by Ruth Reichl
“Is this the restaurant critic of The New York Times?” The voice on the other end of the line had a British accent. “I am James Truman.”
“Yes?” The name meant nothing to me.
“Editorial director of Condé Nast? I’d like to talk to you about Gourmet.”
“Gourmet?”
“I am hoping,” he went on, “that you will be willing to meet me for tea at the Algonquin. I’d ask you to the office, but we don’t want the press to know we’ve been talking.”
“The press?” What could that possibly mean?
“But he didn’t give me a clue,” I complained to my husband later. “All he would say was that he wants to talk. What do you think it’s about?”
“They’re probably looking for a new restaurant critic,” Michael said reasonably.
It was the obvious answer. “I wouldn’t write for them now,” I said. “They’re way too stuffy. So what’s the point?” Even after two decades, just thinking about the half hour I’d spent in Gourmet’s office could make me wince. “I think I’ll cancel the meeting.”
“Go,” said Michael. “You should find out what he wants. You may not be curious, but I certainly am.”
Here’s what I knew about Condé Nast before I sat down with James Truman: very little. I was aware that the company was owned by a strange and mercurial billionaire named Si Newhouse, who had recently sold Random House to Bertelsmann, a German media company—but I knew that only because they’d just published my first memoir. I knew that Condé Nast stood for luxury, class, and fashion and owned a lot of high-end magazines, but I was so oblivious I hadn’t even known they’d bought Gourmet. (Given that I’d been a food critic for twenty years, that undoubtedly says a lot about me.) Two days later, when I walked into the restaurant of the Algonquin Hotel (famous for being the scene of Dorothy Parker’s Round Table), I inhaled the scent of roasted beef, hothouse flowers, and nostalgia and wondered what I was doing there.
I followed the hostess through the dark, stubbornly old-fashioned room toward a pudgy, well-dressed gentleman seated alone at a large table. He, of course, would be my date. But the hostess kept walking, leading me to another table, where a scrap of a man rose to greet me.
Surprised, I took in the waiflike James Truman, who looked far too young to be editorial director of the vast Condé Nast empire. Could this man really be in charge of Vogue? His hair needed cutting and his rumpled clothes looked like he’d slept in them; whatever nervousness I’d had vanished.
I sat down to a table set for tea and Truman poured. “What do you think of Gourmet?”
Anticipating standard introductory small talk, I was caught off guard. And so I simply told the truth. “I went to the library yesterday to look through the last few issues, and…” I groped for a kind way to say this.
“And?”
“I’m sorry, but they put me to sleep. They’re so old-fashioned; you’d never know this was 1998.”
He seemed to be nodding agreement, so I forged ahead. “Gourmet is an important magazine, and it deserves better.” I thought back to “Night of Lobster,” which had so enthralled me as a child. “It used to be filled with such great writing; I remember reading M.F.K. Fisher and Annie Proulx in old issues. And did you know Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine first appeared in Gourmet? But now, just when the world is starting to get interested in food, you’re publishing articles about Louis Vuitton tennis-ball holders!”
I’d noticed that in a recent issue and it struck me as the perfect example of everything that was wrong with the magazine. Truman did not react; apparently he didn’t find it as ridiculous as I did. “As far as I can tell”—I tried to make the point—“Gourmet has become a place for rich people to plan their vacations.”
Truman sat back a bit, and it occurred to me that he was trying to put some distance between us. Suddenly embarrassed, I toyed with my teacup, trying to gather my thoughts. “You must think I have a lot of nerve. I spend my life telling rich people where to eat, and here I am criticizing your magazine for doing the same thing. But being a restaurant critic often makes me uncomfortable….”
“Why?”
“There are so many other food issues to write about!” I could feel myself climbing up on my high horse as I began ticking off subjects that interested me: the loss of farmland, disappearing fish, genetic modification, overuse of antibiotics….“A couple of years ago I wrote a piece for The New York Times Magazine called ‘Why I Disapprove of What I Do.’ ”
“I know; I read it.”
