Save Me the Plums - Ruth Reichl Page 0,85
to shrink my profile. Gourmet would have to make do with plain old Ruth.
WALL STREET WAS IN TURMOIL; people were losing their homes, unemployment rising higher every day. The stock market crashed. Newsstand sales plummeted—people give up magazines when times are tough—and we racked our brains trying to dream up an issue that people could not pass up.
“What about Paris?” I suggested. “The last Paris issue flew off the newsstand.”
“And who”—Larry’s voice was dry—“can afford to go to Paris these days?”
I thought of myself at seventeen, sleeping in a tiny room, wandering the streets, happy on little more than bread and cheese. “What if we did Paris on a shoestring?”
Doc interrupted my reverie. “Do you really think Gourmet readers want to go to Paris and pinch pennies?”
“You don’t need money to fall in love with Paris. Think about Hemingway’s moveable feast: It had nothing to do with luxury. This could be the perfect moment to remind readers of the other side of the city.”
“I see your point.” Doc seemed to warm to the idea. “Nostalgia sells….”
Larry remained unmoved. “And who, exactly, is going to write this story? I can hear the phone call now. ‘Here’s a couple hundred bucks; buy yourself an economy ticket, stay in a cheap hotel, and drink rotgut in the park.’ How are you going to find a writer who wants to do that?”
“I’ll do it!” I’d had no idea I was going to say that until the words had left my mouth.
Larry stared at me, incredulous. “Oh, come on!” He was at his most scathing. “You’re not a Berkeley hippie anymore. Can you even remember the last time you flew economy? Do you really think you’re going to enjoy sleeping on lumpy mattresses and eating in bargain bistros?”
I thought of Fran. I thought of Truman. “I guess I’ll find out,” I replied.
When we called our Paris correspondent, he was wildly enthusiastic about the idea. “Your timing is perfect!” cried Alec Lobrano. “There’s a new energy here. Young chefs are moving out to the double-digit arrondissements—the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth—to keep costs down. The most interesting new restaurants are in the old working-class areas of Belleville and along the Canal Saint-Martin. Even the old bouillons like Chartier, who’ve been serving solid cheap food since the days of Toulouse-Lautrec, are hot again. Right now you can eat very well on practically nothing.”
“I’m sure you can. And that’s fine,” Bill Sertl interjected. “But what about sleeping well? Paris hotels are expensive. Do you really think you can find an economy hotel good enough for Gourmet readers?”
“Probably not,” I replied. “But I bet you can.”
“You want me to come with you?” He sounded slightly appalled.
“Why not?” I said. “It’ll be fun!”
* * *
—
THE MANAGER OF my first hotel had to shout over the blare of the television as she handed me a key. A brusque Brazilian, she had none of the edgy obsequiousness found at more fashionable addresses. “There’s an elevator, but…” She peered across the high counter separating us, pushing stacks of paper to one side so she could study my small suitcase. “You would be wise to take the stairs.”
Wise? Unable to resist the challenge, I wedged myself into the antique elevator, worrying as it wheezed slowly upward, stopping every few seconds to catch its breath. I imagined the chain breaking, the fall….Relieved when it finally shuddered to a halt, I stepped into a narrow hallway carpeted in dingy gray, hoisted my suitcase over a pile of sheets, and squeezed past an abandoned vacuum cleaner. The door to my room creaked open to reveal a spartan space whose lone window looked onto an air shaft. The bathroom was just big enough to turn around in, the towels were thin as washcloths, and the sink held a single minuscule bar of soap. At least it was clean.
I sat down on the bed, which groaned beneath my weight, and felt the mattress. Larry, I thought, would be pleased: It was definitely lumpy. An image of the room at Le Meurice flashed through my mind; you could fit a dozen of these in there—and still have space to spare. I changed my clothes, splashed water on my face, and went off to meet Sertl. This time I took the stairs.
“How’s your hotel?” We were walking through the eerily deserted streets of a remote residential district. Doors were closed, shutters drawn; even the lampposts seemed to shrink from us. This was not tourist Paris.
Sertl made a face. “Not