Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [116]
“Look, Mira, Ruth Reichl, Barbara Fairchild, Frank Bruni, even me,” she says, with a slight, self-deprecating inclination of her head, “all of us are passable cooks. We can all give a damn good dinner party, but we don’t have the gift that you have. And, by the way, you don’t have the gifts they have, either, but that’s beside the point. So the question is,” Enid says, swiveling in her desk chair and chewing thoughtfully on the earpiece of her glasses, “why would someone like you want to become a food writer?”
“I didn’t get to where I am in the food world without having a well-developed palate. I know—”
Enid holds up her hand. She wasn’t really asking me. “I know, I know. You’ve already told me that. But that isn’t the real reason. You want to be a food writer because it is convenient. Do you know how many people apply for a job like this? Some are writers who think they would like to be paid to go out to dinner, but couldn’t identify celeriac in a lineup of root vegetables. Some people are foodies with no writing skills who think their knowledge of the food world is enough for them to get by. I’ve actually hired some of those—but I’m getting too old to rewrite their columns.”
“Look, Ms. Maxwell—”
“My point, Mira, is that cooks need to cook. You won’t be happy writing for a living, and you won’t get rich either.” Enid sits back in her chair and gives me a speculative look. She appears to be considering something. She hesitates before continuing. “You think I don’t understand what it takes to be a chef? I was at the CIA a couple of years ago. Took a two-week course for business people who want to become restaurateurs. I know how hard it is. I could never have cut it. The difference between those of us in the fake course and the kids we saw running themselves into the ground, besides a whole lot of talent, is the drive to cook. They need it. The threat of a bad review of Grappa in the Times bothered you. I could see it in your face. A restaurant like Grappa gets into your blood. You don’t go from that to this,” she says, gesturing to the papers on her desk and the short walls of the cubicle. “Face it, you’ve missed it.”
“Missed it? The eighteen-hour days on my feet? Dealing with suppliers and linen sales people on my ‘off’ time? Replacing line cooks on a weekly basis? There’s a lot more to the restaurant business besides cooking. Loving to cook isn’t nearly enough.” My voice is rising to an uncomfortably high pitch. Despite Ruth’s perfectly tailored suit and a liberal dose of Bare Naked lip gloss, I’ve somehow gotten off on the wrong foot here. Before I’d even walked in the door, Enid seems to have made up her mind that I’m not cut out to be a food writer. So why bother interviewing me? “And besides, what makes you think I don’t cook? I cook every day. For my family. Real cooks find ways to cook.”
Enid holds up her hands in mock surrender. “Yes, you’re right. That is precisely what I’m suggesting, Mira. Listen, I don’t know how much time you’ve spent looking at our food section since you’ve been back in town, but it’s in the process of undergoing a much needed transformation. We’re trying out a bunch of new ideas. Maybe you noticed a couple of weeks ago we did a feature article on ‘Five Ingredient Wonders’? We’re considering continuing something like that once a week, publishing a few recipes on a theme: “Beat the Heat with Easy Summer Meals in Minutes.” She gestures as she speaks, blocking out chunks of the title with her hands, as if it’s written on a billboard.
I groan involuntarily.
“What?”
“No—nothing.”
“Come on, you groaned. Did you see the article?”
“No. Well, yes, yes, I did. And if I’d been the editor I might have changed the title to ‘101 Uses for Cream of Mushroom Soup,’” I tell her, uncharitably blocking out those letters on my own personal billboard.
Silence. I’ve blown it, I think, holding my breath. When the hell am I going to learn to control myself?
Enid laughs. “Touché, Mira, Touch