My head jerked up in surprise. “You did?”
Truman flashed me an impish smile. “That’s why I called; I thought it was interesting. I especially like the part where you said going out to eat used to be like going to the opera but that these days it’s more like going to the movies. I thought then that you would make an excellent editor in chief for Gourmet.”
I dropped my spoon, and it clattered against the thin porcelain. We both watched it vibrate against the saucer. Shocked, I said, “Editor in chief?”
“What did you think?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t think you’d offer me a job like that!” He grimaced; I’d raised my voice. “I was thinking you probably wanted a new restaurant critic.”
He looked so pained that I realized the man in charge of nineteen magazines didn’t hire restaurant critics; he’d expected me to know he had something major in mind. But how could I possibly have imagined this? To cover my embarrassment I asked a question: “How many employees does Gourmet have?”
“I don’t really know.” He waved a hand at an invisible army of editors. “Sixty or so.”
Sixty! The thought was terrifying. I couldn’t possibly manage sixty people. Everybody has issues with the boss, and all I want to do is please people. “I’m no manager,” I told him. “And I certainly couldn’t handle a staff of sixty.”
“Why not? You might have to clean house, get rid of everyone and bring in all your own people.”
I almost laughed; where did he think I’d find these “people” of mine?
He must have read my face. “Human Resources would help,” he said reassuringly. “That’s what they’re there for.”
Clearly, he wasn’t getting it. “Then there’s the matter of budgets.” I almost pulled out my checkbook to show him what a mess it was. “I’m terrible at managing money. What is Gourmet’s budget anyway?”
“I could get you that figure, but that’s not really your concern.” He sounded nonchalant. “You don’t suppose Anna Wintour worries about budgets, do you? You’ll have a managing editor to deal with money matters.”
I didn’t like his use of the future tense; he seemed to consider this a done deal. Didn’t anyone say no to Condé Nast? “I suppose,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster, “this managing editor will be one of the new people I bring in after I ‘clean house.’ ”
“Exactly!”
He had no idea who he was dealing with. I’d never fired a single person, even when I was an editor at the Los Angeles Times, and I certainly was not about to start now. I might be the restaurant critic of The New York Times, but at heart I was still a sixties rebel with a deep mistrust of corporate ways. My philosophy of management—if I had such a thing—would have gone like this: “Everybody’s good at something. You just have to figure out what that is.”
I stood up. “I’m flattered you’ve thought of me. I’m certainly not the obvious choice, and I wish that I could do it. But if you really want Gourmet to be the best it possibly can be, you need someone with experience.”
Truman didn’t move. “Think about it.” He said it with confidence, as if he was sure I’d change my mind. I reached for my purse. “I’m pretty sure that if I were foolish enough to accept your offer, we’d both be sorry.” Still he sat there, unmoving. What was he waiting for?
“Paparazzi,” he mumbled, pointing toward the door as if he could see a phalanx of photographers waiting outside. “We don’t want them to catch us leaving together.”
I laughed out loud, finally understanding what those cryptic words on the phone had meant. Outside again, I looked around to see if there really were photographers lurking about. The sidewalk was empty; I wondered if Truman would be disappointed.
It took a full block before I realized that I had just turned down the chance to run the magazine that had inspired all the work I’d ever done. I began to wonder if I’d been rash.
Everything I’d told Truman was true: It was a watershed moment in American food and I yearned to do more than simply write about restaurants. That article about being ashamed of being a critic had been straight from the heart; in the back of my mind I always heard my mother’s contemptuous voice saying, “Aren’t you ever going to do something more important than tell people where to eat? Is this why we sent you to college?”
I thought too about my son. Nick was almost ten now and starting to complain bitterly about my working hours. He wanted a mother who was home at night to cook dinner and help with homework. It didn’t seem like much to ask.
