by Ruth Reichl
We order espresso. Tiny cups filled with intense little puddles of coffee appear. Each sip takes your breath away; it is the perfect ending to the perfect autumn meal.
I walk reluctantly out into the cool evening air, sorry to leave this fabulous circus. Life in the real world has never been this good.
LECIRQUE
The train pulled into Times Square as I finished reading, but I couldn’t make myself get off. The man had moved on to the movie reviews now, and I watched the stations flash past. When we reached Sheri dan Square I disembarked, as if pulled by some invisible magnet, and climbed up into the light.
I could not have told you why I was wandering the streets of my old neighborhood, but I had some vague feeling that if I walked through Greenwich Village long enough, I would be consoled. I walked down Bleecker to the Lafayette Bakery and thought about the white bread they used to make, and how my father had loved it. The suckling pig in Ot tomannelli’s window made me think of my mother, who carried hers home wrapped in pink butcher paper. I walked past Faicco, the sausage store, and inhaled the cheese at Murray’s. I turned up Sixth and toward Balducci’s, where I bought some of the poppy-seed strudel that my father liked for breakfast. At Gray’s Papaya I had a hot dog, and then I had another, wishing my brother was there to share it with me.
I was still eating the second dog as I walked up Greenwich Avenue, past the playground of P.S. 41. At the corner, where Pop’s candy store used to be, I found a working pay phone. I dropped a quarter in and started dialing the office. But I still wasn’t ready. Instead I called my oldest friend.
All through elementary school Jeanie shared my mother’s horrid lunches with me, coming to my house on Mondays and Wednesdays for green sour cream and sandwiches on moldy bread. We went to her house on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and she never told a soul that I always poured the milk her mother made us drink down the drain. I hated milk.
Fortunately, she was free for lunch.
We should have gone someplace familiar, to the Oyster Bar or Peter Luger or Katz’s Delicatessen. Instead, I took her to Shin’s, a fancy new establishment in the Parker Meridien Hotel. I had second thoughts when I saw the enormous painting of a pink rhinoceros on the wall, but it was not until Jeanie opened her menu and said, “How interesting,” in a strange little voice that I knew we were in trouble. I opened my own; the first dish that caught my eye was asparagus-raisin sorbet.
“Maybe it’s good,” said Jeanie, still an optimist after all these years.
“Yuck,” I think I said.
“Well, okay, I see your point,” she conceded. She looked around the nearly empty dining room and asked, “Would you like to tell me why we’re here?”
I gave her the short answer, the one that didn’t mention me drifting helplessly around the Village in a morning-after panic. Instead I told her that the chefs had worked at Matsuhisa, one of my favorite restaurants in Los Angeles, and I was wondering if this sort of innovative Japanese food could make it in New York. I did not say that this might be irrelevant since I might no longer have a job.
We ordered. We talked. Her calm easiness cheered me up, and whole minutes passed when I managed not to think about Le Cirque.
But then Jeanie said, “It’s been an awfully long time since we ordered,” and I checked my watch. It had been almost an hour. Just then I looked up to see a hostess approaching our table with a quizzical look on her face. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but your waitress has quit. Would you mind giving me your order again?”
“You’re joking, right?” I asked.
“Oh no,” she said, very seriously. “No joke. Your waitress quit.”
“Was it something we did?” I asked.
She did not think that was funny.
“Well,” said Jeanie, “look at the bright side. This should make good copy.”
And just like that, the review was on my mind again.
The sorbet was one of the worst things I have ever tasted, and the busboy, removing the crumbs from the table, somehow dumped the crumbing tool into my purse. These did not seem like good omens, and when we left the restaurant I was still avoiding the phone booths that beckoned from every corner.
But it was almost time to pick Nick up and I could not put the call off forever. “You have forty-four messages,” said the cheery mechanical voice. Attention, clearly, had been paid.
