Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,78

of bread ever baked.

Lou closed his eyes and began tapping on one of the enormous wheels in the center of the shop, working with the concentration of Michelangelo hammering into marble. It broke into two plump crescents, and golden shards tumbled onto the table. He picked one up and held it out. “Look at that! This is the fall cheese, made when the grass is ripe and the milk so rich you can taste the wildflowers in the field.” He set the shard on a square of wax paper; it crinkled musically.

“Taste that! You know all Parmigiano is made only of milk, but this particular cheesemaker keeps the milk from each cow separate. After a while you learn to tell the difference.”

The consummate storyteller, Lou reeled off one tale after another as the editor scribbled and the photographer snapped pictures, framing us between great blocks of cheese and hanging salamis. This, I thought, is the image Tony had been wanting: a kinder, gentler Condé Nast.

Lou removed a small white ball from the bowl on the counter and peeled open the plastic wrap. “I want you to taste our mozzarella.” As he sliced into the soft orb, the cheese sent creamy liquid spurting across the counter. “See this?” Lou corralled it with his knife. “Refrigerate mozzarella and you kill it. When it gets cold the milk solids tighten, going from liquid to solid, and the cheese never recovers. It changes the taste and the texture. We make it fresh every day, from the milk of Jersey cows, and we never allow our cheese to see the inside of an icebox.” He handed us each a slice and we put them on our tongues, as reverent as if he were offering us Communion. The disk was rich, round, virginal, and as the flavor reverberated through my body I thought it had been far too long since I’d worshipped at this particular altar.

Karen Danick’s impeccable PR instincts had hit on the perfect way to frame the story about why Adweek had named me Editor of the Year for 2007: She wanted me to show Tony that I was not like the others at Condé Nast. “You think AnnaGraydonDavidPaige spend their time shopping in Little Italy?” she asked. “You’re not like them. I could hardly believe it the first time I met you! Before the interview, I had my hair blown out, a manicure, and my makeup done. Then I walk in and what do I find? You’re wearing some weird jacket with apples printed all over it, your hair is a huge frizzy mess, and you don’t have a drop of makeup. In fact, after I was hired the first thing Maurie said was, ‘You have to get her to do something about her hair’!”

Now, riding the subway back uptown, I saw how right she’d been: Tony had been charmed by this little outing, and we laughed all the way back to the office. But the laughter died when I saw Robin’s face.

“They need you in the art department.” Her voice had gone strangely flat and she was giving me a significant stare, trying to telegraph something. What? “Richard”—she gave the word great emphasis—“said to bring you over the minute you returned.”

I gathered that Richard’s problem was not for outside ears; he wanted me on my own. “Be right back,” I said to Tony, following Robin down the hall.

The moment we were out of earshot, she put out an urgent hand. “It’s not Richard; it’s Tom Wallace. You’re to go upstairs right away.”

Adrenaline shot through me; what was wrong? Riding the elevator to the tenth floor, I tried to think what this summons might be about. Gourmet was coming in on budget. Newsstand sales were strong. We were racking up awards: ASMEs, Emmys, Beards. And now this Adweek honor. I was dutifully creating the website. What could possibly be wrong?

Tom didn’t beat around the bush. “You’re getting a new publisher.”

“Now?” I went rigid with shock. “Giulio’s leaving? Before he can capitalize on Adweek? Why stop the momentum when things are going so well?” I thought about the way ads went down when publishers changed; the timing was terrible.

“You know how these things work.” Tom was all business. “Giulio’s done an excellent job and he deserves a bigger book. Paige Rense is unhappy with her publisher, so Si’s decided to move Giulio to Architectural Digest.”

“Who’s coming to Gourmet?”

“We haven’t decided that yet.”

“I guess we know who counts around here.” It was foolish