I’d spent nearly six years at the Times, and lately I’d been feeling it was time to move on. I loved my job and the people I worked with. We food reporters were a tight-knit group; we read one another’s stories and cheered our colleagues on. And in my early days the editors had been remarkably protective of me; it was years before they let me know how controversial my first reviews of small Asian and Latino restaurants had been. “We didn’t think you needed to know,” they said. But I’d been writing restaurant reviews for more than twenty years, and few people last that long. Eating out fourteen times a week takes a toll on your body, and being away for most meals does not improve your family life. And after so much time on the restaurant beat I was eager for a challenge; I could practically write reviews in my sleep. That fall I’d brought this up so frequently that my friend Marion Cunningham insisted I visit her astrologer. “I know you don’t believe in it,” she said, “but whenever I’m at an impasse I visit Alex. It’s always helpful. I’m making an appointment for you. My treat.”
Feeling slightly silly, I’d actually gone to see the man. To my surprise, he told me things about myself I’d almost forgotten. He knew about the crippling panic attacks I’d finally overcome and my deep resistance to change. At the end of the reading, as he was putting his charts away, Alex looked up to offer a final thought. “The stars tell me that you’re going to be getting a new job very soon.”
“Do you know what it is?” I asked. “Do you know what I’ll be doing next?”
He shook his head. “All I can tell you is that you are going to learn a great deal. And that it will completely alter your life.”
“YES, YES, YOU TOLD ME all that.” On the phone a few days later, Truman sounded impatient. “I’m not asking you to take the job; I’m just asking you to talk with Si Newhouse. When we met I thought I was looking for an elegant dinner party, but you persuaded me that we should be asking for a great deal more. I’d like Si to hear your thoughts. Would you be willing to meet him for lunch?”
Conflicting emotions coursed through me. I was flattered: Truman thought Si Newhouse would be interested in my opinion. Also curious: After my tea with Truman, I’d read up on Newhouse, and I was intrigued. He spent millions on his magazines and never seemed to count the cost. Would he, I wondered, be willing to buy the best writers for Gourmet? Would he really allow the magazine to be more than an “elegant dinner party”? I have to admit too that, despite my skepticism about the occult, I couldn’t get the astrologer’s words out of my mind.
Now, watching Si shamble through the celebrities at the city’s most expensive trattoria, Da Silvano, curiosity was winning. No one, I thought, would have taken him for one of the world’s richest men. The great media mogul was small, wizened, and dressed in an ugly olive-drab sweatshirt. He had a long, horsey face and gaps between his teeth. When I stood to greet him, he motioned me down with jerky little gestures of the hand.
“Tell me…” he said with slow deliberation, parceling out the words as if each one was precious, “what you think of the recipes in Gourmet.”
Recipes? Anticipating a lively discussion about the future of food magazines, I’d come armed with ideas.
“I don’t cook much anymore,” I replied. “I eat out fourteen times a week.”
His face fell, and he looked so dejected that I thought, oh, what the hell. “I did take a look at the recipes last week,” I admitted, “and I certainly wouldn’t make most of them. They struck me as a bit lifted-pinkie. In my opinion they should come down to earth.”
“Exactly!” The word rushed eagerly from his mouth, and I saw this was the answer he’d been hoping to hear. “My cook tells me they’re too complicated.”
To my horror, I groaned. He looked at me curiously. “And right there,” I explained, “you have the problem.”
“The problem?” His face had taken on the wary look of a child who fears he’s about to hear something he’d rather not.
“Your magazine is printing recipes for people who have cooks! That might have been fine in 1941, but these days only people like you have cooks. Gourmet is living in the past.”
Si recoiled, and I realized I might just have implied that he was old. I felt my face flush as I started casting around for something to say, venturing a few thoughts about the American food scene. Si appeared superbly uninterested, and after a few awkward attempts I gave up. He seemed to feel no obligation to keep the conversation afloat, staring across the table as if expecting to be entertained. The awkward silence stretched; I’ve never been much at small talk and I wished I hadn’t come.