“Shame on you,” shouted the first caller. “You have destroyed the finest restaurateur in America. Never fear; a year from now he’ll still be here and you won’t.” He did not leave his name.
The next was another unidentified reader. “You pretentious idiot,” she said. “So pleased about being the restaurant critic of the New York Times that you have to go bragging about it. Who cares about all the foie gras and truffles that you get to eat? What about the rest of us!”
Another outraged message from a friend of Sirio’s. And then another. And one more. And then what sounded like Warren’s voice saying, “Ruth?” In a panic, I hung up.
I walked on, replaying the sound of the voice in my head. Was it Warren? Was it cheerful? Or had he called to fire me? I couldn’t tell. When I was only a block from Nick’s school I finally got the courage to call again. “Ruth?” I heard him say again. It was Warren. I played it once more. Cheerful, I decided. He sounded cheerful.
He had called to tell me that the first call the publisher had gotten was from Walter Annenberg, who was applauding the piece. This seemed to make Warren very happy; replaying the message yet again, I could hear the palpable relief in his voice. Apparently I was not the only one who had lost sleep.
The next call was another irate reader, annoyed by what he called my showing off about the way the Times got treated. “You restaurant critics are all the same,” he snorted. “Corrupt snobs.” He was followed by another caller predicting that I would soon be replaced by a more competent critic.
And then, around 10 A.M., the tone of the messages changed. A man called and said simply, “Thank you. I’ve never been to Le Cirque. I don’t expect to ever go there. But it’s good to know that we finally have a critic who’s on our side.” Another said, “Keep up the good work. The silent majority needs you.” A third thanked me for being what she called “a spy in the house of food.”
I got gleeful messages from other writers at the paper, and one from the publisher himself, who wanted to take me to lunch. But the final word was Claudia’s. “My darling,” she said, “that was an excellent review. But I do hope that you realize what this means? Now they will be watching for Molly in every restaurant in New York. You will have to become another character. Think of the possibilities . . .”
Risotto Primavera
This recipe is my adaptation of the risotto at Le Cirque. I haven’t used lobster because while lobster risotto makes perfect sense in a restaurant, where the parts that are not used—the claws, the legs, the shells, and the tomalley—can all go into other dishes or be turned into stock, at home they merely go to waste. And because, frankly, I tend to be a lobster purist who believes that the best lobster is the one that is simply boiled and eaten with a little melted butter.
And on top of that I’ve replaced the rosemary with saffron. Why? Because I love the way it tastes and it looks gorgeous.
Risotto has a reputation for being difficult. It’s not, but it does require good ingredients. Above all, it demands that you use good stock; in my opinion canned broth is not an acceptable substitute. You must use good rice too. (And if you’re buying any quantity of Arborio or carnaroli rice, keep it in the refrigerator. It goes bad faster than you would think.) And finally, decide which style of risotto you prefer. Some people like to evaporate all the liquid at the end, which gives the risotto a sort of sticky density. It took me years to realize that I like to add a few final spoonfuls of broth just before the dish is finished, so that it has a looser quality. In Venice this is called al onda—wavy—and I find it much more satisfying to eat.½ pound asparagus
5-6 cups homemad
e chicken stock
½ teaspoon saffron strands, crumbled
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium red onion, diced
1 smallish carrot, diced
2 small zucchini, diced
½ teaspoon salt
2 cups Arborio rice
½ cup dry white wine
½ cup thawed frozen peas
½ cup Parmigiano cheese, plus extra for the table
Salt and pepper to taste
Cut off the tips of the asparagus and set them aside. Dice the top half of the stalks (discard the rest), and set the diced asparagus aside.
Bring the stock to a steady simmer in a saucepan. Remove ¼ cup of the stock. Add saffron and set aside.
Melt 2 tablespoons of the butter with the olive oil in a heavy-bottomed saucepan. Add the onion and cook for about 6 minutes, until it is golden.
