Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [90]
“Oh, wait a sec, she just walked in.” The background sounds suddenly become muffled as the man puts his hand over the receiver and yells, “Yo, Enid, phone.”
I’m seized by a sudden urge to hang up—and I’m about to—when an irrepressible, irrational thought suddenly flashes through my wearied brain, as irrational thoughts have a habit of doing when you are tired, stressed, and genetically predisposed to paranoia. Newspapers probably have caller ID on their phones—making it easier to identify informants calling in with anonymous tips. Enid could easily identify me as the caller, and I would be busted for hanging up on her.
“Yeah, Enid Maxwell,” she barks.
“Enid, this is Mira Rinaldi. I—”
“Who? Listen, you’re going to have to speak up. We’re running a test sheet in the pressroom, and I can’t hear you.”
I try again, feeling ridiculous. “It’s Mira Rinaldi,” I yell into the phone.
Suddenly, whatever had been causing the deafening noise in the background stops dead, leaving the echo of my shouted name reverberating in the empty air.
“Oh, Mira, the aspiring food critic.” Her voice has returned to its presumably normal tones.
I’m shocked that she remembers me from the three-sentence rejection letter, which I’d assumed was just a form letter, prepared and signed by some underling. “Yes, that’s me.”
“Okay. What’s up? Make it quick if you can. I’m rushing to meet a press deadline, which means I have about thirty seconds to talk with you.”
“Well,” I begin, taking a breath, trying to force some air into my constricted chest. “I got your letter and I, I was wondering if we might be able to meet. I think I have something to offer that you might have overlooked in my—”
“Look,” she interrupts. “I read the review you enclosed. Your restaurant, what is it called, Limoncello, Vino, something like—”
“Grappa.”
“Yeah, right. Well, Grappa sounds like a wonderful restaurant, and Gourmet, I know, did not bestow its praise lightly. Clearly you and your husband are talented chefs, but what makes you think that you could be a restaurant reviewer?”
Her tone is condescending, and I hate to be condescended to. “Ex-husband. And you want to know why I think I could be a restaurant reviewer? One: I have spent the last twenty years eating great food. Two: I have a well-developed palate. Three: I’ve also run a successful Manhattan restaurant, which is no small thing, as I’m sure you know. I know what it takes to make a restaurant successful,” I tell her.
“Yes,” she sighs, “but you have to be able to write about it. Look, do you think just because you read Gourmet you can suddenly become Ruth Reichl? How are your writing skills? Do you have a sample to submit?” She sounds just this side of irritated.
Let’s see. Jake and I had written our own wedding vows that, in a fit of rage after the separation, I had torched with the portable gas flame we used for doing crème brûleé. I’d written a few papers while at the Culinary Institute, but most of them were cost analyses and technical explanations. How to make a brown veal stock. The pros and cons of using a blond versus a brown roux.
“Well, I have some writing from school. I had to write some papers at the Culinary Institute, but they’re several years old. I guess I—”
“The CIA? You went to the CIA?” For some reason she sounds impressed.
“Yes, I did.”
Suddenly the deafening noise is back, and once again Enid has to shout to make herself heard. “Look, I’ve got to go. Get me a writing sample and we’ll talk.”
I’m about to hang up when the noise once again stops abruptly and Enid continues, her tone softer and resigned. “This is not New York, Ms. Rinaldi. Do you know how often Gourmet, Bon Appétit, and Food and Wine have featured a Pittsburgh restaurant? Exactly never. Go ahead. Send me a sample, and if I like it, I’ll give you a try, but don’t get your hopes up. You may find that you are the one who is disappointed.”
“So, do you want the short version or all the gory details?” Ruth asks when I arrive on her doorstep a full hour late to pick up Chloe. I