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Summary
Summary
GARLIC AND SAPPHIRES is Ruth Reichl's riotous account of the many disguises she employs to dine anonymously. There is her stint as Molly Hollis, a frumpy blond with manicured nails and an off-beige Armani suit that Ruth takes on when reviewing Le Cirque. The result: her famous double review of the restaurant: first she ate there as Molly; and then as she was coddled and pampered on her visit there as Ruth, New York Times food critic.
What is even more remarkable about Reichl's spy games is that as she takes on these various disguises, she finds herself changed not just superficially, but in character as well. She gives a remarkable account of how one's outer appearance can very much influence one's inner character, expectations, and appetites.
As she writes, "Every restaurant is a theater . . . even the modest restaurants offer the opportunity to become someone else, at least for a little while." GARLIC AND SAPPHIRES is a reflection on personal identity and role playing in the decadent, epicurean theaters of the restaurant world.
Author Notes
Ruth Reichl was born in New York City on January 16, 1948. In 1970, she graduated from the University of Michigan with a M.A. in art history. She became a food writer and magazine editor for New West magazine. Later she worked for the Los Angeles Times, first as the restaurant editor and then food editor. She received two James Beard Awards. In 1993, she moved back to New York to become the restaurant critic for The New York Times. She was the editor in chief of Gourmet Magazine for ten years.
She is the author of the memoirs Garlic and Sapphires, Tender at the Bone, and Comfort Me with Apples and the novel Delicious! Her latest book, My Kitchen Year: 136 Recipes That Saved My Life, was published in 2015.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
As the New York Times's restaurant critic for most of the 1990s, Reichl had what some might consider the best job in town; among her missions were evaluating New York City's steakhouses, deciding whether Le Cirque deserved four stars and tracking down the best place for authentic Chinese cuisine in Queens. Thankfully, the rest of us can live that life vicariously through this vivacious, fascinating memoir. The book-Reichl's third-lifts the lid on the city's storied restaurant culture from the democratic perspective of the everyday diner. Reichl creates wildly innovative getups, becoming Brenda, a red-haired aging hippie, to test the food at Daniel; Chloe, a blonde divorcee, to evaluate Lespinasse; and even her deceased mother, Miriam, to dine at 21. Such elaborate disguises-which include wigs, makeup, thrift store finds and even credit cards in other names-help Reichl maintain anonymity in her work, but they also do more than that. "Every restaurant is a theater," she explains. Each one "offer[s] the opportunity to become someone else, at least for a little while. Restaurants free us from mundane reality." Reichl's ability to experience meals in such a dramatic way brings an infectious passion to her memoir. Reading this work-which also includes the finished reviews that appeared in the newspaper, as well as a few recipes-ensures that the next time readers sit down in a restaurant, they'll notice things they've never noticed before. Agent, Kathy Robbins. (On sale Apr. 11) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
This third volume of Reichl's autobiography covers her years as the New York Times' powerful restaurant critic, and readers of her previous books will relish the tales of her life at the summit of her power. Having been lured east from a successful stint in Los Angeles, Reichl faces a hideously competitive market, where even her predecessor seems out to get her. She adopts a number of disguises to keep restaurant owners from recognizing her. Repeated visits to Le Cirque, Sirio Maccioni's lionized temple of dining, yield wildly differing experiences, so she pens a so-so review only to find out it's the publisher's favorite restaurant. Reichl's insistence on reviewing non-mainstream restaurants upsets those who think Manhattan ends at Central Park North. Reichl offers few other insights into the inner workings of the nation's most powerful newspaper. Some of the book's most affecting episodes involve her young son's love of potatoes in all forms. And a touching encounter with a homeless man in the subway after a particularly chic and elegant lunch outlines the ironies of her profession. Reichl reproduces a number of her most significant reviews, and she also offers recipes for favorite dishes. --Mark Knoblauch Copyright 2005 Booklist
