This is in response to Grub Street's story on Ben Leventhal's recent claim that we are @RuthBourdain. In reality, find us @lifevicarious or @danyellefreeman.
Brett Anderson and I were standing in the office of Rick Berke, assistant managing editor of The New York Times. We stood there awaiting his judgment, our final interview, before he filled the role of relieved restaurant critic Sam Sifton, was about to begin.
Berke knew, however, the decision called for sacrifice, that there was always a price to pay, that he must balance light and dark, that the metaphor lost on so many readers, the reason The New York Times is black and white, stems from a deathbed curse placed by the paper's founders; Henry Jarvis Raymond drank a bottle of ink, George Jones opened his veins. Darkness and light would always breed balance, balance breeds objectivity, and objectivity will forever keep the paper profitable. Tip the scales and the ink will dry up, and blood will run in the streets.
Every publisher took a different approach to keeping balance. To name 'Puppy Diaries' author Jill Abramson executive editor, Pinch Sulzberger adopted a hundred cats. When the source of Judith Miller's false reporting was brought to light, Miler was dismissed in a cloak of shame. When Frank Bruni came out of the closet, he had to hide in plain sight every time he ate out. When each new edition was loaded on the trucks, another blank ream arrived.
Berke had narrowed down the prospects for the next restaurant critic to Anderson and I. He knew how badly we both wanted to see our names on the front page of next week's Dining section, and when we both agreed to do anything for the honor, he knew a deal - and a balance - could be struck. He knew what one of us did not, that standing before him was Ruth Bourdain.
One day earlier, Berke received an e-mail from Ben Leventhal, founder of Eater, with a phone number that only Ruth Bourdain would answer. Berke told us he would call the number if neither of us would willingly admit to possessing it, and whoever's phone rang would be feted on the front page, forever unmasked and cast in the spotlight as the transvestite Twitter provocateur, but never written of again. The other would join him above the fold, but as restaurant critic. However he could never reveal his identity to anyone despite being read the world over.
Berke picked up the phone. He dialed 9 for an outside line; we didn't flinch. 646--
A shrill ring filled the office. A second line began to blink on his office phone atop the desk. Berke clicked the button and his own voice echoed around the room.
Suddenly Berke's hair grew long, and his skin sagged and turned ashen, just as a bluebird flew through the window and perched on his shoulder with a chirp. Berke's eyes yellowed, squinted and blinked open bloodshot as the scent of orange zest filled first his lungs then the entire room. He loosened his tie to breathe and found a silk scarf in its place.
No longer a man, it ran from the room screaming inane platitudes in low gutteral moans. Anderson and I could only watch in awe, our hands clasped together for courage.
Suddenly, down the hall, Abramson addressed the newsroom, her voice broadcast over the PA.
"Please welcome Ben Leventhal, our new restaurant critic. The role of the anonymous critic is a thing of the past" she proclaimed, "but all things being equal, a price had to paid..."
The dogs howled, the cats mewed, and a hundred newsmen applauded, relieved it wasn't their time. Berke quietly reentered the room on tiptoes, his feet bent in a high arch.
Now shrouded and too ashamed to speak, the pull of a cigarette gave the only light and sound to his - its - to her, new, bleak visage. We were dismissed. With a wave of her hand, now wrinkled, manicured, and bejeweled, we looked and turned away, sure to never see Berke the same way again.
She took another drag as we closed the door, a perfume of maple syrup and blackberries wafting over her.
