Save Me the Plums: My Gourmet Memoir

by Ruth Reichl

A story called “Night of Lobster” caught my eye, and as I began to read, the walls faded, the shop around me vanishing until I was sprawled on the sands of a small island off the coast of Maine. The tide was coming in, water tickling my feet as it crept across the beach. It was deep night, the sky like velvet, spangled with stars. Much later I understood how lucky I was to have stumbled on that story. The author, Robert P. Tristram Coffin, was the poet laureate of Maine and a Pulitzer Prize winner with such an extraordinary gift for words that I could hear the hiss of a giant kettle and feel the bonfire burning as the flames leapt into the night. The fine spicy fragrance of lobster was so real to me that I reached for one, imagined tossing it from hand to hand until the shell was cool enough to crack. The meat was tender, briny, rich. Somewhere off in the distance a fish splashed, then swam silently away.

What I want most for you is challenging work that makes you proud. It’s the key to happiness.”

His face bore so few distinguishing characteristics I thought that if you tried to describe him you’d end up noting his impeccable posture and that he was very, very clean.

To me, the subway is more than a quick way to get from one place to another. It is New York in miniature, an intimate glimpse of the city. You rub shoulders with everyone who lives here, find out what they’re reading, see what they’re wearing, eavesdrop on their conversations. I love the music of many languages, the wide-eyed amazement of the tourists, the impatience of the seasoned rider each time the train comes to one of its mysterious between-station stops. Riding in a taxi gives you privacy, but why would you want to be insulated from all this?

The sorbet buzzes against my tongue, shocking me into the moment. One more bite, and I am experiencing the food with psychedelic intensity. A tiny onion tart, no bigger than a fingernail, is crowned with a single bright nasturtium; I stare at the blossom, thinking this the most beautiful food I have ever encountered. Airy puffs of pastry enfold bits of fish and slices of caramelized apples that crunch and crackle merrily inside my head. Adorable shrimp dumplings nestle into leaves of lettuce, the sweet pink meat peeking shyly from each jade wrapper. The flavor is delicate, tender, and so seductive I want to keep it in my mouth forever. But then I lift my glass and take a sip of cool white burgundy; the Corton-Charlemagne is so pure I imagine water trickling down a mountainside. I take another sip, and then another, of this gorgeous, heady wine. Gagnaire’s tribute to surf and turf arrives: delicate black caviar, pressed into a thick, fruity saline jam paired with foie gras that’s been transformed into a trembling, almost liquid substance. I close my eyes and feel the flavors somersaulting through my mouth, a circus of sensations.

Every world has its extraordinary side. It’s just that so few of us know how to find it.

“My teacher wants us to do a project on the books we studied this semester. She said we can do anything—a poem, a screenplay, an ad, even a game—but she hopes we’ll surprise her. She said someone always comes up with something really original; this year I want it to be me.” “What are you going to do?” “I was thinking of a cookbook; I bet no one’s ever done that.” I answered casually, trying to conceal my delight. “How would you go about that?” “Look for food references in all the books. Then find recipes for them.

“Look at that! This is the fall cheese, made when the grass is ripe and the milk so rich you can taste the wildflowers in the field.” He set the shard on a square of wax paper; it crinkled musically. “Taste that! You know all Parmigiano is made only of milk, but this particular cheesemaker keeps the milk from each cow separate. After a while you learn to tell the difference.”

seconds—the woman across the aisle fixed her eyes on Fran, refusing to remove them for a single second. Fran calmly ignored this until the woman leaned across the aisle to hiss in my ear, “Is that Frances McDormand?” I nodded. The woman scrabbled in her purse, looking for pen and paper. “Autograph!” she demanded, thrusting them at Fran. Fran frowned down at the paper for so long I thought she was going to refuse. At last she accepted the pen. “I’m just an actor, and no more interesting than you are.” She scribbled her name. “Probably not as interesting, actually. You should pay more attention to yourself and less to people like me. You’ll be better off that way.”

“Have you ever read the M.F.K. Fisher story that begins, ‘That early spring I met a young servant in northern Burgundy who was almost fanatical about food, like a medieval woman possessed by the devil’?” “No.” “It’s about a waitress who takes such pride in her chef that at one point she says, ‘Any trout is glad, truly glad, to be prepared by Monsieur Paul.’ The food is superb, but as course follows course, Fisher begins to fear for her life.”

Once, stranded at Heathrow because of a canceled connection, the girl who’d been sitting next to me on the plane took me home to stay with her family. They were lovely people with a large house in Wimbledon, and I ended up staying a few days. Those things never happen when you travel on the excess express. The more stars in your itinerary, the less likely you are to find the real life of another country. I’d forgotten how money becomes a barrier insulating you from ordinary life.

“Ah.” He steepled his hands. “How young you are.” He stared at the pot of rice pudding, considering his words. “When you attain my age you will understand one of life’s great secrets: Luxury is best appreciated in small portions. When it becomes routine it loses its allure.”

I remember his face, and the heady scent of almonds and cherries, as he said those words. I remember the musical French voices that surrounded us. And each time, I am grateful to my mysterious friend, for he’d put everything I’d discovered on this trip into a few simple words.

There’s something soothing about peeling apples, about the way they come whispering out of their skins. Slicing them is another pleasure, and I listened for the juicy crunch of the knife sliding through the flesh. I cut into a lemon, treasuring the scent of the aromatic oils as they flew into the air. Soon the seductive aroma of apples melting into butter drew my family to the kitchen. Even the cats came, twining around our ankles as we opened the oven and pulled out the pan. The smell was so alluring that we burned our fingers snatching bites from the pan.

Sometimes you know, before the very first taste, when a recipe is right. When I slid that floppy crepe out of the skillet, it looked exactly like the one my mother used to love. I sprinkled it with sugar, rolled it up, then heated rum and struck a match. The flames leapt up, and as they died I wished, for just a moment, that my parents could be with us. They’d encouraged me to follow my passion—even though it was one they did not share. It’s been a long and very satisfying journey. I hope they know that.

It was pure Gourmet: We looked out for one another, and I am still endlessly grateful. “That was the last fun job,” Richard said at one of our reunions, and I hugged the words to me, cherishing them. When all is said and done, that is what makes me proudest. We should all have fun at work.