Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl Read Free Book Online

table, and I felt as if the unpleasant part of the meal had come to an end.
    But there was no graciousness in the maneuver. The busboy sullenly ferried used water glasses and bread plates across the dining room, shoved our crumpled-up napkins into our hands, and took off. Watching him go, I found myself saying, “You’d think he’d at least refold the napkins!” in Molly’s subdued voice.
    â€œReally my darling, what does it matter?” asked Claudia. The waiter had just set a plate of black bass in Barolo sauce before her, and she was looking down at it with a dreamy expression. The fish was wrapped in translucent slices of potato that hugged it like a second skin. She reached out with the tines of her fork and watched, rapt, as the crisp potato coat shattered to reveal the soft, creamy flesh underneath.
    â€œClaudia!” said Molly sharply, “you, of all people, should understand the importance of theater. The food may be good, but the service has been so bad that the evening is destroyed.”
    â€œI beg your pardon,” said Claudia, setting the fish resolutely aside. “You are quite right.”
    â€œI did not come here simply to eat,” Molly went on in her slow, serious voice, “I came here for glamour. I am willing to pay for the privilege of feeling rich and important for a few small hours. Is that too much to ask? I have come here looking for a dream, and it has turned into a nightmare. I feel frumpy and powerless. I may be nobody, but I don’t like paying to be humiliated. It isn’t right.”
    Claudia was looking at me with a kind of wonder. I was surprised myself. Where had that speech come from? Who was this woman? I found myself toying with the very brown food that was set before me, and when the chocolate soufflé cake arrived, I pushed it away after a few small bites. “I really shouldn’t eat dessert,” I heard myself saying. “I’d like to lose fifteen pounds.” And when I paid the check, I discovered that Molly’s signature looked nothing like mine.
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    C laudia was triumphant. “We did it!” she said when we were back on the sidewalk. “You absolutely fooled them. They had no idea who you were.”
    â€œThat,” I replied, “is certainly true. Even I did not know who I was.”

The King of Spain
    A rms wide, mouth open, legs pumping, the owner of Le Cirque came bounding toward the table in full cry. “You’re Warren Hoge,” he wailed reproachfully at my guest.
    â€œYes,” Warren admitted ruefully.
    â€œHow could I have seated Warren Hoge here ?” asked Mr. Maccioni. It was an accusation, as if this lapse were somehow our fault. “You must let me move you to a better table.”
    Finished with our main courses and already halfway through dessert, we declined the offer. But Sirio Maccioni, stricken at having mistreated such an important person, was insistent. He looked at Michael. He looked at Warren’s wife. He looked at me. Failure to recognize a major player was a serious breach of his honor as a restaurateur, and he wanted to remedy the situation. At last he took no for an answer, but when he reluctantly moved off he left behind an army of waiters with strict instructions to bombard us with desserts.
    The onslaught of sweets was ferocious. There was a miniature stove with little pots of chocolate, and a troupe of pulled-sugar clowns. There were fabulous cakes and adorably decorated candies. And there was something else. “Look,” I said. With my right hand I held up the raspberry tartlet that had just arrived; with my left I held up my old, half-eaten one.
    Anyone with eyes could see it: the new raspberries were twice the size of the old ones.
    â€œDo you suppose,” asked Michael, “that there is someone in the kitchen who does nothing but sort raspberries for high-status diners?”
    â€œWelcome to New