Guardian Review
Before Ruth Reichl even started her job as restaurant critic at the New York Times, the maitre d's of Manhattan were pinning her photo up in their kitchens. Waiting staff were instructed to memorise her features so that the alarm could immediately be raised should she and her notepad appear at one of their tables. Four stars from the New York Times would guarantee a spanking trade for at least the next decade. One star meant empty tables and a stench of irrelevance that could close a place down in weeks. By taking on the job Reichl had, at a stroke, been granted powers of life and death. Like any good Berkeley graduate from the late 1960s, Reichl found these privileges uncomfortable. The moment she was "made" by a sharp- eyed waiter, she couldn't help noticing that the service got smoother, the drinks larger and the food just a little more thoughtful. However delightful for her, Reichl's dining experiences gave her little way of knowing just what it would be like to eat at Lespinasse or Daniel as a normal punter. And so began her odd experiment of dining in disguise, passing herself off as a series of old ladies or visiting midwesterners, the kind of diners who are generally stuck at a table next to the gents' and find it impossible to attract the waiter's attention. Her findings are what you'd expect, especially for Manhattan in the mid-90s, before 9/11 softened people's sensibilities and reminded them what really matters. The first place she tried her experiment of dining in two personae was Le Cirque, a powerhouse restaurant that previously carried a four-star rating from the Times. Reichl's wheeze was to publish her two reviews side by side. As frumpy "Molly" - left to wait too long at the bar, refused the non-smoking table she had requested - she gave the restaurant one star. As Ruth Reichl - fussed-over first lady of fine dining - she awarded it four. But the New York Times was not happy. Le Cirque happened to be the chairman's favourite place and anyway, Reichl's editor informed her, the rule was "one restaurant, one rating". In the end the two reviews were combined and a generous average of three stars decided upon. The loss of that fourth star, Reichl was assured, would serve as such a stinging public slap that her point about being nice to old ladies would come across loud and clear. Still, she was left in no doubt that what had seemed to her a bold and necessary bid to put the ordinary diner at the heart of the reviewing process appeared to her pay-masters as an undignified stunt. Here is the clue, if any were needed, that life as a restaurant critic in New York was not going to be as much sunny fun as it was on Reichl's previous beat, the Los Angeles Times. First there was Reichl's predecessor, Bryan Miller, who wished he hadn't left his job and was desperate to get it back. His strategy was to write letters to the editors bitching that Reichl's penchant for reviewing noodle joints (before southeast Asian cuisine had established itself as worthy of professional critical attention) was making the Times look low-rent. Then there was the way that the tiniest mistake in her printed copy (describing the shabby chic decor at one restaurant as "ersatz" when, in fact, the antique clutter was all original) could become the occasion for a kind of slow-burn mortification. Finally, there were the high-ups who used Reichl as an unpaid events organiser, expecting her to arrange fantastic banquets for visiting stars who would announce, just as they were tucking in their napkins that, actually, they couldn't eat anything on the menu. Ultimately, though, it is the food that matters to Reichl. Sometimes her job is to spear the pretensions of over-hyped restaurants where the service is fussy and the food is awful (or, indeed, the other way round). But there are always those magical moments when the excited chatter about a new chef or fresh management turns out to be fully justified. It is here that Reichl's writing really comes into its own. Describing taste is extraordinarily difficult, especially if you are obliged to use the language of ordinary sensation, ruthlessly excluding terms that make sense only to a food insider. But Reichl does it wonderfully, making us experience the flavours even when we don't quite understand what it is that we are being asked to eat by proxy: halibut poached in goose fat, nine-herb ravioli. A few years later, and in a different part of town