Garlic and Sapphires

by Ruth Reichl

  “No,” I said, “I’m a spinster.”

  “Oh, too bad.” And then, “What’s a spinster?”

  “A woman who’s never been married.”

  “Poor you,” he said. “No children. No husband. You must be lonely.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Are you poor too?”

  “Pretty poor,” I said. “At least not rich. Tonight Claudia is taking me out to dinner.”

  “Did you warn her?” asked Michael. “Does she know she has to pay the bill?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I told her to bring a credit card and I’d pay her back. And I told her whom to expect. She’s never met Chloe or Brenda, and I think she’s sort of eager to see who I’ve managed to concoct without her help.”

  “Good luck,” he said.

  “’Night Mom,” said Nicky. He examined Betty for a moment and added, “I’m glad you have someone to be nice to you.”

  I put on the shapeless black coat I had bought for Betty and threw a shawl over the gray wig. I pulled on sensible black wool gloves and picked up the square black pocketbook. Glancing in the mirror, I realized that only a few inches of the real me were visible, just below the glasses.

  Still, I was not prepared for Gene’s reaction. When the elevator door swung open, he didn’t smile or say hello. He just stood there as I got on, waiting to close the door, and then allowed the car to descend. As we fell toward the ground he stared straight ahead, and when I exited, the “Good evening” he murmured was a mechanical response to my “Thank you.” I couldn’t help feeling that if I had remained silent, he would not have acknowledged me at all.

  As I walked up Riverside Drive, not one of the many people walking dogs, wheeling strollers, or carrying briefcases glanced my way. No doorman tipped his hat as I went by. By the time I got to the corner, I felt as insubstantial as the wind; when people looked my way they saw only the buildings at my back. When I waved my hand the taxis hurtled past as if I were not there. I finally resorted to stepping into the middle of the street.

  “Where to?” asked the driver, who had stopped to avoid hitting me.

  “Tavern on the Green, please,” I said, practicing my softest voice.

  “Speak up,” he said, and when I repeated myself he stepped on the gas so hard I was thrown back and pinned against the seat. The cabbie stared straight ahead, racing madly through the avenues as if he were piloting a bumper car in a small-town carnival ride. He shot through every light just as it turned, passed to the right of cars, swerved through intersections cutting off pedestrians. “Slow down!” I pleaded. In answer he stepped on the gas, narrowly averting a baby carriage that was nosing into a crosswalk.

  “Please!” I shouted, but he did not acknowledge my alarm. Perhaps it was how he always drove, but it made me feel like an old boot, a piece of junk that he was desperate to deposit at its destination.

  When we swerved into the driveway and shuddered to a halt in front of Tavern on the Green, I was very grateful. I pulled the door open and staggered onto the pavement. I was so shaken that my hands trembled as I counted out the money and pushed it through the window, feeling every minute as old as I looked.

  Claudia was standing beneath the awning, her diminutive body dwarfed by a handsome hawk-faced woman with short blond hair who was clad entirely in cashmere and furs. As each taxi pulled up, Claudia studied its occupants. She stared at me for a moment, and I should have felt triumphant when her gaze moved on. Perversely I felt only sadness.

  I limped morosely up to tap her on the arm; my shoes were too tight and my feet hurt. She turned toward me, considered my face, and asked, “Betty?”

  As I nodded and bent to kiss her, she said, “I want you to meet my friend Helen. But come inside; it is frigid out here. You must be cold too.” She took my arm and we walked into the fantasyland that is Tavern on the Green. Looking up at the lights twinkling in the foyer, I remembered how thrilled Nicky had once been by the tacky theatricality of the place.

  “Oh,” I whispered, trying for the reverent tone of a tourist walking into Chartres cathedral for the first time, “isn’t this lovely?” My voice was filled with wonder as I scrutinized the overdone room. “It looks just like Christmas.”