Add the carrot and cook for 5 minutes more. Add the zucchini, diced asparagus, and ½ teaspoon salt, and cook for about 5 minutes more.
Add the rice and stir until it is coated with the oil. Add the wine and cook, stirring, until it has evaporated, about 3 minutes. Now slowly add enough simmering stock to cover the rice, and cook, stirring, until it has evaporated. Keep adding, stirring, and evaporating for about 20 minutes. Then add the asparagus tips and peas, along with the saffron stock, and cook for another 5 to 10 minutes, until the rice is soft on the outside and still has a bit of a bite at the center. Add a few more spoonfuls of stock, remove the pan from the heat, and add the remaining 1 tablespoon butter and the cheese. Taste for salt and pepper, and serve with extra cheese for people to add to their own taste.
Serves 4
Looking for Umami
I have an idea,” said Claudia. Over the phone her voice was rich as velvet, steeped in mystery and vibrant with dramatic possibility. “I know exactly who you must now become.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Miriam,” she replied.
“Who?” I asked.
“Your mother. We shall turn you into your mother.”
A shiver went down my back and I found I was unable to speak. Undaunted by my silence, Claudia continued. “It will not be difficult. Have you noticed how much you are beginning to resemble her?”
“No,” I said shortly. “I don’t look the least bit like her.”
“You do indeed,” Claudia insisted. “A short silver wig, a few wrinkles, a bit of makeup . . . We will make you much older than Molly, which will be extremely effective. Nobody notices old ladies.” She said it so casually that it occurred to me that she did not consider herself one of them.
“I hope,” she went on, “that you have saved some of Miriam’s clothing? And a few of those dreadfully gaudy jewels?”
“Who else would want them?” I muttered, mentally reviewing some of my mother’s more exuberant purchases. Mom liked her jewelry to provoke conversation; she was not at all put out when people told her how “interesting” it was. Her favorite necklace was a large gold-plated Indian affair that resembled a breastplate and covered her chest from neck to navel. Her earrings dangled, her watches talked, her rings extended to the first knuckle. Cleaning out her closets, I had found tie racks strung with ropes of semi-precious rocks in every conceivable color. There were bags of the stuff. Oh yes, I had everything I needed to turn into a replica of my mother. Just the thought of it gave me the creeps.
“I don’t think I need another disguise right now,” I hedged. “I’m concentrating on ethnic restaurants and they couldn’t care less who I am. Bryan didn’t pay much attention to Asian food, but I want to change that. I’ve been eating in Chinese, Japanese, and Korean places. Believe me, not one of them has my picture in the kitchen.”
“Laudable, I’m sure,” Claudia replied. “But you cannot spend all your time eating in minor restaurants.”
“Minor?” I said. “Minor? A thousand years ago the Chinese had an entirely codified kitchen while the French were still gnawing on bones. Chopsticks have been around since the fourth century B.C. Forks didn’t show up in England until 1611, and even then they weren’t meant for eating but just to hold the meat still while you hacked at it with your knife.”
“Quite true, I am certain,” said Claudia. “I applaud your knowledge. But that does not change the fact that Molly will soon require replacement and we must be prepared.”
I could see that Claudia was determined to make me into Mom. “All right,” I said, sighing, “let’s discuss it over dinner.”
As it turned out, we did not discuss it over dinner. When Claudia discovered that I expected her to eat raw fish and naked noodles she was so offended that the only thing she would discuss was her plight. She began complaining before she even opened the menu.
“Up there?” she asked when I pulled open the door to Honmura An. She glared accusingly at the stairs. “And the elevator?”
“Does not exist,” I replied.
“Impossible!” she exclaimed, planting her feet on the solid ground.
“It’s not exactly Mount Everest,” I pointed out, noting that the flight was wide and rather modest. “Look, from here you can even see the tables.”
