Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,80
photographer were waiting in my office, and I spent all morning cavorting for the camera. For the final shot they asked me to hop onto the low radiator in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “That’s it!” said the photographer, squinting into the viewfinder. “The lights of Times Square are glowing behind you and the entire city’s at your feet. It’s perfect. We’re done here. Let’s break for lunch.”
The moment they were gone, Giulio peered around the door. “Is the coast clear?”
He came in and carefully shut the door. Something was wrong; my door was never closed. “Has anyone called about your new publisher?”
I let out my breath. “No worries. Jeff came by last night and we talked. I liked him.”
Giulio stared at me for a moment. “But nobody’s spoken with you today?”
“I’ve been with Adweek all morning.”
He ran his hand across his short hair, an almost desperate look in his eyes. Haltingly, he said, “I’m not supposed to tell you this, so don’t let on that you know, but there’s been a change of plan. They’ve decided that Amy and I are just going to switch jobs.”
I stared at him, aghast. “Let me get this straight: Yesterday Amy was being pulled away because Paige Rense wasn’t happy with her. But now they’ve decided that although she’s not good enough for Architectural Digest, she’ll do for Gourmet? Oh, that’s swell.”
“It is swell,” he insisted. “Amy and Jeff are both friends of mine, but she’s here at Condé Nast, so there’s no ramp-up. She’s got corporate’s backing. She knows luxury. It’ll be a seamless transition.”
Once a salesman, I thought bitterly; he can’t help himself. “You know as well as I do that if this is a promotion for you, it’s a demotion for her.” My anger was so sharp I could taste the bile in my throat. “They can’t think much of Gourmet. What a great message to send our advertisers!”
“Really, Ruth,” he kept saying over and over, “this is a good thing.”
I did not believe that. Happily, however, I had no idea of what lay ahead. So all I said was, “Could their timing be any worse? They might as well kill the book now.”
THE BAD THINGS HAPPENED FAST.
One minute we were on top of the world and the next ads were shrinking, newsstand sales slumping, and fear was stalking the halls of 4 Times Square. That fall House & Garden closed, sending rumors rioting through the building. Portfolio was doomed! Men’s Vogue was toast! Layoffs loomed and huge cuts were surely coming.
We survivors danced on the edge of the volcano, unwilling to admit that anything had changed. New York began to seem like a giant publicity machine, whose main purpose was reassuring everyone that things were fine. It was the perfect moment to launch our website; people were eager to help us throw a party that made not a single concession to the new economic reality.
Karen persuaded Daniel Boulud to host the gala at Bar Boulud, which was just about to open. “Everybody wants to come!” she exulted. “I’m turning people away right and left! And wait until you see the donations we’re getting for the goodie bags!”
Gourmet had thrown many spectacular parties over the years, but this one was different. Daniel seemed to sense that an era was coming to an end, and he created a sumptuous feast that snaked down the stairs to the wine cellar, through the many subterranean kitchens, up to the bar, and across the entire restaurant. It was a spectacular edible odyssey.
The journey began in the wine room; I stopped to sample a mushroom risotto ball that crackled in my mouth, leaving a haunting earthy flavor in its wake.
In the bar, a chef stood beside an entire leg of Serrano ham, holding the delicate black hoof with one hand as he carved with the other. “These Iberian pigs stuffed themselves on acorns.” As I bit into the sheer rosy slice, I imagined I could taste nuts in the soft lacy fat at the edge of the meat.
In the next room, Daniel had set out salmon in a dozen different preparations. There were also little pink shrimp in bright billows of garlic-splashed aioli and octopus smoked until the lavender flesh was smooth as velvet.
I found Doc in the adjoining kitchen, hovering over the charcuterie. “Have you tried the boudin noir?” I ate one, and a memory of blood and metal shivered through my body. “Have another,” he said. “You need to fortify yourself