Garlic and Sapphires Read Online Free Page B

from the Washington Bureau kept up a stream of constant challenges. Were they sure about the number of ground troops Clinton had agreed to send to Bosnia? Shouldn’t that story about the slaying of a gay sailor be above the fold?
    Los Angeles piped in, offering a story on well-to-do blacks and their response to the King beating trials. The third in a series about Muslims in America was briefly discussed, along with a story about the way the children of the Branch Davidians had been abused in the compound.
    It was fascinating, and I suddenly understood what it was that I was so wantonly rejecting. These were the finest news minds of my generation, and I had been offered the chance to work with them. I began to regret my behavior.
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    ut it was too late; there was only one interview to go and I had been burning bridges all afternoon. So I went into my final meeting and shook hands with the editor, Max Frankel, and his deputy, Joe Lelyveld. And when they asked what I thought of the way they covered food, I went back to the campaign. “Not much,” I said.
    They looked taken aback.
    I had charted my course and I sailed bravely on, telling the editors of the world’s most powerful paper that they were doing things wrong.
    â€œYour reviews,” I said, “are very useful guides for the people who actually eat in the restaurants you review. But how many of your readers will go to Lutèce this year? A thousand? That leaves out more than a million readers. And at a time when people are more interested in food and restaurants than they have ever been in the history of this country, that’s a shame. You shouldn’t be writing reviews for the people who dine in fancy restaurants, but for all the ones who wish they could.”
    I remember Joe looking at Max over my head and saying, “This is interesting. And you know, we’ve heard this argument before. Only it was about books. What she’s really saying is that we’ve been selling restaurants and that isn’t our business. We should be selling newspapers.”
    Max nodded thoughtfully and allowed me to natter on. I can’t remember what I said. But I do remember that after a while they had had enough. Max stuck out his hand and thanked me for coming. It was already getting dark when I walked out of the New York Times building.
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    was outrageous,” I reported to Michael when I got back to the hotel. “They’ll never hire me.”
    I expected him to be annoyed, but all he said was “Good for you.”
    â€œWhat?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
    â€œDo you think I don’t know you?” he asked. “I knew you were trying to blow it. That job would make you the most powerful restaurant critic in the world, and the idea scares you to death. You think you don’t know enough, but you do. You’re ready. You’ll be great. And I’ll bet they loved you.”
    â€œWhy would they? I was really snotty.”
    â€œBecause,” said Michael, “powerful people are accustomed to being sucked up to. When you don’t, it makes you more desirable. The less you want them, the more they want you. Wait and see.”

    F or days I jumped every time the phone rang. I was afraid it would be Warren offering me the job; I was afraid it would be Warren not offering me the job. I didn’t know what I wanted and I hoped he wouldn’t call at all.
    In the meantime I fell in love with Los Angeles all over again, and found myself dreading going back to humid summers and chapped winters. I thought about all the friends I would miss, my wonderful kitchen, the ease of life with a car. I looked around my office and thought how depressing it was at the New York Times, how brittle all the people there seemed to be. And then I thought about what had happened when I first came to Los Angeles, the avalanche of mail lamenting the loss of the former