“No, it doesn’t,” insisted George, his round face growing flushed. “Yale, tell her she’s wrong.”
Yale folded his arms over his chest. “I’d like to hear a little more on the subject — from both of you. A little healthy debate.”
George shot him an exasperated look. “Look, the use of stars forces a reviewer to be honest. You can’t be wishy-washy. You have to make a clear statement and then you use the force of the stars to back it up. Even Sophie has to admit that the market today demands stars. It adds weight and significance to a review. All the big boys do it, so we should, too. And then … well, there’s a more pragmatic reason.”
“What’s that?” asked Yale.
“Time. It’s a quick way for our readers to decide where to spend their hard-earned money. As far as I’m concerned, the case is closed.”
“But that’s just my point,” said Sophie. “People look at the stars and don’t read the review — and they should.”
“It’ll never work,” said George, shaking his head. “People who read this newspaper expect our restaurant reviews to include ratings. Even the restaurants themselves expect it.”
“The luxury restaurants perhaps. But is a luxury context always better than, say, an ethnic restaurant that operates on a shoestring?”
“You’re muddying the point.”
“That is the point,” said Sophie. “Not all the restaurants in this town fall along the same continuum. Even you have to admit you don’t have a clue how to rate some places.”
George grunted.
“And even with the luxury restaurants, you could have meals there during a two- or three-week period, write your review, and then two weeks later the chef quits. But the rating stays until you get around to reviewing the restaurant again, which could be years later. It’s not fair.”
“Oh, I get it. You’re going to be a bleeding-heart-liberal food critic. Fairness above standard business practice. Good luck,” George said, spitting the words at her. “In my mind, fairness should remain secondary to truth.”
“But, George,” said Sophie, exaggerating her patient expression, “restaurant reviews aren’t about truth, they’re about
opinion.
Educated opinion, certainly, but opinion nonetheless.”
“She’s just throwing dust in the air,” George blurted out, pointing a finger at her but looking at Yale. “That’s what happens when you give a tough job to a woman. Criticism isn’t for the faint of heart.”
“You mean people like Ruth Reichl? Phyllis Richman? Gael Greene?”
In a slow, reasoned tone, Yale asked, “So what’s your reviewing philosophy, Sophie?”
She’d thought alxrnt that a lot over the years. “Well, I’d say that the quality of the food always comes first. Next would be service. Third, atmosphere. It’s an entire package, but again, just because you’re sitting in the midst of luxury doesn’t mean you’re going to have the best dining experience. I want the review itself to be entertaining, fun, but I prefer to write my critique from the standpoint of an average diner. Since I know a great deal about different cuisines, where I can educate, I will.”
“I educate all the time,” muttered George.
“You mean, like your review of the Belmont?”
George flicked his eyes toward Yale. Pulling some dead leaves off a small schefflera, he said, “No, that was more on the order of a funeral notice.”
“It was a hatchet job.”
“And completely deserved.”
“A review like that is never deserved.”
“That’s where you and I disagree. It was a tough call, but I made the only honest one I could.”
“To destroy a restaurant?”
“I don’t have that much power, Sophie. All I did was report on the demise, which, I might add, was a fait accompli before I ever walked in the door.”
“Thanks to your earlier review.”
“I call ‘em as I see ‘em. That’s all any critic can do.”
Yale stopped the argument by holding up his hand. “George, I agree with Sophie. I think you did go overboard on that last review of the Belmont.”
“Well, then,” smirked George, “I guess you’ll just have to fire me.”
Yale gave him a pained look. A second later there was another knock at the door. One of Yale’s editorial assistants poked his head in the room. “Sorry to interrupt, but I think you better take a look at this.” The young man entered and handed an envelope to Yale.
As he pulled die letter out, Sophie could see that it was handwritten. She waited while Yale read through it.
Cupping a hand to his forehead, Yale finally said, “We better notify the police about this.”
“Yes, sir,” said the assistant.
“What is it?” asked George.
Yale sighed. “It’s a letter from Harry Hongisto, the owner of the Belmont. It’s addressed to you.”
“Me?”
“Well, it’s addressed to ‘that piece of slime restaurant critic.’ I assume he means you.”
Sophie would have laughed out loud if the look on Yale’s face hadn’t been so grim.
“Let me see that,” demanded George. He got up from his chair, walked around the desk, and yanked the paper out of Yale’s hand. Adjusting his glasses, he read through it, then handed it back, looking more than annoyed. “The guy’s a nutcase.”
Sophie couldn’t let that one pass. “I’ve known Harry Hongisto for many years. He’s hardly that.” She wanted to read the letter, but Yale had already given it back to the assistant, who had left immediately. “Since I’ll be taking over George’s position, I’d like to know what it said.”
“It was a death threat,” said Yale. “Hongisto said that any man who could take away another man’s livelihood just to show the reading public what a clever wit he had didn’t deserve to live.”
Still standing, George folded his arms and rested them on his protruding stomach. “Just what I’d expect from some one like Hongisto. Sending a poison-pen letter shows what a coward he is.”
“Harry’s no coward,” said Sophie.
Yale looked at her pointedly. “You think he intends to carry out his threat?”
“Absolutely not,” she said quickly. “That’s not what I meant. Besides, I’m not even sure you could call it a real threat. After what’s happened, I think the man is justifiably frustrated. Angry. Hurt. Writing a letter is certainly preferable to coming over here and punching George out.”
“If he can’t stand the fire, he should get out of the kitchen.”
Sophie groaned. “Gee, George, what happened to your ‘clever wit’? If you wrote like you spoke, you would have been out of a job years ago.”