entirely, another New York dining experiment was under way. Julie Powell, a secretary pushing 30 with badly behaved ovaries, decided to change her life by setting herself the task of cooking all 524 dishes from Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cookery within a single year. What's more she would blog about it, posting daily bulletins on her web page, describing her adventures with potage parmentier, filets de poisons Bercy aux champignons, and oeufs en gelee. Just as with Reichl's narrative, you suspect that there is an awful lot that is left unsaid or talked up; the fact, for instance, that Powell seems to be a distinctly more accomplished cook to start with than she lets on. While she may be squeamish about taking live lobsters home in her handbag before stabbing them to death on the kitchen table, she seems a remarkably smooth operator when it comes to doing things that would be beyond most of us operating in an outer- borough kitchen with only intermittent hot water. Then there is the crowd of zany friends who pile into the apartment to eat the food and discuss their love lives (Powell, solidly married, is expected to provide emotional rescue along with the creme brulee). Both books, unsurprisingly, share a nagging concern as to whether it is entirely proper to spend so much time thinking about food in the first place. Reichl's husband is an investigative reporter whose undercover work turns up the kind of corporate corruption that makes her gentle interrogations of $100-a-head meals seem footling. The non-kitchen part of Powell's life, meanwhile, is given over to a job that involves handing out tissues and glasses of water to the grieving relatives from 9/11. In the end the two women's responses to the dilemma are curious inversions of one another. Reichl, finding that the fancy meals are increasingly sticking in her throat, goes off to edit Gourmet magazine, allowing her to get her hands dirty in the kitchen once again. Powell, tickled pink by the fact that her blog has attracted the attention of everyone from CBS to Newsweek, chucks in her lacklustre job to enjoy the kind of petting that comes with being an important person in New York. What lies at the heart of both stories, none the less, is the power of food to transform the everyday act of eating into a complex and potentially life-changing experience. Kathryn Hughes's The Short Life and Long Times of Mrs Beeton is published by Fourth Estate. To order Garlic and Sapphires for pounds 11.99 or Julie and Julia for pounds 13.99, both with free UK p&p, call Guardian book service on 0870 836 0875. Caption: article-garlic.1 Like any good Berkeley graduate from the late 1960s, [Ruth Reichl] found these privileges uncomfortable. The moment she was "made" by a sharp- eyed waiter, she couldn't help noticing that the service got smoother, the drinks larger and the food just a little more thoughtful. However delightful for her, Reichl's dining experiences gave her little way of knowing just what it would be like to eat at Lespinasse or Daniel as a normal punter. And so began her odd experiment of dining in disguise, passing herself off as a series of old ladies or visiting midwesterners, the kind of diners who are generally stuck at a table next to the gents' and find it impossible to attract the waiter's attention. Her findings are what you'd expect, especially for Manhattan in the mid-90s, before 9/11 softened people's sensibilities and reminded them what really matters. Here is the clue, if any were needed, that life as a restaurant critic in New York was not going to be as much sunny fun as it was on Reichl's previous beat, the Los Angeles Times. First there was Reichl's predecessor, Bryan Miller, who wished he hadn't left his job and was desperate to get it back. His strategy was to write letters to the editors bitching that Reichl's penchant for reviewing noodle joints (before southeast Asian cuisine had established itself as worthy of professional critical attention) was making the Times look low-rent. Then there was the way that the tiniest mistake in her printed copy (describing the shabby chic decor at one restaurant as "ersatz" when, in fact, the antique clutter was all original) could become the occasion for a kind of slow-burn mortification. Finally, there were the high-ups who used Reichl as an unpaid events organiser, expecting her to arrange fantastic banquets for visiting stars who would announce, just as they were tucking in their napkins that, actually, they couldn't eat anything on the menu. - Kathryn Hughes.
