Garlic and Sapphires (44 page)

He wasn't, of course, but the shop was unchanged, and when I went inside the familiar scent of sawdust, cold air, and minerals rose up to greet me. The new butcher was reaching across the counter to hand a slice of bologna to a little girl standing next to her mother, and when he saw me he folded another slice and handed it over. “I'm just cutting up this lamb,” he said, picking up a saw. “Sonia's taking the right leg. I could trim up the left one for you. Rub it with olive oil, throw in some cloves of garlic, and set it on a heap of rosemary; you couldn't ask for a finer family meal.”

“I'll take it,” I said.

“Nothing like getting back into the kitchen, is there?” he asked.

“There's nothing like it,” I replied, and I imagined that Carol was at my side, smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

I
t was late afternoon when I got back to Alex's apartment, and it was starting to get dark. “Come in, come in,” he said. “I have many interesting things to tell you.” This time he started talking before I had even settled into my chair.

I was skeptical, but I hoped that at least some of the things he said were true. At the very end, just as he was putting the charts away, he removed his glasses, rubbed his tired eyes, and said, “One last thing. I think you're going to be changing jobs very soon.”

“Oh?” I said. “Do you know what the new one will be?”

“That,” he replied, “I couldn't tell you. But I can tell you this: you will learn a great deal—and you will enjoy it.”

 

 

 

 

 

I
didn't really believe him, but I left feeling relaxed and happy. It was dark outside now, and the stars were beginning to come out. I swung the lamb, wrapped in pink butcher paper and twine, thinking that I would roast it with garlic and scallop some potatoes.

“Cooking tonight?” asked Gene when he saw me with my parcels.

“Yes,” I said. “I'm going to make a special dinner just for the family. Do you like lamb?”

“Lamb,” he said. “Lamb is lovely.”

“I'll bring you a plate,” I said as he parked the elevator. “Lamb and scalloped potatoes.”

He smiled and slid the elevator door open. Somewhere a phone was ringing, deep and insistent. “Hurry,” said Gene, grabbing my parcels as I fumbled for the key. “That's your phone.” Behind the door we could hear the urgent bell, still tolling. I grabbed the key and fitted it into the lock. Pushing the door open, I dashed inside and ran down the hall. Behind me I could hear the rustle of paper as Gene settled the groceries onto the kitchen counter.

The phone was on its fifth ring when I reached it. “Hello?” I said, thinking it would be too late, that only the emptiness of space would answer me.

But a voice was there—male, with a decided English accent. “Is this Ruth Reichl?” it asked.

“Yes,” I said, “this is she.” Behind me Molly and Brenda, Chloe and Betty, Miriam and Emily gathered expectantly together.

“This is James Truman,” said the voice, “calling from Condé Nast. I'm looking for a new editor for
Gourmet.
I wonder if you would be interested in meeting me for tea?”

“Yes,” I said, “I would be interested.” And from deep inside me six voices all echoed yes, yes, yes as we prepared to join forces and move on.

A SIMPLE CELEBRATION MEAL

RECIPE INDEX

AUSHAK,

BRUSSELS SPROUTS, ROASTED

CAKE, LAST-MINUTE CHOCOLATE

CAKE, NICKY'S VANILLA

CHICKEN, ROAST, WITH POTATOES, ONIONS, AND GARLIC

GOUGÈRES

HASH BROWNS

LAMB, ROAST LEG OF, WITH GARLIC AND ROSEMARY

MATZO BREI

MOULES MARINIÈRES

NEW YORK CHEESECAKE

NOODLES, SORT-OF-THAI

POTATOES, SCALLOPED

RHUBARB, ROASTED

RISOTTO PRIMAVERA

SPAGHETTI CARBONARA

WATERCRESS, PUREED

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Rereading these pages I find that somehow Caz has been left out. That is not right. Don Caswell, copy editor, perfectionist and longtime bane of my existence, is the embodiment of everything that makes the
New York Times
a great paper.

Here's a typical Caz story. It's a few months into my tenure at the
Times,
and I'm pulling my chair up to his desk for the first time. He looks me over balefully, points to the review I've just written of a middling French restaurant and asks, “The chef's name is Jean Pierre?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“You're missing the hyphen,” he says. There is acid in his voice.

But I am ready for him. Waving a stolen menu under his nose I show him the chef's name printed there. It has no hyphen. Caz raises an eyebrow. Caz, I am to discover, always raises an eyebrow. “Meaningless,” he says. “Menu-writers are so careless. You should have called and talked directly to the chef.”

“For a hyphen?” I ask. Caz raises an eyebrow once again, silently giving me to understand that anyone who fails to grasp the importance of hyphens has no business at his paper.

Magazines employ fact checkers to follow behind the writers and tidy up their work; newspaper writers, however, are on their own. Those who are very lucky find a Caz to challenge every assumption. The man infuriated me on a weekly basis.

When our partnership began, sometime during my first year, I learned to dread his calls. He always had at least ten penetrating questions that had completely escaped my notice. Early on we spent hours arguing over the difference between
convince
and
persuade,
but over time the tenor of the questions changed. Caz would look down at some column that had just sailed safely past three top editors and raise an eyebrow. “Do you really like this lead?” he'd ask. No more than that, but by then I had come to trust him so completely that I'd be rewriting before he had finished speaking. I watched him read the review in which both my long-gone parents appeared with serious trepidation. Finally he looked up. “Fine,” he said. “But bear in mind that you've used up your ghost quota for the next three years.”

Caz moved on to work with more exalted writers about a year before I left the paper, and my new copy editors rarely questioned much of what I did. Life was easier . . . but the columns weren't as good. I started going over and over my work, trying to ferret out the faults Caz would have found. To keep myself honest I taped the first Caz column above my desk; the hyphen in Jean-Pierre was circled in red.

But I have to admit that with this book I have taken many liberties that do not follow journalistic principles and would surely horrify Caz. Some of the characters have been disguised. It was not my intention to make anybody sorry that I'd written this book, and I've often changed names and distinguishing characteristics to avoid embarrassing people (there is no Myron Rosen working at the
New York Times
). In some cases I've exaggerated, in others I've conflated a few meals into one, or combined events that took place over a space of time into a single afternoon or evening. And I'm sure there are details that I've gotten wrong: I have copious notes about every morsel I ate during my tenure at the
Times,
but I was so busy that I stopped keeping a diary and I've relied on memory for events and conversations that took place a fairly long time ago. I've tried to be accurate, but I'm sure I've occasionally erred.