Save Me the Plums

by Ruth Reichl

  I had not anticipated this. Then I thought of Maurie’s time line and felt like a fool. The old editor of Gourmet was already gone; of course the staff would want to meet the new one.

  * * *

  —

  OUTSIDE SI’S OFFICE another assistant pounced; she had clearly been lying in wait. “Mr. Truman wonders if you have a few minutes for him?” She pointed to another door.

  “There you are!” Truman was on his knees unrolling a large set of blueprints. “We’ll be moving to Four Times Square in a few months”—he put one knee down to keep the blueprint flat—“but if we act fast there’s still time to redesign your office.”

  Office. I’d never even considered that. The only office I’d ever had was a repurposed broom closet at the L.A. Times, and nobody had consulted me on décor.

  “Gail designed her office, but of course you’ll want something different.”

  I looked down at the blueprint, noting that the windows on the space marked GOURMET EDITOR’S OFFICE stretched up Broadway for the better part of a block. The office was the size of a loft! What on earth was I going to do with all that room? I liked the coziness of the pod I shared with four other reporters at the Times, liked being surrounded by the friendly buzz of conversation. It was good to be able to look up and ask, “Has anyone ever eaten alligator? Can you describe the taste?” Now I had a bleak vision of myself, all alone in my regal space. The least I could do, I thought, was make sure my door was always open.

  A decorator appeared, arms laden with sample books. She spread them across Truman’s desk, dealing them out like cards. The array of fabrics was so dizzying that it called to mind Gina talking about her mother-in-law’s decorator. What, I wondered, would her office look like?

  “Gail selected this wallpaper.” The decorator pointed to a thick swatch of straw-colored fabric. “But of course you can have anything you want. Did you have a color scheme in mind?”

  “I like bright colors.”

  “Oh, good.” She seemed pleased. “Most of the editors stick to neutrals. Your office will be different.” She began handing me photographs of desks, chairs, and lamps.

  “What I really want,” I confided, “is a big table where we can gather for meetings.”

  The decorator frowned. “You don’t need a table; there’s a conference room for that.” She thrust more fabric samples at me. “This is your private office; you’re going to need sofas.”

  “I want a table,” I insisted. “I’ll probably invite people in to lunch.”

  “There’s a private dining room for that,” she demurred.

  “A private dining room?”

  “Of course,” she said nonchalantly. “Gourmet is a food magazine.”

  “Actually,” Truman interjected, “the dining room belongs to the publisher. So if Ruth wants a table, she should have one.”

  “As you wish.” She leafed resignedly through one of her books. “How’s this?” She pointed to a large round table, light wood delicately balanced on slim polished legs; the price would have covered every stick of furniture I’d ever owned.

  “Beautiful,” I breathed.

  The decorator scribbled something. “Do you like these chairs?”

  They were beautiful too, a light buttery wood with red suede seats. She made another note and reached for a different book.

  “Now,” she murmured, presenting it to me, “let’s discuss bathroom fixtures.”

  “I have my own bathroom?” An image of the ladies’ room at the Times flashed through my head: The toilets leaked, the fluorescent lights hiccupped, and broken towel dispensers trailed paper across a cracked tile floor. “Does it have a shower?”

  I’d meant it as a joke, but the decorator was apologetic. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “but that’s not in the plans.”

  I STOOD AT HOME, IN front of the mirror, rehearsing the speech. It was short and filled with bland platitudes, which I went over and over again in my mind as I rode the subway. I’m so excited about this opportunity! We’re going to do great things together! What else could I possibly say? I wouldn’t really start working at Gourmet until May.

  The subway was crowded, the floor a slippery sludge of melting snow, the air steamy from all our wet wool coats. The man behind me was wearing an enormous backpack that kept jutting painfully into my ribs, no matter how much I squirmed about trying to keep from being poked. The woman sharing the metal pole with me had folded her newspaper lengthwise in a vain attempt to read it and my eye caught my name. REICHL GALLOPING…was all I could make out, no matter how I twisted and turned. It was hopeless.

  Outside, I stopped at the first newsstand and bought a copy of the Post. And there it was—Keith Kelly’s column. Maurie hadn’t been so crazy after all.

  Reichl Galloping to Run Gourmet

  In yet another stunning editor shift at Condé Nast, New York Times restaurant critic Ruth Reichl has been tapped as the new editor in chief of Gourmet.

  The 51-year-old critic, who takes great pains to guard her anonymity at the Times, will take over in April from Gail Zweigenthal, who is stepping down after 34 years with the magazine.

  I scooped up all the other papers, but the only other mention I found was in an advertising publication. The editor of a competing food magazine was quoted as saying, “What does a restaurant critic know about running a magazine? We’re going to eat her lunch.”

  Oh, great, I thought, we’re off to a fine start.

  * * *

  —

  GOURMET WAS STILL in the ugly brick skyscraper I’d visited so long ago, and as I pressed the elevator button I remembered the way the editor had sneered at my ideas. I exited to find an elegant blond receptionist who might be the very same woman who’d told me to take a seat back then, and when I gave my name she regarded me with similar disdain. “This,” her face said very clearly, “is the new editor in chief?”

