46 pages • 1-hour read
Save Me the Plums
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Symbols & Motifs
The Old French Man
Save Me the Plums features two memorable trips to Paris in which Reichl encounters an elderly French widow whose wife was named Severine. The old man acts as a recurring motif, reinforcing the importance of authenticity over luxury. Reichl first meets the man at an expensive restaurant called Caviar Kaspia, where she is trying to decide whether to spend $6500 on a vintage Dior dress she saw earlier that day. On their first meeting, the old man shares expensive champagne and caviar with Reichl, adding to her luxurious experience of Paris. The man tells Reichl she reminds him of his late wife, who he describes as “a mysterious creature” (131). When the man reveals that his late wife’s name was Severine, the same name sewn into the vintage Dior dress she tried on earlier that day, Reichl feels that the elegance she has been looking for is inside her already. She tells the old man that spending time with him has made her “for just a moment, into the person [she] might have been” (131), underscoring The Connection between Food, Memory, and Emotion.
Eight years later, Reichl is in Paris on a very different trip, researching budget hotels and restaurants, when she encounters the old man again. She is shocked to find that he “had not aged” (245) since she last saw him. When Reichl expresses surprise at finding him in an inexpensive, hip restaurant, the old man tells her that “luxury is best appreciated in small portions. When it becomes routine, it loses its allure” (246). Once again, Reichl’s encounter with the old man shifts her perspective, causing her to realize that the luxury she has become accustomed to at Condé Nast is not sustainable.
Paris
The contrast between Reichl’s dual trips to Paris with her Gourmet staff highlights the Changes in American Magazine Publishing in the 20th Century. On the first trip, Reichl and “most of the editorial staff” of Gourmet travel to Paris “in true Condé Nast style […] money is no object; anything is possible” (126). Reichl’s description of this trip emphasizes the luxury of her experience: “the driver who picks [her] up at Charles de Gaulle takes [her] straight to lunch at Pierre Gagnaire” (124), where she is greeted by a waiter offering her champagne in a “crystal flute” (124). After a lunch of “gorgeous, heady wine” and “the most beautiful food [she] ha[s] ever encountered” (124), a chauffeur is waiting to take her to a “palatial suite at Le Meurice [that] is filled with flowers” (125). The references in these passages to the 3-Michelin-star restaurant, Pierre Gagnaire, and the 5-star hotel, La Meurice, reflect the best Paris has to offer. Reichl admits that the “sheer luxury” of the trip was “intoxicating” and made the staff “slightly giddy” (126).
In contrast, Reichl’s second trip to Paris comes at a time when “Wall Street was in turmoil, people were losing their homes, unemployment rising higher every day” (135). Reichl pitches an issue dedicated to Paris on a tight budget. She argues that the best of Paris has “nothing to do with luxury” (235) and offers to research the piece herself. On this trip, Reichl stays in “a spartan space whose lone window looked onto an air shaft” (237). As she compares the room to her prior stay: “an image of the room at Le Meurice flashe[s] through [her] mind; you could fit a dozen of these in there—and still have space to spare” (237). Despite the difference in comfort level, Reichl discovers that she can still have a wonderful time in Paris on a modest budget. Reichl’s consideration of the differences between her two trips leads her to conclude that “money becomes a barrier insulating you from ordinary life” (242), reflecting the ongoing tension she feels between luxury and authenticity.
The Condé Nast Cafeteria
Although Save Me the Plums presents a largely complimentary view of Condé Nast, the cafeteria in the Condé Nast building at 4 Times Square epitomizes the prioritization of prestige over quality. Reichl implies that Condé Nast owner Si Newhouse designed the cafeteria to be “New York’s most exclusive club” (150), boosting the reputation of the company. The cafeteria was designed by the world-famous architect Frank Gehry, and received so much press that “the whole world yearned to visit Gehry’s soaring space with its sinuous glass panels and curving titanium walls” (150). Newhouse recruited the chef George Lang, whose restaurants The Four Seasons and Café des Artistes were New York Staples, to “personally oversee the menu” (21). These prestigious hires reflect the growing culture of celebrity in the 1990s, as individual architects and chefs became household names so that “on any given day, the Condé Nast cafeteria was packed with celebrities whose agents had wrangled invitations” (150). Reichl’s depiction of the cafeteria here emphasizes Newhouse’s attempts to boost the prestige of the company through association with celebrity.
Although Newhouse dedicates millions to making the cafeteria an exclusive space, Reichl makes clear that the Condé Nast cafeteria is a better place to be seen than to eat. Although the cafeteria services the staff of Gourmet and Bon Appetit, it serves “tough nuggets of precooked chicken,” “limp, overcooked vegetables,” and “a vast tray of macaroni paved in a thick orange crust” (151). Reichl describes the food as “dreadful” and “a mess” (150), and when a potential editor begs to eat elsewhere, she feels that “he’d aced the first part of [his] interview” (152).
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