Garlic and Sapphires Read Free

can’t be much fun for you, being a restaurant critic in the middle of a recession . . .” I dropped Easter; he had captured my attention.
    The eighties hit Los Angeles like the month of March: they came roaring in, then tiptoed sheepishly out as the money stopped and the good times ended. It all happened so fast: First the aerospace industry shut its doors and the city slumped into depression. Then the cops beat Rodney King on the nightly news, exposing the racism that had been hiding behind the prosperity. The anger simmering just below the surface erupted into a furious boil. Riots were followed by floods and then fires, which spilled out across the city in an almost biblical manner. When the tide of disasters finally receded, the city it left behind was thin, brittle, dangerous, and poor.
    The very rich retreated into their golden communities—into Bel Air, the Palisades, and Beverly Hills—locking the gates behind them. The valleys on the far side of the mountains swelled with fleeing people. Those of us left in Los Angeles huddled in our houses, haunted by memories of snipers shooting from freeway overpasses, looters setting fires that came creeping inexorably into our neighborhoods, contorted faces throwing rocks. Staying home seemed the safest option, and the great Los Angeles restaurant boom came screeching to a halt.
    â€œNew York is the center of the American restaurant world.” The man’s sinuous voice wormed its way into my ear and I imagined him holding out an enormous, bright red apple.
    I was not about to bite. “I have a job, thank you,” I said crisply. “I love working at the Los Angeles Times. I’m not looking to move.”
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    B ut he wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I told my husband when I got home. “When I told him I was going to be in New York in a couple of weeks for the James Beard Awards, he made me agree to meet him for coffee.”
    â€œI’d love to leave L.A.,” Michael said wistfully.
    â€œDon’t even think about it,” I warned him. “It’s not an interview. It’s just coffee. I’ll only be there fifteen minutes. I can’t resist the chance to see the Times offices, but I have no interest in working there.”
    â€œOf course not,” said Michael. “Why on earth would you want to work at the best paper in the world?”
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    F or the next two weeks Michael issued nightly bulletins about the New York Times and its search for a new critic. He refused to tell me where he was getting his information, but he seemed to know everything. The paper, he said, had offered the job to Molly O’Neill, who did not want it. “Apparently,” Michael said, “she has a weight problem.” Bryan Miller was pushing one of his friends as a replacement, and the editors were being inundated by calls from critics all over the country. Michael, nevertheless, was convinced that the job was mine.
    â€œThey haven’t even offered it to me,” I kept telling him.
    â€œThey will,” he said loyally. “You’re the best critic in the country.” It’s comforting when the people you love believe in you, but his confidence also unnerved me. When I was honest with myself, I saw that I was terrified of going to work at the New York Times.
    â€œThere are lots of good critics out there,” I told him.
    â€œNot like you,” he said steadfastly. “The job’s yours for the taking.”
    He was still repeating this mantra when I left for the airport. “Be nice when you meet Warren Hoge,” he urged.
    â€œMommy’s always nice,” said Nicky with the uncritical devotion of a four-year-old.
    Michael picked him up and cradled him in his arms. “Wouldn’t you like to live in New York?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” said Nicky.
    I gave him a kiss, nuzzling the soft skin of his neck.