Garlic and Sapphires (6 page)

Claudia was looking at me with a kind of wonder. I was surprised myself. Where had that speech come from? Who was this woman? I found myself toying with the very brown food that was set before me, and when the chocolate soufflé cake arrived, I pushed it away after a few small bites. “I really shouldn't eat dessert,” I heard myself saying. “I'd like to lose fifteen pounds.” And when I paid the check, I discovered that Molly's signature looked nothing like mine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

C
laudia was triumphant. “We did it!” she said when we were back on the sidewalk. “You absolutely fooled them. They had no idea who you were.”

“That,” I replied, “is certainly true. Even I did not know who I was.”

The King of Spain

A
rms wide, mouth open, legs pumping, the owner of Le Cirque came bounding toward the table in full cry. “You're Warren Hoge,” he wailed reproachfully at my guest.

“Yes,” Warren admitted ruefully.

“How could I have seated Warren Hoge
here
?” asked Mr. Maccioni. It was an accusation, as if this lapse were somehow our fault. “You must let me move you to a better table.”

Finished with our main courses and already halfway through dessert, we declined the offer. But Sirio Maccioni, stricken at having mistreated such an important person, was insistent. He looked at Michael. He looked at Warren's wife. He looked at me. Failure to recognize a major player was a serious breach of his honor as a restaurateur, and he wanted to remedy the situation. At last he took no for an answer, but when he reluctantly moved off he left behind an army of waiters with strict instructions to bombard us with desserts.

The onslaught of sweets was ferocious. There was a miniature stove with little pots of chocolate, and a troupe of pulled-sugar clowns. There were fabulous cakes and adorably decorated candies. And there was something else. “Look,” I said. With my right hand I held up the raspberry tartlet that had just arrived; with my left I held up my old, half-eaten one.

Anyone with eyes could see it: the new raspberries were twice the size of the old ones.

“Do you suppose,” asked Michael, “that there is someone in the kitchen who does nothing but sort raspberries for high-status diners?”

“Welcome to New York,” I murmured under my breath.

 

 

 

 

 

U
naccustomed to the ways of my future employer, I had been charmed when Warren suggested that we meet during one of my trips east. In nine years at the
Los Angeles Times,
I had never gone to dinner with someone on the masthead. “It would be nice to get to know you better before you start the job,” he said. When I told him that Michael would also be in New York, working on a Whitewater-related story, he suggested that we include our spouses. “You choose the restaurant,” he said. “I wouldn't want you to waste a meal.”

I agonized over the choice, knowing that a minor meal would never do. “Le Cirque would be perfect,” I said to Michael, “but he must be known there.”

“Why don't you ask him?” said Michael, who never beats around the bush. “Maybe they
don't
know him.” Then he was struck by another possibility and abruptly changed the subject. “Are you planning to put on that costume for your first meal with your new boss?” he asked. “I don't get the feeling that would be the best way to make a good impression.”

I admitted, a little sheepishly, that I was too embarrassed to be Molly for the occasion. “Besides,” I added, “Warren's secretary told me that his wife is some sort of Czech countess—or something like that. I have a hard time envisioning Molly dining with royalty; she's going to stay home.”

“Can I stay home too?” pleaded Michael. Not for nothing had I dubbed him The Reluctant Gourmet in my Los Angeles columns. “You know I hate that kind of evening: fancy food and polite chitchat. Can't I just stay in the hotel and order room service with Nicky?”

“You don't have to come if you really don't want to,” I said unwillingly. “But I really wish you would. I need your support. The idea of dinner in some snooty restaurant with my new boss and his aristocratic wife is not exactly my idea of a jolly evening. Besides, you're the one who got me into this in the first place.”

“Don't worry,” said Michael, squeezing my hand. “I won't abandon you. I'll put on a tie. I'll charm the countess. I'll eat everything on my plate. I'll even order something in cream sauce if that will make you happy.”

 

 

 

 

 

W
arren assured me that we'd be safe at Le Cirque; he had not, he said, been there in years. It seemed to be true: when we arrived we were paraded past all the important people seated in the front to an ignominious table on the wrong side of the room. The seats were not stellar and the service was not special, but it was far better than what Molly had experienced on her two miserable visits to the restaurant.

Warren was witty and urbane, the countess was full of entertaining stories, and Michael held up our end with admirable fortitude while I concentrated on the food.

I had meanly ordered risotto, a dish few French chefs can master. This one, however, was a masterpiece. It tasted as if a chef had stood at the stove, stirring diligently as he coaxed each grain of rice into soaking up stock. As a finale he had strewn plump little morsels of lobster through the rice, giving it the taste of the ocean. There was rosemary too, just a subtle touch—a fresh wind blowing across the rice and imparting little hints of green fields and verdant forests.

I go silent when food is that good, and I looked up to find Warren watching me. It made me feel naked, as if I were somehow being derelict in my duties. Did he think I was enjoying the meal too much? Then I realized that his focus was not actually on me. He was looking at the veal he had ordered, an entire shank, which was being carried triumphantly into the dining room. As the captain carved, the meat fell from his knife in thin slices, like petals from a rose. The captain gathered up the slices, arranged them on the plate, sprinkled them with sea salt and pepper, and with all eyes in the dining room upon him, set the plate in front of Warren. He liked that.

But I think he liked being recognized even better. When the dessert offensive was finally over and the evening at an end, Warren asked Mr. Maccioni a question. “How did you know me?” he inquired.

“But you're Warren Hoge!” Mr. Maccioni replied, as if the question were absurd. Warren pushed the compliment away modestly, but he looked satisfied. As he bowed us out the door, Mr. Maccioni bestowed his most glittering smile upon us. “I hope,” he said in his charmingly accented English, “that you will visit us soon again.”

