Authors: Ruth Reichl
It had been a lucky guess, but if
I
were the editor of a food magazine, that’s a question I’d be asking. So I Googled around and discovered that Jake had a passion for Japanese food. Then I found some obscure new place in the East Village specializing in Kitakata ramen
and went in for a big bowl of clear fragrant broth filled with broad, chewy noodles.
“Sounds great!” he said, when I described the tiny restaurant and the eccentric chef who ran it. “I’ve never heard about that place, and I can’t wait to try it. Thanks. The thing is …” He stopped for a moment to let a noisy truck go by.
Delicious!
occupied a grand old mansion, and on this hot September morning Jake had all the windows open. I looked around, noting what a mess the place was; there were so many stacks of manuscripts, it had been hard to find a place to sit down. “Here’s what I’ve learned about you: You do your homework. That’s good. But all it really tells me is that you’re smart and you want the job. We could talk all day and I’d still have no idea if you’re right for
Delicious!
But cooking’s different; it doesn’t lie. Is this a problem? Just humor me, okay.”
There was no question mark on the end of that last sentence. If I wanted to work for Jake Newberry, I was going to have to cook.
Why hadn’t I anticipated this? Because there
was
a problem: These days, simply thinking about cooking could bring on a panic attack.
Already I felt the clammy sweat popping out all over my body. Not now! I thought, willing myself to stand up, reminding myself to breathe. “Anticipatory panic is the worst part,” the therapist had said, and anxiety was pouring over me, making me woozy, as I followed Jake out of his office.
I tried to concentrate on the dog, who was running before us, jauntily waving his tail. In that moment I would have given anything to be him, to be so carefree. Go away! I pleaded with the panic, but now it entered me, expanding like a huge balloon, filling my body with agitation. My hands were shaking and the nausea was coming on, but Jake didn’t seem to notice. “I’m always eager to find out what people will make for me.”
“Gin—” I began, grateful to be talking. It might help. But Jake waved me quiet.
“No, no, don’t tell me. I like to be surprised.”
I followed him up the stairs, so focused on the panic that I barely registered the graceful carved oak banisters and soft wooden floors.
Concentrate on the recipe, I told myself, trying to repeat the ingredients in my head: oranges, cardamom, pepper, sour cream. The words were slightly soothing; maybe it would be okay. But then we were at the kitchen and Jake was opening the door. The scent of sugar, flour, and butter wafted toward me, and it was so familiar that I felt the blood rush from my face as the dizziness claimed me. The panic was inside, choking me, and outside too, a great wave crashing over me.
“You okay?” Jake’s hand was on my arm. I knew I’d gone white.
“Fine. I’m fine.” I put my hand out and grabbed the counter, trying to steady myself. From somewhere far away I heard Jake say, “Okay, then. This is Maggie, our executive food editor. She’ll make sure you’ve got everything you need.” Then he was gone.
All I wanted was to lie down on the cool floor, but I glanced up, trying to focus on the woman in front of me. She was old and painfully thin, with a straight nose and short black hair that looked as if she’d chopped it off with a carving knife. She glared at me and muttered, just loud enough for me to hear, “Why’s Jake wasting my time? He’ll never hire her.”
Her unexpected meanness was like an electric shock, and it jerked me backward, jolting me into the moment. The effect was so immediate and so strong that the dizziness receded. It was like a miracle; I almost laughed. What was the worst thing that could happen? I’d faint? Scream? Make some kind of fool of myself? I straightened up, looked her in the eye, told her I’d need ginger, eggs, and oranges, and began ticking off the spices. She silently pointed to the refrigerator, the cupboard, the spice cabinet—staccato little jerks, as if she begrudged me every motion. The blood began to return to my head, and now I could feel the sweat drip down my face. I swiped at it with a paper towel when Maggie’s back was turned. Then I opened the refrigerator and reached in, grateful for the rush of cold as I grabbed the eggs. The nausea was still there, but it was bearable now, and the departing panic had left relief in its wake, so strong it felt almost like elation. I’d have a terrible headache later on, but I was going to get through this.