She groaned and reached for the banister. “I hope,” she protested as she pulled herself painfully upward, “it is not your intention to begin your tenure at America’s most prestigious newspaper by introducing your readers to bizarre food requiring strenuous exercise. No matter how many stars you bestow upon this place, no one will come. Your career will end before it has begun.”
“You are not the first to say that,” I said, sniffing the clean fragrance of the air. I found it sensuous and refreshing, this mixture of seashore and cedar with the clear high note of ginger singing through it, and for a moment it gave me hope that the spare, elegant room would have a calming effect upon Claudia.
But she was unmoved. Still panting from the exertion of her climb, she sat on the edge of her seat, peered suspiciously down at the long gray menu, and said despairingly, “I find it impossible to pronounce these words.”
“Have some green tea,” I suggested soothingly, certain that the tran quility of the restaurant would soon take effect.
The cool, peaceful aura of Honmura An is so profound that most people reach the top of the stairs and lower their voices, as if entering a temple. The dining room is deceptively spare and artfully devoid of ugliness. The decorations—a single piece of fruit balanced on a platter or a tangle of branches captured in a bronze bowl—look more like offerings than ornaments, and even the view seems part of the plan. Seen at an oblique angle, the sidewalk below looks like a scene captured in a glass paperweight, the frantic activity on the street part of some noisier, less serene world. I picked up the smooth black stone my chopsticks were resting upon and caressed its worn surface.
Suddenly, as if the images were being conjured by the stone, I remembered the last time I had seen a room like this one. I had been walking on a hillside in Kyoto when my feet found a little pathway. Feeling my way along it, I passed simple fountains that splashed and gurgled, leading me to a door. Pulling aside a bamboo curtain, I discovered a small room much like this one.
When I sat down on a tatami mat, a waitress wordlessly brought me water in a rough ceramic vessel. I tipped the liquid into my mouth and it was instantly flooded with icy coldness and a deep, ancient flavor, as if the water had come bubbling up from the middle of the earth.
“Soba?” asked the waitress. It was not really a question and she was gone before I could answer. Almost immediately she returned with a lacquered tray holding a bamboo mat covered with short, thin noodles the color of bark. On one side was a dish with scallions, grated radish, and wasabi; on the other, a cup filled with a faintly briny broth. She pointed to the dish with the condiments and mimed dropping them into the broth. Choosing a small speckled quail egg from the bowl on the table, she cracked it into the dish and made a mixing gesture.
Now she picked up imaginary chopsticks, hel
d them over the noodles and swooped them into the broth. Pursing her lips as if she were about to whistle, she inhaled with a surprisingly loud, sucking sound.
I did just as she had shown me, but even after all the theater I was not prepared for the feel of the noodles in my mouth, or the purity of the taste. I had been in Japan for almost a month, but I had never experienced anything like this. The noodles quivered as if they were alive, and leapt into my mouth where they vibrated as if playing inaudible music.
“It takes a magician to make soba,” I explained to Claudia, as I showed her how to eat the noodles. “They are made of buckwheat, which has no gluten. That means that getting them to hold together is an act of will. They say it takes a year to learn to mix the dough, another year to learn to roll it, a third to learn the correct cut. In Japan they like soba because they taste good. But they like them even more because they are difficult to make. You have to understand that if you are going to understand anything about Japanese food.”
“May I please have a fork?” Claudia replied.
The soba at Honmura An were as good as the ones I had eaten in Japan, but their allure was lost on Claudia, who would have been much happier with a plate of pasta primavera. The restaurant’s sea urchins were fabulous too: great soft piles of orange roe as succulent and perfumed as hunks of ripe mango. Claudia refused to taste them. She merely shuddered when I offered her raw shrimps, which melted beneath the teeth with the lush generosity of milk chocolate. And eating seaweed salad, she said, was absolutely out of the question.
Given all that, I was not surprised when Claudia was the first to call on the day my review of Honmura An appeared. “Are you mad?” she asked without preamble. “Raving about that miserable little restaurant you took me to? Do you know what they are saying?”