  “They’re waiting for you.” She pointed through a glass door to a large sitting area, and I stood making nervous small talk with Si and Gina as the staff moved slowly into the room, jostling for a better view. They looked slightly shell-shocked, and they stared at me as Si began to speak, his soft voice making no concession to the size of his audience. We all leaned in to hear his words, which were punctuated by long pauses. “The mayor called to congratulate me this morning. Mayor Giuliani said the magazine’s gain was the city’s loss.” He gazed around with a satisfied smile.

  He went on to say a few more complimentary things and to underscore his high hopes for the future of Gourmet. Then he turned to me. “And now Ruth would like to say a few words.”

  I looked at their frightened, expectant faces, and the perfunctory speech I’d memorized vanished from my head. What an idiot I was! It hit me for the first time that not one of these people knew if they still had a job. “You might have to clean house,” I heard Truman saying. They were terrified, and it was up to me to reassure them.

  My mind went blank, and I began to be afraid I was going to have a panic attack. The nightmare of my first job interview suddenly came back to me—it was at Esquire magazine, just a few blocks from here, and I was sure I’d forgotten how to breathe. Dizzy and unable to focus, there was such a buzzing in my head that I almost passed out and completely blew the interview. Now my head was filled with the same sounds, and my heart was beating so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it. The silence became thick. People shifted awkwardly. I remember the sound of a fire truck racing down Lexington Avenue, sirens shrieking, and the way the blare filled the room.

  I looked around, hoping to catch the eye of the one person I knew at Gourmet; it would be heartening to see a friendly face. But the magazine’s executive food editor, Zanne Stewart, was nowhere in sight. The room was too warm. It was a nightmare. A bead of sweat began to inch its slow way down my back. And still I could not find a single word.

&
nbsp; The room began to sway, and it occurred to me that I needed to breathe. Si shot me a worried look. Gina looked distressed.

  I forced myself to open my mouth, praying a word would come out. Any word.

  Finally I managed: “I’m very happy to meet you all.”

  A little frisson of relief zoomed around the room.

  “This has all happened very quickly, and I know you’re as stunned as I am.”

  There were nods. I must be making sense. Connecting.

  “For the next few months”—they all leaned forward again, eager to hear their fate—“I’ll continue to be the restaurant critic of The New York Times.”

  An angry rumble traveled through the group. Heads swiveled. They looked at one another in undisguised horror. A few months? “But what about now?” Did someone really say that?

  “In the meantime…” The room went quiet. “I hope to get to know you all. I want this magazine to be a group effort, something we create together, so although I’ll still be working at the Times, I’ll be coming in every day, trying to get started.”

  Had I really said I was going to do two jobs? I’d been hoping to please them, but it did not seem to be enough. They stood, unmoving, waiting for more.

  “Please come by and introduce yourselves.” I took a step backward to indicate that the show was over, crossing my arms so no one could see how badly my hands were shaking.

  Si slipped away and Gina went to her office. Nobody else moved. At last a small round woman detached herself from the crowd. “I’m Robin.” She tapped my arm. “I’m the editor’s secretary. Would you like me to show you Gail’s office?” She went red and quickly corrected herself. “I mean your office.”

  Unaware that she would be one of the most important people in my new life, I followed Robin gratefully down a hall. She motioned to a door, and I went through to a large, bright, windowed room. She indicated the seat behind the solid wooden desk and waited while I sat down. Then we studied each other.

  She was, I thought, aptly named: With her bright eyes, small round body, and tiny feet, she reminded me of a plump little bird. “I’ve been working at Condé Nast for twenty years,” she chirped, “and I hope you aren’t planning on bringing in your own secretary.”

  “I have no secretary.” I tried to decipher the look that crossed Robin’s face. There was relief but also something more elusive. Could it be triumph? Why?

  Sporting a satisfied little smile, Robin began organizing the editors, leading them in one by one. They were polite. They were eager. They were desperately obsequious. But as they explained why they were all essential to the operation, my anxiety level rose.

  “I’m very good at dealing with the teeosee,” said the first editor. I stared at her, wondering if I should admit that I had no idea what she was talking about.

  The next was even more mysterious. “I’m a wizard with inadequate sep,” she announced. I felt a headache lodge itself behind my right eye. It did not help that I had a hard time telling them apart; they all seemed to be blond women with names ending in “y.” “I kept telling Gail,” said the next one—was she Hobby?—“that we need to enlarge our well.”

  I pounced on the soothingly familiar word. “I’ll look into it,” I promised. “Good water is so important to a cook.” She looked confused, and I saw I’d gotten it wrong. Flustered and embarrassed, I tried for an ironic smile, hoping to imply I’d meant it as a joke.

  Now Robin was towing a formidable-looking woman into the office: the executive editor. “I’ve always admired your work”—Alice Gochman embarked upon an obviously rehearsed speech—“and I’m looking forward to improving the magazine. I’ll work very hard to help you revamp Gourmet.”

