A few weeks back, I was more than a little flattered when I got a call from Freedom Speaks, the weekly TV series produced by the Media Studies Center in Arlington, Va. April Davis, a producer for the show, explained that she was putting together an installment on food critics and how they do their job. “Well,” I thought to myself, “I guess I can do that.”
Then April told me who else would be on the show. Jim Leff, whose off-the-beaten-track food articles appear on the Internet at chowhound.com, would be one of my fellow guests. The other, April said, would be Ruth Reichl, restaurant critic for The New York Times. “Are you familiar with her?” April asked sweetly.
Familiar? In my world, Ruth Reichl reigns supreme. She is the mother superior of food, the queen of cuisine, the chairman of the dining board. I read the Times twice a week—on Sundays, so I’ll know what’s going on in the world, and on Wednesdays, so I can read Ruth Reichl’s “Restaurants” column.
The thought of sitting on a panel with such an authority filled me with anxiety. I asked April if she and the show’s producers were aware of where I lived and the city I wrote about. My name had come up thanks to former Nashvillian Kerry Brock, and April assured me everybody at Freedom Speaks was convinced I would add a different slant to the story. If you’re looking for an opinion on salmon and biscuits, hot chicken, and meat ’n’ three, I thought, I guess I’m your source.
To prepare for my brush with greatness, I read Reichl’s new book, Tender at the Bone (Random House, $23), a bittersweet look back at her youth and young adulthood, her family, and the events that led her to become a food critic.
Her mother, a manic-depressive, was a living, breathing lethal weapon in the kitchen, and it fell to young Ruth to save friends and family, quite literally, from food poisoning. (She refers to herself as “the guardian of the guests.”) Ruth actually learned about food from her surrogate grandmother, Birdie (the mother of her father’s first wife) and Birdie’s housekeeper, Alice. One of the first things they taught Reichl to cook was fried oysters. The recipe is included in the book.
In her teens, she attended a dismal Canadian boarding school where the only saving grace was a friend who took her home for weekends. There, the friend’s father recognized Ruth’s inherent talent for food and introduced her to dishes both classic and exotic. Back home in New York, Reichl, who saw herself as an ugly duckling, made her mark by cooking for her high-school friends. Every step of her journey—through college, friendships, and marriage—was defined by food. She ended up in Berkeley, catering and cooking in a co-op restaurant.
When a San Francisco magazine asked her to review restaurants, Reichl’s editor told her, “You were born to do this.” She responded, with the quiet modesty that makes her entire memoir so endearing, “No, but I was very well trained.”
I flew to Washington on a Wednesday afternoon and taxied over to the Ritz Carlton in Arlington. My travel budget usually demands a Hallmark Inn, but here the bellmen were white-gloved, and the young man behind the front desk spoke with a Continental accent. After spending an hour in the health club, I drew a bath and stretched out for a soak in the super-long tub. Then I wrapped myself in a plush terrycloth robe and picked up the room service menu to order a cocktail. It was then that I realized that I was staying at the Ritz-Carlton Pentagon City. I drew aside the drapes and looked out the window. Yup, there it was, the Pentagon. Considering that, just that morning, Pakistan had defied world opinion and conducted nuclear tests, I was a trifle disconcerted. In the midst of a world crisis, I didn’t feel all that secure being in such close proximity to our military headquarters. At first I was a little annoyed that, when I finally had the chance to sit in the lap of luxury, I was in imminent danger of being blown to bits. Then I figured, what the hell? At least I’d go in style.
At 8:30 that evening, I met April and Judy Chung, another Freedom Speaks producer, for dinner. We chose Obelisk, a charming little 35-seat room in D.C. that serves the exquisite Northern Italian cuisine of chef Peter Pastan. Obelisk offers a four-course prix fixe menu that changes every night. On this particular evening, we had the choice of three antipasti, three primi piatti, four secondi, and four dessert options. There was even a cheese plate, if we’d wanted it. All these courses for just $42 per person. Freshness is the key at Obelisk, but it’s easy to achieve when the offerings are so focused and when the chef isn’t locked into a set menu. (Hello? Nashville restaurateurs? Are you listening? You can do this too, and many of us really, really wish you would try.)
The simplicity of the dishes allowed the individual flavors to sing. I especially loved the fat white asparagus spears with chives and slivers of Italian ham, the plump mussel soup, and the thick, grilled veal chop with tart juniper relish and sweet stuffed onion. Most impressive.
The following day, we arrived at the studio around noon for hair and makeup, such as it was. (Each of us was asked to wear some type of disguise.) At 1, we joined Kerry on the set, where a gorgeous lunch prepared by Tracy Cisneros, sous chef at the popular Kinkead’s restaurant, awaited us. First was a colorful seafood stew with big chunks of lobster tail and glistening scallops, most of which went untasted as we spent the next 30 minutes talking about, rather than eating, food.
For all you Ruth groupies, I can report that she was refreshingly down-to-earth and frank, that she has visited a restaurant as many as nine times before writing a review, that she dislikes the star system she inherited at the Times, and that she thinks a great review can hurt a restaurant more than a bad review. She’s also convinced that, whenever she gives a restaurant a great write-up, the last time it’s any good is the night before her review comes out. For the most part, I have absolutely no recollection of what I said. I do remember that, when we were asked to tell the weirdest thing we had ever eaten, everyone was impressed with my description of the Tater Dog, a specialty at a lunch spot in the Arcade.
Sitting down at a table and sharing a meal provides common ground. It brings families and friends close together and allows even complete strangers to share an intimate, pleasurable experience. In the restaurant world, there are big differences between Ruth Reichl’s experience and mine, but I learned that we ultimately try to do the very same thing—to guide our readers to the best possible places to gather at the table and come away happily well-fed.
Obelisk is located at 2029 P Street N.W., Washington, D.C. (202-872-1180). Reservations recommended.
