Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,81

for all the lies you’ll have to tell tonight.”

I moved on to another kitchen, where chefs were serving coq au vin. Doc was right, I thought, spooning up the stew and idly wondering where they’d found the old roosters that gave the dish its robust character.

“C’est bon?” asked Eric Ripert. We stood together, watching a chef pull fish and chips from a vat of merrily bubbling oil; setting it on a little square of paper, he showered it with salt and handed it over. Burning hot, the crisp golden batter shattered to expose the cool white sashimi-soft flesh of the fish. I held out my hand for another.

The trail wound through pâtés, foie gras, tiny game pies, and rabbit terrines, each more seductive than the last.

Upstairs the éclairs waited, long pastries bursting with pralines, chocolate, mocha. Scattered among the sweets were small scoops of grapefruit sorbet topped with white chocolate. The ice was spare and tart against the voluptuous sweetness of the chocolate, shocking you to attention. I was concentrating on the flavors when Karen began tugging at my sleeve.

“Can I borrow you for a minute?”

She dragged me off to explain to yet another columnist why it was better, so much better, that Epicurious had our recipes. “It offers us so many wonderful options!” I cried. Gourmet could concentrate on literature, travel, politics. “It’s a win-win situation for readers,” I gushed to another reporter. “Since Epicurious will have our recipes, we can devote ourselves to giving readers daily updated content on all the other topics that we cover.”

“Boy, you’re good.” Doc stood off to one side, looking slightly bemused, as I spun these tales for the reporters. “Do you think anyone’s buying it?”

“Only if they’re idiots,” I mumbled. But here was Karen, once again tugging at my arm.

“Can I borrow you?” Towing me toward the Post’s gossip columnist, she whispered gleefully, “We just caught a crasher trying to steal a coat! A very expensive one! It’s going to make all the papers!”

People romped from one station to another, eating as if this were their last night on earth. As the hour grew late, the vertiginous swirl of celebrities, press, and chefs grew progressively louder. I’d promised I’d be the last to leave, but by midnight I was regretting it. I’d had too much to eat, too much to drink, and people were still flooding through the door. When I met Doc again, over the ripe Saint-Marcellin and Époisses, I groaned.

“It’s a great party!” he was saying as David Chang reached around him to snag a piece of cheese.

“Doc is so fucking cool!” David said. “Who do you know who has the fucking nickname Doc? If I had a nickname I would want it to be fucking Doc. How cool is Doc? I’m fucking Doc!”

Doc smiled, looking elegant and embarrassed; a nearby reporter was taking down every word.

“You’ve made Karen’s night,” I told him. “The hottest chef in the country wants to be called Fucking Doc. That’s bound to go viral.”

Our newest publisher stood back, watching it all. After Giulio’s departure, nobody lasted long—Amy had stayed less than two months. Tom Hartman looked exhausted. “Good thing you threw the party now,” he said. “I have a feeling we won’t be doing this again.”

“Really?” I looked at his tired face. “Are things that bad?”

He nodded. “Nobody up in corporate wants to admit it, but we’re in a recession and it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. Especially for us.”

“Why us?”

The look he gave me said I was absurdly naïve. “C’mon, Ruth. If you’re Tiffany’s and you have to reduce your ad spend, who are you going to keep—Vogue or Gourmet? It’s a no-brainer. If you’re a cruise line, are you going to cut us or the Traveler? And think about appliance companies. Viking makes the lion’s share of its money on new buildings; what happens when the building stops? Times are tough and they’re going to get tougher.”

I liked Tom enormously. He’d been Giulio’s number two and he was a smart, decent man with a fine sense of humor. He had an MBA from Wharton, a degree from Le Cordon Bleu, spoke fluent French, and loved to cook. In ordinary times he would have been the ideal choice for Gourmet, even though this was his first stint as a publisher. But these were not ordinary times.

“Is there anything I can do?” I was on my fourth glass of wine, feeling both earnest and sentimental. “I’d