Comfort Me with Apples

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BRIDGE The primary requisite for writing well about food is a good appetite. A.J. Liebling Easy for him to say: He was independently wealthy. Personally, I found the primary requisite for writing about food to be a credit card. And that was a problem. I pictured myself sweeping into fabulous restaurants to dine upon caviar and champagne. Maitre d's would cower before the great Restaurant Critic. Chefs would stand behind the kitchen door, trembling. "What is she saying?" they would whisper to my waiter. "Does she like it?" I would not betray, by word or gesture, my opinion of the meal. And when it was all over, I would throw down my card and cry "Charge it please!," then gather my retinue and float regally out the door. Unfortunately, the first time I tried this I hit a few snags. In 1978, San Francisco's fanciest French restaurant belonged to a chef who had cooked for the Kennedys. The valet stared at my beat-up Volvo and shook his head. He could not, he insisted, accept a car that used a screwdriver in place of a key. The maitre d'hotel was equally overjoyed by my arrival; he looked me up and down, took in my thrift-store clothing, and led me straight to the worst table, the one that shook each time a waiter came out the kitchen door. The sommelier appeared worried when I ordered the '61 Lascombes. He had, he was sorry to inform me, sold the last bottle. He was certain that a nice little Beaujolais would make me very happy. And when the captain announced that the special of the evening was freshly made terrine de foie gras, he pointedly told me the price. The biggest humiliation, however, was yet to come. "Your credit card, madam," said the maitre d'hotel frostily, "has been rejected." He stood over me looking more smug than sorrowful; clearly he had been expecting this all along. "It couldn't be!" I insisted. "I just got it yesterday." "It says, madam," the maitre d'hotel went on, "that you are over your limit." He leaned down and hissed menacingly. "Do you know what your limit is?" Unfortunately, I did. After years of righteous poverty I was prepared to sacrifice my principles and leap back into middle-class life. The middle class, however, had its doubts about me. Although I was now a bona fide restaurant critic, the banks were not impressed. Where, they wanted to know, were my debts? How had I managed to live thirty years without owing anything to anyone? Were there no college loans, no car payments, no mortgages, no revolving lines of credit? How could I possibly be trusted with a credit card? In desperation I had put on my very best dress and arranged for an appointment with the bank manager. After making me wait a suitable length of time, he graciously permitted me to show him the masthead of New West magazine. I was hoping that my association with New York magazine's West Coast sibling would impress this man, that he would recognize it as Northern California's most important regional publication. But the manager merely looked bored. As he unhurriedly put on his half-glasses, I wished that I had tamed my hair out of its usual wildness. I patted, vainly, at it and tried pulling the most excitable curls behind my ears. They popped willfully forward. He snorted. He scanned the list of contributing editors. He noted my name. He grunted. "Meaningless," he said at last. "What we are looking for is something to show that you will pay your bills. Can you show me a pay stub?" "I'm freelance," IReichl, Ruth is the author of 'Comfort Me with Apples' with ISBN 9780375501951 and ISBN 0375501959.