Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,83
on everyone’s mind: “Are you planning to leave?”
Appalled that my unhappiness was that obvious, I struggled to come up with a reassuring answer. Larry beat me to it. “Ruth’s not going anywhere,” he said. I waited for the zinger that was sure to follow; in one unforgettable exchange Larry had declared, “You’re not nearly as nice as you think you are.” What was he going to say now?
“She might want to leave, but she won’t. She knows we’d all be in trouble, and Ruth wouldn’t do that to us.”
I stared at him in astonishment. It was the kindest thing he’d ever said. He grew pink with embarrassment and added a coda. “Besides, she can’t afford to. She has a kid to put through college.” The laughter that followed was relieved; everybody knew it was the truth.
Ads continued to decline. Jobs were frozen. The paper quality went down. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do a better job for you,” said Tom when they brought in yet another new publisher. His prediction had been correct: The recession was grimmer than anyone anticipated, and Gourmet suffered more than most. Tom’s replacement, Nancy Berger-Cardone, smiled brightly each month as she offered optimistic estimates of the number of ad pages she was certain to sell. And each month, still smiling, Nancy was forced to admit that the numbers were not what she’d hoped. There were no smiles on our side as we grimly tore the book apart, ripping out enough editorial pages to meet the shortfall. It was devastating to watch Gourmet dwindle, growing thinner every month. “It’s not the magazine of good living,” Doc said grimly, “it’s the pamphlet of good living.”
“Layoffs will be next,” Larry said sourly.
Karen, ever cheerful, came up with yet another way to raise Gourmet’s profile. “We’ll auction you off for charity dinners. If you go for enough money, it will be news.”
“More publicity?” asked Michael as he watched me dress for the first of these dinners. “Is it really worth it?”
“These people paid a lot of money,” I said. “And it’s for a good cause.”
“Are they interesting, at least?”
I tried to remember. “It’s some Wall Street guy, his wife, and their friends. We’re going to Craftsteak; Tom Colicchio donated dinner.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?” It was a noble gesture; Michael would be miserable at such an event. “Just to lend you support?”
“I appreciate the offer,” I said, “but you’d hate it.”
That was surely true. They were beautiful, these people who’d bought me, tanned, toned, and wrapped in expensive clothing. Their teeth gleamed, their jewels winked, and their hair glistened in colors unknown in nature.
The food was good, the talk polite. They asked endless questions about Gourmet, and I did my best to entertain them with amusing anecdotes about the magazine. I thought we were swimming along quite nicely until the man on my left threw down his fork and tossed me an angry glare. “You haven’t asked me a single question,” he snapped, “and I’m a lot more interesting than you are.”
I looked at him, stung. “I’m sorry to be a disappointment. But you’re the one who bought dinner with me.”
“It’s your loss,” he replied, turning away.
Going home, I replayed the moment over and over, the way you can’t help touching a sore tooth. It made me wince every time. I thought about what Stevie would have done with that dinner, how he would have delighted in asking questions, getting their stories, adding them to his address book. I scrolled through my messages, looking for the man’s name, and googled him. Then I just sat there, staring at the screen: I was an idiot.
Ashamed and embarrassed, I crept into bed, hoping Michael was asleep. But he sensed my distress and came instantly awake.
“What’s wrong?”
I groaned. “I was seated next to one of the most interesting figures on Wall Street and all I did was talk about myself. Brand Ruth might be good for Gourmet, but she’s turned me into an obnoxious fathead who believes her own press. I should have asked Bill Ackman a million questions.”
“Who’s Bill Ackman?”
“You know, that hedge-fund guy who’s always feuding with everyone. He gives money to good causes and he’s a fascinating man, but I was so full of myself that I blew the chance to get to know him.”
“Well, he wanted to be there. You didn’t.”
“That’s no excuse! Until I turned myself into a publicity machine I would have been eager to find out all about