It was a lovely evening and we stood on the sidewalk, saying our farewells, reluctant to part. “That was a very good meal,” said Warren.

“Yes,” I replied, wishing it had been a little less so. “But was it a great one?”

“That,” he said, “is for you to decide. I assume you'll come back?”

“Oh yes,” I assured him. “This was only my third visit and I'll be back a few more times before deciding on the stars.”

“I look forward to reading the review,” said Warren with a solemnity that implied that big things were expected of me.

At the
New York Times,
four stars are serious; they denote luxurious perfection. Bryan had anointed only five restaurants with the coveted quad. Le Cirque's new chef was undeniably talented, but how could I possibly give top billing to the restaurant that Molly had attended? It seemed to be a completely different restaurant depending on who you were. The critics, who undoubtedly got the royal Hoge treatment, all raved about the place. Then the readers showed up and found themselves stuck in some dark corner and ignored. If only there were a way to write about that . . . Suddenly I saw that there was.

What if I simply showed up as me? When an ordinary man turned into Warren Hoge, his raspberries got bigger. Just think what might happen when an ordinary woman turned into the restaurant critic of the
New York Times.
All I would have to do was print two parallel reviews: Molly's meal on one side, Ruth's on the other. My hope was that, like the raspberries, they would speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

Y
ou sure you don't want to make the reservation in your own name?” Michael asked when I told him my plan. “What if Maccioni doesn't recognize you?”

“Then he's not as smart as I think he is,” I said. “Besides, they'd never believe it if I made the reservation in my own name; the restaurant critic of the
Times
would never do that. And I'm pretty sure he must have figured out that Warren was with me that night. This is going to be the most amazing meal!”

A strange look came over Michael's face, and I tried to decipher it. Then it hit me: he didn't want to come.

“I don't,” he admitted. “It would be such a waste! Just think of all the people who'd love to be there when the waiters start dancing around the table. I can think of about a thousand people who'd have a better time than I would.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Like Johnny.”

It was an inspired idea. My twenty-something nephew was working on Wall Street. Young, handsome, and impeccably dressed, he would go anywhere and eat anything, no matter the hour. He was thrilled when I called and happily volunteered to make the reservation.

Johnny reported back that the earliest table he'd been able to get was at 9:45. “But let's show up early,” he suggested. “I bet they won't keep you waiting. This is going to be so much fun!”

 

 

 

 

 

W
e walked in around 9:00 to find a surging crowd pushing and jostling for position at the door. “
Do
something, Gerald,” a tight-faced woman was urging her escort. “Our reservation was half an hour ago.” The man gave a forlorn little gesture and soldiered reluctantly forward; this was clearly not his first attempt at procuring a table.

“The maître d' says he's doing his best,” Gerald was saying sadly when a little flutter went through the throng. Sirio Maccioni was coming through, beaming broadly. He was a majestic figure, gray-haired but still so handsome it was easy to see why Babe Paley once called him “the sexiest man in New York,” and the crowd parted before him like the Red Sea. He was heading straight for me. Grasping my hand, he led me jubilantly forward. As the crowd made way for us, I felt like Cinderella with brand-new shoes.

“But we've been waiting half an hour,” I heard Gerald's wife whimper. I felt the concussion as she stamped her foot in frustration. “It's not fair,” she said.

Utterly ignoring her, Mr. Maccioni turned to me and said regally, “The King of Spain is waiting in the bar, but
your
table is ready.” I nudged Johnny. “Keep repeating those words to yourself,” I whispered as we followed Mr. Maccioni. “I have to get them exactly right.”

Mr. Maccioni, I soon saw, was not leading us to the cheap real estate in the back of the room. We were headed for Boardwalk and Park Place, a table for four in the front of the restaurant. My chair was pulled out. My napkin was unfolded. Mr. Maccioni buzzed about us. “May we make a menu for you?” he asked. “I'd like you to see what Sylvain Portay can do. You know, he was sous-chef to Alain Ducasse in Monte Carlo before he came here.”

“We are in your hands,” I said grandly.

“And I'll send the sommelier over,” he said happily. “He's very young, but his parents run a wonderful restaurant in Italy and they have sent him to me.” He went off to see to the arrangements, eager to show New York's newest critic how sweet life can be.

“The King of Spain is waiting in the bar, but
your
table is ready,” Johnny intoned. “That's the sentence.”

“What a line,” I said, writing it down. I didn't even have to hide the pad I was using. “What nonsense!”

“That
is
the King of Spain!” said Johnny, staring at the bar. “He's here to open the Picasso show.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He turned back to check. “Yes. I saw him on TV last night.”

Cinderella sat up a little higher in her seat.

And then fireworks began shooting across the table: black truffles and white ones, foie gras, lobster, turbot, venison. The play of flavors was a symphony, as if we were the only people in the restaurant and fifty chefs were cooking just to please us. Each dish was rushed to the table the instant it was ready; each was served at the peak of perfection. The wines were magnificent, every sip calibrated to improve the flavor of the food. The service was attentive. It was respectful. It was unobtrusive.

It was all a dream. At one point the King of Spain and his entourage sat down at the next table and I could have sworn he smiled directly at me. Or maybe it was just the foie gras and sauternes dancing around in my mouth that was making the world seem so benevolent.

 

 

 

 

 

R
eviewing that dinner was easy; I started with the line about the King of Spain and the rest just wrote itself. Of course I gave the restaurant four stars.

Writing Molly's review was easy, too. All I had to remember was the humiliation of that first meal with Claudia, when we were sent to the bar like unwanted guests. The food had been good, so despite the misery of the evening I let the restaurant keep one star.