  “Lovely,” said the tall friend, casting a suspicious glance at Claudia, as if asking what on earth she meant by foisting such a peculiar person upon her. An elegant specimen, she made no attempt to disguise her disdain for this tawdry room—or for me for liking it. “It’s a museum of things that should never have been made,” she said fiercely, plowing through the crowd to initiate the process of checking us in. All around us heads swiveled to watch her progress, and I saw that she was an attention magnet. Had Claudia brought her along as a decoy?

  “My compliments,” Claudia whispered when she was gone. “You look quite remarkable.”

  “I know,” I said in my most pathetic voice. “At the moment I am not feeling at all like myself. Oh, not in the least.” And I threw back my head and opened my mouth, gazing up at the dangling ornaments with what I hoped looked like innocent awe.

  The dining room was heaving with candles, balloons, plants, paintings, and chandeliers, but even their combined forces were not enough to combat the chill of a big glass edifice on a windy winter day. To my dismay the young hostess insisted that we check our coats and then led us inexorably through the urban greenhouse to a table right against a window. “Prime seating!” She smiled.

  When I asked, “Do you think we might be able to sit somewhere a little warmer?” she did not trouble herself with an answer. Turning on her heel she left us to shiver on our narrow chairs.

  “You have to be more forceful!” cried Helen. “You made it sound as if she’d be doing us a favor to give us another table. We’re paying for this meal; it’s her job to make us happy.” The intensity of Helen’s irritation made me realize that the Betty Joneses of the world are a particular trial to elegant older people. “A cup of tea,” she announced now, waving her hand imperiously at the nearest waiter, “I must have a cup of tea.” He ignored her.

  Undaunted, Helen lifted her beringed fingers to the next passing person, who happened to be a busboy. He ignored her as well. At that Helen simply stood up and marched toward a waiter unwise enough to be standing idly, but visibly, nearby. He looked unhappy, but he moved off in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Helen,” Claudia told me, “is quite an expert on tea.” She thought for a moment and added, “Actually, I think she considers herself an expert on everything.”

  “How do you know her?” I asked.

  “She was an aspiring actress,” Claudia replied, “who came to me for lessons. As an actress she was quite hopeless, but over the years I have found her to be a rather entertaining friend. Although”—she cast a dubious eye over me—“had I known that this was the role you had planned, I doubt that I would have chosen her as our dinner companion. The wealthy, I find, can be quite obtuse and they often permit themselves to behave very badly.”

  “Our tea,” said Helen, strolling back and seating herself with the smile of a Cheshire cat, “will be here directly.”

  The tea arrived but there was nothing in its wake. “Have you ever seen such terrible service?” cried Claudia. “You could be wearing a sign that said, ‘I am the restaurant critic of the New York Times,’ and nobody here would give a fig.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” said Helen knowingly. “If that Ruth Reichl were here, I imagine things would be quite different.”

  “Do you?” asked Claudia. I peered at her face, which was alive with mischief, and realized that she had not let her friend in on my secret. All at once I began to understand why Helen was here. And in that moment I began to enjoy myself.

  When the captain finally came to take our order, I gave it to him in my most timid tones. “I can’t hear you,” he shouted. “Speak up.”

  “It’s so loud in here!” I repeated. To be honest, I could hardly hear myself.

  “Please, lady,” said t
he captain, “talk louder. I’m not deaf, but you talk so soft.”

  “It’s too loud!” I said again.

  “You say you want the salad?” he asked.

  “NO,” I said, raising my voice a bit, “the dumplings.”

  “Caesar, or beet and walnut?” he asked.

  Helen watched in exasperation and then extracted a sterling silver pen from her pocketbook. “I,” she announced to the waiter, “will write the order down for you.” She glared at me.

  “Thanks, lady,” he said gratefully. “Makes my job easier.” He pocketed the paper and moved off.

  All around us people were videotaping each other, celebrating anniversaries and birthdays, so enchanted with Warner LeRoy’s antic room that they didn’t seem to mind the tardiness of the food.

  At our table things were considerably less cheerful. The service was so slow that after a great deal of small talk and five pots of tea, I felt compelled to apologize. “I always seem to get bad service,” I told Helen. “I don’t know why.”