Maggie stomped off to the next counter, where a tall, older cook was
rolling out pasta. The room was crowded—at least eight other cooks were in there—and the scent of baking cakes, roasting meats, and caramelizing onions filled the air. I gathered my ingredients and began to relax into the rhythm of the kitchen, slowly slipping into that flow where I was all alone. I grated orange peel, concentrating on the way the cool oil felt on my fingertips. I picked up a knob of ginger, losing myself to the rain-forest fragrance as I slowly shredded it with my knife. The scents swirled around me: cinnamon, cardamom, pepper, and clove.
Captured by the cooking, I picked up the pace, my spoon ringing against the bowl, my body vibrating to the familiar moves. I was so into sifting flour, greasing pans, and pouring batter that I didn’t even realize I was talking as the cake went in the oven.
“ ‘No earthquakes now’?” Maggie’s voice was belligerent. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a California thing.”
She sniffed derisively and stuck out her sharp chin. She seemed to be searching for a cutting remark when someone shouted, “Taste!”
The word reverberated through the room, galvanizing the cooks. They all dropped what they were doing and went charging toward the sound, forks held out before them, like knights heading into a joust. They descended on a roast one of the cooks had just pulled from the oven, each jockeying for the first forkful. There was a moment of silence as they stood chewing, then a sudden rush of words as they deconstructed the dish.
“Needs more salt.”
“Reminds me of that Paula Wolfert dish, the one with warka.”
“Why’d you use achiote?”
Ten minutes later, they were still talking. I opened my oven door, and as the carnival scent of gingerbread came spilling out, they all looked toward me before resuming the conversation.
I turned the cake out of the pan and let it cool for a few minutes. I had just finished glazing it when Maggie stalked over. “How long do you let it cool?”
“I like to eat it while it’s still a little warm.”
“Taste!” she bellowed. I jumped back as the outstretched forks came rushing toward me.
“It smells incredible,” said one of the cooks.
Maggie, a practiced jouster, shoved his fork aside. “
I’ll
take the first bite,” she said, lopping off a chunk. She put it in her mouth and her lips twisted, as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of vinegar. For a minute I thought she hated it. But then she said, reluctantly, “Oh, God, this is fantastic. Jake’s going to love it.”
Dear Genie,
It was the gingerbread, of course; when Jake tasted it, he said anyone who could turn the world’s most banal cake into something so compelling—he actually used that word—belonged at
Delicious!
He said he had to hire me if only to get the recipe.
As if I’d give it to him!
Everything’s happened so fast. Two weeks ago I was heading back for senior year, and now I’ve got a job in New York, an apartment, a whole new life. If I let myself think about it, I get terrified, so it’s a good thing I’ll be busy: Jake said I’ll sometimes have to work till after midnight. And the pay’s so low. Dad says he’ll cover my first year’s rent, which is pretty serious, considering how much he hates me dropping out of school. And how much he’s going to miss me. Aunt Melba keeps texting me, reminding me to call him. She thinks he’s going to take this hard, but, then, she’s always worrying about Dad.
I found the most incredible place, a fifth-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side. It’s like the place I’ve always dreamed of, so perfect I sometimes think I must have conjured it from my imagination. It’s tiny, but there’s tons of light, and it’s in a great old neighborhood. If I keep the windows open, I can hear people’s voices as they walk down the sidewalk, and if they’re loud enough I catch intriguing little snatches of conversation. It goes on all day and all night; there’s always something happening on Rivington. I love that.
My first night here, I went out at midnight—midnight!—to grab a bite at the little Chinese place on the corner. Then I went to the bookshop. Even that
late at night, it was filled with people who looked like they led interesting lives.
I just wish you were here to share this. I feel so lonely. And then there’s the question of clothes. I’m heading off to my first day of work, and I’m hopeless. All those mornings I watched you getting dressed—if only I’d paid attention.
Miss you.
xxb
Stately, gracious, old, the Timbers Mansion seemed to soak up all the sunshine on the street. I walked slowly up the soft stone steps, taking in the worn bricks and faded marble columns. A hundred years ago, in 1910, when
Delicious!
magazine moved in, Greenwich Village must have been full of houses just like this, but now the mansion was the last one standing on this narrow tree-lined street.