He stared at her for a second, then reached down and grabbed his briefcase. “You know what, folks? I quit. No two weeks’ notice necessary for that.”
Yale stood to block his path. “George, wait.” He flung his arms out awkwardly. “You don’t want to leave on such a sour note. At least write your swan-song column for next weekend.”
“Have her write it,” George said, pointing his thumb at Sophie. “Oh, and since she’s the new girl around here, she can cover Buckridge’s event this afternoon at Kitchen Central. I intend to spend the rest of the day at the Como Conservatory communing with nature.”
“George, please.”
“Get out of my way, Yale.”
Looking defeated, Yale stepped aside and let him go.
Journal Note
Saturday, 1
P.M.
Got another E-mail message last night from Pluto, my “Deep Throat.” He says he’s in town, too. (Perhaps staying at the Maxfield?) He promised he’d be around to help me with my search, and he appears to be a man of his word. Not that he wants me to know who he is. Ever since his first contact five months ago, he’s been using a pseudonym as well as an anonymous remailer. I suppose I could contact his E-mail server to try to find out his real name, but from what I’ve heard, some of these Internet remail groups are so private, it would take a court order to get the information I want. Pluto has his agenda and I have mine. But I do wonder why his privacy is so important.
Since he signs his messages with a male name, I guess I’m just assuming it’s a man. Sloppy thinking like that won’tget me anywhere. But I’ve been calling him “him” so long, it would feel awkward to change now. I just need to remember that Pluto may be a woman.
NOTE: Do some study into the origin of the name
Pluto.
It might help to figure out who s/he is.
Of course I
have
to find out. I can’t stand not knowing — it’s what makes me such a good “biographer to the stars.” Ask Elton John or Liza Minnelli. I don’t leave any stone unturned.
Last night s missive simply said: “Find a man called Oscar Boland. He lives somewhere in the 1\vin Cities. Ask him what he knows about Wayne and Pepper Buckridge. Press him hard. Don’t let him brush you off. Next, get ahold of Eleanor Simpson. Last I heard, she was still working at the ABC affiliate in town. Ask her about the
Constance Buckridge Show.
To find the gold, you’ll have to dig deep. I want to know what you learn, so type up your interview notes and send them to me. Remember, no notes — no more help. Good luck. Pluto.”
Pluto has me convinced that there’s a dark, deeply twisted story here. But I’ve been warned to tread softly. So I spent the morning chasing down leads. I finallyfound Boland. He lives in a condo in Edina. He agreed to meet me for a drink at eight this evening. Simpson was a little harder to find. She retired from the ABC affiliate two years ago. I finally located her, living with her daughter in Lake Elmo. I’m going to drive out to talk to her tomorrow — after she gets back from church. I can’t help thinking I’ve somehow landed in Lake Wobegon and this woman will want to feed me Powder Milk Biscuits after playing me a few Lutheran hymns on the piano in the parlor.
Sophie returned to the Maxfield shortly after one. Before leaving the paper, she and Yale had talked over her idea of ending the paper’s star system. He eventually gave her his tacit agreement, though he didn’t seem sold on the idea. Changing a long-established custom was going to take some getting used to, but Sophie hoped that in a year, Yale’s attitude would be far more positive.
After spending a few minutes going through George’s files, looking for a folder, a memo, anything that might tell her which restaurants were slated to be reviewed in the next month or two, she gave up in frustration and left for home. She made a mental note to contact him tomorrow and ask where his schedule was. Surely he had some record, some system. In the past, when she’d done her guest reviews for the paper, George had simply given her an assignment and a deadline and she’d taken it from there. She’d never been involved in the day-to-day operations. Now that she was in chaige, she had a ton of questions and lots of important decisions to make. She’d hoped that George’s research would help ease her into the transition, but for the moment she was on her own.
Once she’d returned to her office at the Maxfield and sat down behind her desk, she placed a call to Harry Hongisto. She wanted to warn him about Yale’s reaction to his letter. He needed to know that, whatever his intent had been, Yale viewed it as a real threat. She was positive Harry had only been expressing his frustration, but sending even a potential death threat through the U.S. mail was probably some sort of crime. Sophie wouldn’t be a friend if she didn’t tell him that he might be in hot water. The wisest course of action would be to send an apology right away — as much as it might stick in his throat. It was best to diffuse a potential explosion before someone got hurt.
After several rings, someone finally answered the phone. When Sophie asked to talk to Harry, she was told that he wouldn’t be in until dinnertime. Since she knew he rarely missed a day at work, she found his absence strange, but she shrugged it off, thinking that he probably needed a break after the previous night’s events. Retrieving her personal address book from the bottom desk drawer, she tried his house next but once again was thwarted when his machine answered. She’d simply have to call later.
The next order of business was to check the newspaper’s website for George Gildemeister’s recent reviews. Normally, she read all the restaurant reviews that were published in the Twin Cities during any given month, but she’d been too busy lately.
After spending a good hour playing catch-up, she felt the need for a short break. She hadn’t had much of a breakfast, so lunch seemed like a good idea. Passing by the reception desk on her way up to the cafe, she checked to see that everything was running smoothly. For a Saturday, the hotel seemed unusually quiet. Most people were probably outside taking advantage of the beautiful spring afternoon. That’s what I should be doing, she thought sourly to herself, instead of being my usual, overachieving self. Bram had the right idea. He’d gone golfing. His tee time was so early that he’d invited her along, suggesting that she get in a round before her meeting at the paper. Maybe next weekend, she thought, sighing. She spoke briefly with Hildegard O’Malley, the hotel’s general manager, then headed up the central stairs to the mezzanine level, where the Fountain Grill was located.