Kirkus Review
Tasty revelations of Gourmet magazine editor Reichl's undercover antics as the former food critic at the New York Times. Some readers might pause at the thought of a third volume of memoirs from a woman not even through her middle age, but for foodies with a penchant for the inside scoop, Reichl's behind-the-scenes stories of the Gray Lady deliver the goods. Before working at the Times, Reichl was quite happy writing restaurant reviews at the Los Angeles Times; she was wooed and won in spite of her misgivings. Almost immediately, her photo was posted in restaurant kitchens across the city. In response, Reichl embarked on a cloak-and-dagger--or wig-and-pseudonym--campaign that she carried on through her tenure at the paper. Her first role was as the fictional Molly Hollis; to achieve the transformation, Reichl donned the wig, suit, padding and makeup she imagined for the character of a midwestern, middle-aged, former schoolteacher. She also dressed up as a flamboyant redhead, a nearly invisible elderly lady, and her own inimitable mother. Where Reichl went, controversy followed. As Molly Hollis, she had a dreadful experience at Le Cirque, prompting her to take away the restaurant's fourth star. A casual Californian, she widened the paper's scope to include as many truly fine restaurants as she could find, touting soba, bulgogi and sushi to readers more accustomed to reading about Continental cuisine. Here, some characters are disguised, while others, such as her predecessor Bryan Miller, whose campaign against her was revealed in the gossip column of the New York Post, are right out in the open. Reichl also discusses her disrupted family life. And then there's the food: Reichl excels at making long-gone meals live vividly on the page. Spicy and sweet by turns, with crackle and bite throughout. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
When Reichl, currently editor in chief of Gourmet magazine, left the Los Angeles Times to become the restaurant critic for the New York Times in the 1990s, she learned that a prerequisite for her new job was the "ability to be anonymous." It seemed that every New York City restaurant was watching for her, so Reichl created a few disguises. What she never expected was that these assumed personas would not only affect her reviews but that they would also teach Reichl something different about herself. In between describing her adventures reviewing such restaurants as Le Cirque and the Four Seasons, Reichl details her family life in elegantly spare prose. The author's wonderful personal recipes add their own flavor to this entertaining book, a natural for any reader who enjoyed Reichl's two other beautifully written culinary memoirs (Tender at the Bone; Comfort Me with Apples) or who lapped up Mimi Sheraton's Eating My Words: An Appetite for Life. Wise and thoroughly satisfying; highly recommended for all public libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 12/04.]-John Charles, Scottsdale P.L., AZ (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
"I'm a restaurant critic," I told the woman in the wig shop, "and I need a disguise that will keep me from being recognized." "That's a new one on me," she said. "Do you have a special restaurant you're working on at the moment?" "Yes," I said, remembering the fragrant aroma of the soup I had eaten on my last visit to Lespinasse. When I dipped my spoon into the broth shimeji mushrooms went sliding sensuously across my tongue with the lush texture of custard. I tasted lemongrass, kaffir lime, mushroom and something else, something that hovered at the edge of my mind, familiar but elusive. I took another taste and it was there again, that sweetness, hiding just behind the citrus. It came whirling into my consciousness and then slid maddeningly away before I could identify it. "The food was wonderful," I told her, "but I think they made me. Everything's been just a little too perfect. So I want a foolproof disguise." "Try this," she said, opening a drawer and pulling out a cascade of hair the color of Dom Perignon. As the wig caught the light the color changed from pearl to buttercup. The hair fell across my face as gently as silk. I squeezed my eyes tight, not wanting to look until it was seated right. I could feel it settle into place, feel the soft strands graze my shoulders just below my ears. "Wait!" she cried as my eyes started to open, and she leaned forward and tugged at the wig, adjusting it. "Okay," she said at last, "you can open your eyes now." The champagne blonde in the mirror did not seem to be wearing a wig. The hair looked real, as if it were growing out of the scalp. Even the dark eyebrows looked right, as if this woman had so much confidence she didn't care who knew that she dyed her hair. My mouth dropped open. "Oh!" I said stupidly, "oh my." I don't think I would have recognized myself if we had met walking down the street, and I had yet to put on any makeup. Somehow this cut, this color, made my cheeks pink, my eyes almost violet, my lips seem redder than they had ever been. I felt new, glamorous, bursting with curiosity. What would life be like for the woman in the mirror? "You were meant to be blonde!" cried the saleswoman, packing the wig into an old-fashioned hatbox. She looked wistfully at the hair and said, "You'll come back and tell me what happens, won't you?" "You mean whether I'm recognized at Lespinasse?" "Well," she said, "that too. But what I mostly want to know is--do blondes really have more fun?" Excerpted from Garlic and Sapphires: The Secret Life of a Critic in Disguise by Ruth Reichl All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