Inside, the high-ceilinged lobby was dark and cool. The guard at the antique desk glanced up. “First day, right?” He waved me toward the staircase. “Jake’s expecting you. Second floor.”
The day of my interview, I’d been too nervous to notice much, but now I looked around, taking in the details. How amazing to be working in this gorgeous old house, surrounded by marble, carved oak, and chandeliers. There must be a fireplace in every room, and ancient windows with wavy handblown panes captured the sun and drew it inside.
Jake was waiting on the second floor beneath a silver chandelier. His dog was there too, leaping ecstatically to greet me as if I were his favorite person in the world. I reached down to pat him, but he jumped up, put his paws on my chest, and tried to lick my face. I laughed.
“Good thing you like dogs.” Jake pulled him down. “That temp they sent was terrified of Sherman.” He tugged gently on the dog’s silky ears. “But you didn’t think much of her either, did you, boy? The woman was a disaster. Poor Billie’s got no idea what a mess she’s walking into.”
I liked the sound of that; it was bound to make me look competent.
As he led me down the quiet hall, I imagined a desk piled with papers reaching to the ceiling, imagined myself efficiently creating order out of chaos. I figured the sooner I could please him, the sooner he’d start throwing small writing assignments my way.
Jake gestured at the closed doors around us. “By ten, most of them will be here.” He said it apologetically, as if his entire staff had failed the work-ethic test. At the moment the empty corridor, with its thick carpet and graceful torch-shaped sconces, felt more like a fancy hotel than a place where any work got done.
The illusion ended when we got to my “office,” which was a dreary little cubbyhole, sparsely efficient, with nothing but a desk, a phone, and a computer. Jake didn’t stop, so I followed him through into his office, blinking at the sudden burst of light pouring through the large arched windows.
Sherman went to the desk, circled three times, and flopped down beneath it. I looked around, studying my surroundings. The room was an even bigger mess than last time—books, manuscripts, and newspapers were scattered everywhere. It smelled like leather and lingering wood smoke; apparently the fireplace worked. There was a round table in front of it, heaped with books and magazines that probably hadn’t been touched in the ten days since my interview.
Jake sat down in the chair behind the desk. “Sit down, sit down,” he said, waving vaguely.
Where? The scuffed leather sofa beneath the windows held even more manuscripts and magazines than the table did. The two deep armchairs weren’t any better; they too were piled with manuscripts and folders. I glanced at the little end table, but the bronze elephant sculpture on it had sharp edges. In the end I went over to one of the chairs and perched on an armrest.
Jake looked amused. “You go to orientation?”
I nodded.
“So you know this is just a trial period? That it’ll be three months before the job’s official?”
I nodded again. He was watching me, waiting. When the pause got uncomfortable, he said, “Your letter of recommendation mentioned that you’re kind of quiet.”
I am. Genie’s always talked enough for both of us.
“Your professor also said you’re an eloquent writer and a, quote, awesome, unquote, cook. You looked so uncomfortable when I asked you to cook, I was sure he’d gotten that wrong. You went completely white. I admired your pluck for going through with it, but frankly I wasn’t expecting much. Then you made that gingerbread.… ”
“Even Maggie seemed to like it.”
Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. His eyes narrowed, moving over me. I sat up straighter; I’m tall and I have a tendency to slouch. Dad’s always trying to persuade me that I’d be pretty if I’d do something with my hair or buy better glasses, but he’s my father, so of course he thinks that. I tugged at the cuffs on my white shirt and smoothed the loose khaki pants. “She said you’d never hire me.”
“Maggie says that to everyone. She’s allergic to change.” He fiddled with the ebony letter opener and added, “And as you clearly noticed, she’s got something of a mean streak.” He stood up abruptly. “C’mon.” He made for the door. “I’ll take you around and introduce you.”
By now the doors were all open, and we went into one office after another: executive editor, managing editor, articles editor, fact checker, copy editor.… It was a blur of names and titles, which made it easy; all I had to do was shake hands and say hello. Everyone seemed friendly and slightly harried. No small talk required.
The last door on the hall remained closed, and Sherman began to paw at it, trying to nudge it open with his nose. “Give it up, pal.” Jake pulled the dog away. “Sammy’s not here.”