Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir

2Tea Party The phone was ringing as I fumbled for my keys, arms filled with mistletoe and fir. I dropped the branches on the floor, pushed the door open, dashed into the apartment, and sprinted down the hall. “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!”