Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,77

metallic smell of freshly spilled blood made the hair on the nape of my neck rise; despite my strong wish not to, I put my hand over my mouth. For a moment I stopped breathing.

“I can’t believe the guards let you in.” I cautiously lowered my hand.

“They didn’t seem happy,” Ian admitted. “But we flashed our employee passes and ran for an elevator before they could stop us. The doors were just closing.”

“I hope it was empty.”

Ian and Alan exchanged a glance. Ian heaved his plastic bag onto the kitchen counter. “Anna Wintour was in there.”

I stared at him, fascinated and appalled. “What did she do?”

“What could she do? She just kept backing into the corner until she couldn’t go any farther.”

I watched as he removed sundry bits of bloody goat from the bag. “Goat tacos,” he said, “are on the menu.”

I eyed him suspiciously—did Gourmet readers want goat tacos? Briefly, I envied Anna; she didn’t have to dream up ridiculous ways to generate traffic for her website.

Later, reading the story, I was ashamed of myself. There was nothing remotely ridiculous about the article Ian and Alan had written.

The halal butchers they introduced were proud men who had invested every penny they had in their shop. After September 11, they said sadly, everything changed and their once-thriving business began to struggle. Faith kept them going: They sincerely believed they had a God-given mission. Their goats were humanely raised on a rural hillside, and they were convinced their customers would appreciate how much finer they were than ordinary goats, how much more delicious. “It is this food”—the butcher spoke reverently—“that can help the rest of America accept Islam.”

As Ian and Alan waded among the flock of goats, trying to select the finest animal, the butcher stood to one side, sharpening his knife. He prayed over the chosen goat, thanked him for his life, and dispatched the beast with a single slash to the throat. As he delivered the carcass into Ian’s hands, he said quietly, “I know you guys will treat him well.”

It was a solemn moment, for the goat represented something much bigger than food to these butchers. It was hope for the present—and a prayer for the future. Looking back, it occurs to me that it was the perfect metaphor for gourmet.

THE MINUTE I WALKED INTO Di Palo’s, with its familiar scent of salami, prosciutto, chilies, and cheese, I could feel my body begin to relax. That cheerful swirl of scent and color always makes me happy. Lou Di Palo pulled off his apron and gave me a brief hug; from behind the counter, his brother Sal and sister Theresa smiled and waved. I’d probably live longer, I thought, if I stopped in every day.

“We’ve known Ruthie forever.” Lou released me and turned his charm on Tony Case, the Adweek editor who was following me around to get color for a story. “In those days she was just a neighborhood kid who liked to cook.”

“I used to come here,” I added, slipping into the familiar comfort of this conversation, “and stand on the endless line while Lou romanced the Mafia moms.”

They were small, those women, always dressed in black, with thick stockings and sensible shoes. But at the sight of me—the only young person in the shop—they straightened up and circled around, firing off fast questions. “You like to cook?” Their fingers jabbed, their bodies rocked as they reeled off favorite recipes, desperate to share their secrets. They yearned to pass them on to the next generation, but their children didn’t care for cooking. I was a last resort.

“I was standing right here when I learned to make that fresh pasta in my first cookbook,” I told Tony. “And I still use the Sunday sauce another lady gave me.”

“Mrs. Bergamini.” Lou fished in his pocket for a small triangular knife. “What a cook!”

“And what was the name of that great baker?” I asked, remembering the small bakery around the corner he’d sent me to.

“Anna Pappalardo! I miss her bread.”

It was the best bread I’ve ever eaten, baked in an ancient brick oven the diminutive couple had somehow carried onto the boat from Bari. Their loaves—just a few every day—were sturdy as the stones they resembled. But when you picked up a knife and sheared off a slice, a mysterious fragrance came floating out that made you think of a forest on a sunny day in fall. Each bite was like tasting history, like savoring the first loaf