With great relief I saw the waiter approaching our table. He was bearing a large antipasto platter, but as he set it down Si eyed the dish suspiciously. His nose twitched. “Is there garlic in there?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir!” The waiter said it with pride.
“I can’t eat garlic.” Si waved an imperious hand. “Take it away.”
The waiter looked agitated. “Sir”—he drew himself up—“does that mean the kitchen must avoid garlic in everything?”
Si gazed serenely up at him. “I told you,” he said sweetly, “I cannot eat garlic.”
The waiter remained rooted, not quite knowing what to do. I studied Si. When he’d suggested Da Silvano I’d been charmed; I’d recently reviewed the restaurant, saying how much I liked it, and it had seemed like an extremely gracious gesture. But now it struck me that an Italian restaurant was a strange choice for a man who shunned garlic. How would the chef manage? Would he even try? Si waved at the plate again and the waiter reluctantly picked up the rejected offering. I watched him hesitate outside the kitchen door, shoulders hunched in despair. He was, I knew, steeling himself for the chef’s wrath.
In 1998, unlike today, restaurants did not routinely ask if you had allergies they should know about, and most were oblivious to such requests. Now I turned to Si and asked, “Don’t you worry that the kitchen will try to sneak some garlic into your food?”
Si regarded me as if I’d said something stupid. “No,” he said at last.
It was my turn to stare. I’d spent years dining out with anxious allergics who, not content to arrive at restaurants armed with gluten sensors, EpiPens, and caffeine monitors, peppered the waiter with excruciating questions. Looking at Si’s complacent face I realized: Here was a man who was certain he’d get his own way.
As if to prove it, he said proudly, “Wait until you see the cafeteria Frank Gehry designed for our new offices!” His voice swelled with pride. “He’s never built anything in New York before, and I had a hard time persuading him to do it.”
Not that hard, I thought cynically; the Condé Nast cafeteria at 4 Times Square was rumored to
be costing more than thirty million dollars.
“And,” Si continued proudly, “George Lang, of Café des Artistes, will personally oversee the menu.”
“Will they”—I couldn’t resist it—“be serving garlic?”
“Of course not!” He seemed genuinely shocked. “I have stipulated that no garlic will ever be served in the Condé Nast cafeteria.”
My mouth dropped open. I couldn’t wait to tell Michael and Nick. What else, I wondered, had this eccentric man banished from his kingdom? Carnations? Trench coats? The color purple? How strange working for him must be: I imagined him decreeing that my hair was too curly and must immediately be cut, or that Gourmet should devote an entire issue to bacon or some other favored ingredient. I was positive now: I did not want the job.
Relieved, I lost myself in the food, concentrating on my cuttlefish. Charred until it puffed up like a tiny zeppelin, it was slicked with olive oil, sparked with bits of arugula, and sprinkled with copious amounts of garlic. From across the table, Si glared at my plate. I was beyond relieved when the interminable lunch ended.
Outside, a chauffeur stood waiting by a black sedan. “Get in,” said Si. “Let me give you a ride.”
“No need.” Eager to escape, I pointed up the street toward the subway.
“You can’t take the subway!” Genuinely appalled, Si practically pushed me into the backseat. The traffic was terrible, and as we fought our way up Sixth Avenue the silence became so oppressive that I almost jumped out of my skin. He hadn’t asked a single question about any of the things I’d discussed with James Truman, and when I’d tried to bring them up, he’d put me off. What was I doing here?
Emboldened by frustration, I blurted out, “Why did you ask me to lunch?”
He eyed me coldly. Once again I had the impression that he considered the question rather stupid.
“James Truman said you wanted to discuss the future of food magazines.” God, that sounded pretentious! I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Besides, who did I think I was? What did I know about running food magazines?
