to eat anything that wasn’t white, and people joked about the restaurant critic with the extremely picky kid. And they laughed when I showed up at every party with an egg in my purse, just in case Nick got hungry.

“He’s never eaten a fruit or vegetable,” I complained to his doctor when Nick was seven. “Shouldn’t I be worried?”

“No sane child,” she said patiently, “ever starved himself to death. If you had to swallow antibiotics three times a day, you’d have no appetite either.”

Still, I couldn’t help trying. “Won’t you just taste a snow pea?” I urged every night as I plucked vegetables from the moo goo gai pan we ordered from the Chinese takeout place down the street. It was the only dish Nick liked.

“You know I don’t eat green things.” Carefully scrutinizing his plate for offending signs of color, Nick reluctantly picked up a fork and took a tiny bite, consuming his dinner with excruciating slowness. And every night I’d wonder how much of this had to do with the antibiotics, and how much of it was due to my job. A family should eat together.

“Where are you eating tonight?” he’d ask, looking anxiously at my watch, knowing I’d soon be walking out the door. Our son made it very clear that while he had no interest in food, he’d much prefer not eating it with us.

But I’ve never thought children should be forced to sit quietly while the grown-ups indulge in the stately theater of fine dining, and I didn’t want to inflict that on Nick. Still, I tried, at least a couple of times a week, to find a place he could enjoy, and for a person with no use for food, Nick was remarkably knowledgeable about New York restaurants.

He could tell you, for instance, how fast the dance floor at the Rainbow Room revolved and exactly how long it took to circumnavigate the room. He knew that the Palm had the city’s finest hash browns and which chefs at Benihana—a bastion of white food—played the best tricks with your dinner, flipping bits of chicken high into the air.

He would tear out of the elevator at Windows on the World to press his slight frame against the huge glass windows. It was like looking down on a toy village, cars nosing silently through crowded streets while, off in the distance, planes took off and landed at faraway airports. “Being so high up makes you feel very important,” he said. Which was, of course, the point.

When we went to Jekyll & Hyde—a funhouse of a place, complete with moaning walls and a band of musical skeletons—he insisted on writing the review. “This is a restaurant for kids,” he argued, “and I think a kid should review it for your paper.”

He approached the assignment with great seriousness, thoughtfully tasting the curly fries (too