  “Well, I do,” she snapped. “You look like an old lady. And waiters consider old ladies their natural enemies. They think that they will complain constantly, order the cheapest dishes on the menu, and leave a six percent tip. I have found that it is essential to appear prosperous when going out to eat.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said demurely. I was about to add that appearing prosperous was no problem for her, but fortunately the waiter chose that moment to arrive and ask, “Who gets the crab cakes?”

  Helen took her irritation out on him. “Oh, do your job!” she snapped.

  He looked at the order in his hand and plunked the crab ungraciously at her place.

  “Those look good,” I said. “And my dumplings are delicious. Would you like to try them?”

  “I do not care for Chinese food,” she said, waving it away.

  “Taste it,” I insisted, thrusting the plate under her nose. “It’s not Chinese. It just looks it.”

  “No, thank you,” she said firmly, pushing my arm away. I got the distinct feeling that she was reluctant to let her lips touch anything that had touched mine.

  I took a bite of the dumpling and a robustly beefy flavor filled my mouth, quickly followed by the insistent prickle of horseradish. The two flavors grew stronger as I ate and before long the heat and richness were radiating down my throat and through my body.

  “The crab cake is excellent,” Helen conceded. And then, even more reluctantly, she added, “Would you like to try one?”

  “Yes, please,” I replied. It was a fine crab cake—generous lumps of fresh meat bound together with a bit of egg and a lot of faith.

  “Do taste mine, too,” said Claudia, cutting off a chunk of foie gras and topping it with a slice of poached pear. “So lovely. But is this goose or duck liver?”

  “Duck,” I replied, unthinking.

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  “The taste,” I said, “and the color. Goose liver is richer and smoother. The livers are bigger, which makes them easier to devein, and they have about thirty percent more fat, which gives them a smoother character. They’re paler too.”

  Helen looked at me with grudging respect. “You’re a cook?” she asked.

  “Not exactly,” I said. “You know there’s a difference between French and domestic foie gras as well. I’m pretty sure this is domestic.”

  A series of emotions flitted across her face, and I saw that she was wondering if she might have misjudged me. For a moment I felt a slight softening of her attitude. But then the hostess led a distinguished gentleman with silver hair to a nearby table. He was accompanied by a beautiful young woman, his granddaughter most likely, because when he sat down he did nothing to hide the small appreciative nod he gave Helen. His eyes openly assessed the beige cashmere and good jewelry before moving on to Claudia. He quickly dismissed her, and then his gaze wandered in my direction. Instantly his face changed and he jerked backward, as if he would like to retract the nod. Helen caught that too, and immediately edged her chair away, trying to disown me.

  The busboy cleared the table; the waiter brought our main courses. Helen took a bite of her fish and nodded thoughtfully. “I adore Chilean sea bass,” she said in a voice meant to carry to the next table, “such a rich and elegant fish.”

  “Actually,” I said, “that’s not Chilean sea bass.”

  “Thank you very much,” she replied indignantly, “I am quite aware of what I ordered.”

  “I know you ordered Chilean sea bass,” I insisted, trying to reclaim a little dignity for poor Betty, “but there is no such thing. You are eating Patagonian toothfish.”

  “I couldn’t be,” she said.

  “You are. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn that it didn’t sell very well under its own name. So they changed it.”

  “Really?” There was grudging respect in her voice. I thought I’d see if I could keep it. “May I taste those prosciutto-stuffed mashed potatoes?” I asked. She passed me a bite and I tasted, thoughtfully. “Good-quality prosciutto,” I said.

  “How do you know?” she asked.

  “I can taste it. Real prosciutto, the kind they make in Parma, has a sweetness and a softness that others lack. Lesser prosciutto has a waxy quality, and it’s often over-salted. The color’s different too.”

  “How odd that someone like you should know so much,” said Helen, giving me a long slow look.

  “Yes,” I said sweetly, “isn’t it?” And I turned back to my food. Meanwhile Helen and the man at the next table kept exchanging glances, and Claudia sat there like a director admiring the scene she had created.

  “Dessert, ladies?” asked the waiter.