  I had to tell her the truth. “I’m sorry.” I hoped I looked as distressed as I was feeling. “I’m sure you’re a very important part of this magazine, but James Truman said I could bring in my own people. I don’t have many, but I do have someone I’m trying to persuade to be my executive editor. I’d like you to stay; surely we can find something for you in another capacity.”

  The woman’s face shut down.

  “I’m not sure Laurie Ochoa will come,” I temporized, “but we worked together for almost ten years at the Los Angeles Times, and we’re kind of joined at the hip. I’m hoping she and her husband will move to New York. But there’s a lot to do, and I’m sure we can find a job that will suit you.”

  She was saying, “I’ll have to think about that,” when an assistant ran in, calling, “We have a serious problem with an adjacency!”

  Caught off guard, I failed to control my face, and Alice immediately saw the truth. Her lips turned up in an involuntary grin. “Excuse me.” She rose gleefully from her chair. “I’ll have to go deal with that.” She walked off, a little skip in her step, the assistant trailing behind. Soon, I thought, the entire staff will know that the new editor in chief has never heard of an adjacency.

  When the door closed behind them, I slumped across the desk, burying my face in my hands. I’d only been here an hour and already I was out of my depth. Gourmet felt like an alternate universe whose citizens spoke a language I did not understand. I needed a translator.

  I peeked out of my office, thinking Robin might be able to help. But she was whispering into the phone. “And listen to this: She doesn’t even have a secretary!”

  Humiliated, I tiptoed back to the desk. It was a long time before I learned what Robin’s words meant or understood how much I had revealed when I said I was on my own.

  A personal secretary is not an assistant intent on moving up the ladder. A good secretary learns everything about the boss, becoming so essential that when the executive gets promoted, the secretary comes too. I had just admitted that I was a novice in this corporate world, and Robin was both relieved and elated. She would not only get to keep her job, but she could also show me the ropes. I know that now, but at the time I was convinced she was laughing at me, and I was determined to do something about it. Picking up the phone, I dialed the one person who would know the answers to all my questions. “What the hell,” I asked Donna Warner, the editor in chief of Metropolitan Home, “is an adjacency?”

  Donna and I had few secrets from each other. She’d started out as the food editor of Apartment Life, and in the early years, when I was freelancing for the magazine, we came to know each other well. Gentle and easygoing, she was constantly coming to my rescue. In the early eighties, when I wanted to go to New Orleans for the American Cuisine Symposium, Donna said, “I’ll go too. Then you can save money and share my hotel room.” We romped through New Orleans, eating and drinking like lunatics, and finally, desperate for vegetables, ended up sneaking away from the symposium in search of salad. I knew she would never betray me.

  “Take me to dinner,” she said now, “and I’ll give you a crash course in magazines 101.”

  * * *

  —

  WE MET AT the restaurant I was currently reviewing, an ambitious place intent on introducing luxury health food to wealthy New Yorkers, and Donna got right down to business.

  It wasn’t rocket science, although Donna laughed so hard when I told her that an editor had said she was “a wizard with inadequate sep” that people all over the restaurant turned to stare at us.

  “She was bragging; nobody’s a wizard at sep. All advertisers want to go ahead of their competition, but there’s no magical way to separate them. You just have to work it out.”

  “Does that have anything to do with the teeosee?”

  Donna laughed again. “That’s not a word,” she said when she finally stopped. “It’s initials: table of contents.”

  I felt like an idiot.

  By the time Donna finished explaining the economics of the ad/edit ratio, we were on dessert and the “tea sommelier” was hovering over us, pontificating about “hints of smoke among notes of honey and sher
ry.” When he finally wound down, Donna turned to me. “Have you met your managing editor?”

  I tried to remember the people Robin had introduced. “I think there was this pretty young woman with dark hair who had that title. She kept telling me how creative she was.”

  “Then you’re in trouble. Creativity is not in the job description. You need a bean counter, a taskmaster, someone to make the train run on time.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  Donna nodded. “Most MEs are pretty grim, but they’re the bad guys, which means you don’t have to be. Believe me, you want such a person. If Gourmet’s ME thinks creativity is part of the job, get someone new. And don’t”—she held my eye, emphasizing the point—“hire someone you like. I know you; you hate conflict and you want everything to be nice.”

  As I said, Donna and I have known each other for a long time. When I sighed she said, “Trust me, if you hire someone you like, they’re not going to be good at the job. And you’re going to need someone good. People all over New York are saying that Si’s done it again. He brings Tina Brown to The New Yorker, where she promptly loses millions. Now he’s handing Gourmet over to a restaurant critic. A colleague called today and said he’d bet me anything you’d be gone in a year.”

  “Thanks for telling me that,” I said.

  “And I said,” she continued, “that I’d bet him anything he cared to wager that he was wrong.”

  We left the restaurant early. Donna had a train to catch and I couldn’t wait to go home and crawl into bed. I was glad Michael was out of town; I didn’t want him to know how demoralized I was.

  But Nick was still awake, and I was absurdly happy to see him. A better mother, I thought, would be worried about his losing sleep, but just the sight of him made all the other stuff seem small.

  “I’m hungry,” he said when the babysitter had gone.

  “Didn’t Anisa make dinner for you?”