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Garlic And Sapphires de Ruth Reichl

Garlic And Sapphires

Autor Ruth Reichl
en Limba Engleză Paperback – 28 feb 2007
Reichl knows that to be a good critic she has to be anonymous - but her picture is posted in every four-star, low-star kitchen in town and so she embarks on an extraordinary - and hilarious - undercover game of disguise - keeping even her husband and son in the dark.
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Specificații

ISBN-13: 9780099489979
ISBN-10: 009948997X
Pagini: 352
Dimensiuni: 129 x 199 x 27 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Editura: CORNERSTONE
Locul publicării:United Kingdom

Cuprins

Garlic and Sapphires The Daily Special
Backstory
Molly
The King of Spain
Looking for Umami
Miriam
Meat and Potatoes
Chloe
Brenda
Dinner with Chairman Punch
Betty
Food Warrior
The Missionary of the Delicious
Emily
Ghosts
Recipe Index
Acknowledgments

Recenzii

"This wonderful book is funny—at times laugh-out-loud funny—and smart and wise." —The Washington Post



"Reichl is so gifted . . . the reader remains hungry for more." —USA Today



"Expansive and funny." —Entertainment Weekly

Notă biografică

Ruth Reichl is a writer and editor who was the Editor in Chief of Gourmet magazine for ten years until its closing in 2009. Before that she was the restaurant critic of the New York Times, (1993-1999), and both the restaurant critic and food editor of the Los Angeles Times (1984-1993). She has authored the critically acclaimed, bestselling memoirs Tender at the Bone, Comfort Me with Apples, Garlic and Sapphires, and For You Mom, Finally, (originally published as Not Becoming My Mother and Other Things She Taught Me Along the Way). She is the editor of The Modern Library Food Series, which currently includes ten books. Ms. Reichl has been honored with many awards, including six James Beard Awards and with numerous awards from the Association of American Food Journalists. She holds a B.A. and an M.A. in the History of Art from the University of Michigan and lives in New York City with her husband, Michael Singer, a television news producer, and their son.

Extras

“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?”