  “Oh no,” said Helen, “I never eat sweets.” She glanced briefly at the next table. The silver-haired man smiled. Claudia ordered gingerbread, and I pointed at a waiter walking cautiously across the room.

  “Young man,” I said, pointing at the drink the waiter was carrying with such care. It looked like a captive rainbow. “What is that beautiful concoction?”

  “A pousse café, madam,” he replied.

  “A who?” I asked.

  “It’s a kind of cocktail.”

  “All those layers? How do they make it?”

  “Carefully,” he said, “very carefully. You see, different liqueurs weigh different amounts. So if you start with the heaviest, and then keep pouring a lighter liqueur on top, you can keep them from mixing. At least, a good bartender can.”

  “Isn’t it difficult?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, madam,” he said, “very.”

  “What if you trip while you’re carrying it?”

  “The bartender kills you,” he said solemnly. “And the court rules it justifiable homicide.” This was clearly a joke he had made before.

  “I’ll have one,” I decided.

  As he walked away I murmured, “Grenadine, crème de cacao, maraschino, curaçao, crème de menthe, parfait amour, cognac.”

  “What’s that?” asked Helen.

  “The order of a pousse café. Red on the bottom, followed by brown, white, orange, green, violet, and finally the cognac on the top. They have to be made very, very slowly. Bartenders usually pour them over the back of a spoon to spread out the liquid. They’re difficult to make correctly.”

  “I thought you didn’t know what it was,” she said, giving me another long look.

  “I was just testing him.” I peeked at Claudia and saw that she was enjoying herself hugely.

  When the drink came, I held it out to Helen. “Would you care to taste it?”

  “Oh no,” she said. The silver-haired man was looking at her again and she smiled—a little coyly I thought—and said, “Well, maybe just a sip.”

  She grimaced—the thing truly was horrid—and then there was a small awkward silence. Helen was looking at me, clearly weighing whether or not to say what was on her mind. Finally she decided. “May I speak frankly?”

  “Certainly,” I said.


  “I don’t know what to make of you, but you seem like a good enough person. Why don’t you take better care of yourself? A good haircut—and perhaps a silver rinse—would do wonders. I have a facialist who could improve your skin tone. And I could point you to a shop where a few chic outfits would not cost much money. I just can’t understand why anyone would go through life looking so . . . pitiful.” She looked at my face and added, “I hope I have not offended you?”

  “Not at all,” I said. “That’s very kind. I’d be very grateful for your help.” Claudia made a little choking sound.

  “What, may I ask, is so funny?” asked Helen.

  “Later, my darling,” gasped Claudia, attempting to control her mirth. “I will tell you later.”

  Helen looked miffed and Claudia abruptly changed the subject. “Have I told you,” she asked, “that I am moving to Los Angeles for a few months?”

  “You didn’t tell me that!” I said, so shocked that I used my own voice. Helen’s eyes narrowed. I lowered it to ask, “Why?”

  “One of my old students has been given an excellent role in a big new film, and he insists that I must come coach him. I thought it might be fun. And I cannot deny that the notion of leaving New York for the duration of the winter has enormous appeal.”

  “I’m going to miss you,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, my darling,” she said, patting my hand. “I will come hurrying back. I could not bear to miss seeing the transformation Helen has planned. I suspect you’ll be an entirely different person. In fact, I’m sure of it.” She tried to catch Helen’s eye but Helen was, once again, looking at the man at the next table. I wondered if anything would come of it.

  RESTAURANTS

  by Ruth Reichl

  PATRICK CLARK is a terrific chef. Unfortunately, he is only human, and it would take a magician to make food good enough to overcome the service at Tavern on the Green.

  Consider the meal I had in the spring, soon after Mr. Clark took over the kitchen of America’s largest-grossing restaurant. We were seated at 7:30 P.M. By 8:30 we had eaten our way through the entire bread basket, visited the gift shop twice, taken a stroll through the gardens, admired the lanterns and the topiary. We begged for food. When we could find someone to beg. Once I looked across that vast windowed room, past the balloons, flowers and chandeliers, and counted only four service people. They were all studiously avoiding our waving hands.