Party Foul

Or: Famous Food Critic Tosses Salad

Please do not put toxic plant matter in your vodka.

What do you bring to a famous food critic’s Holiday party? In my friend Heather’s case: me.

It made perfect sense. She was the outgoing intern for food critic Michael Bauer at the San Francisco Chronicle and, upon her recommendation, I was to be her New Year replacement. Heather reasoned that a) there was no better way to introduce me to the entire staff and b) it would be good to have a friend at her side at a party filled with people with whom she’d never properly socialized.

We rendezvoused outside the partyplatz where Heather gave me a little pep talk about who was going to be there and how everybody was wonderful, which I felt was done more for her sake than mine. She rang the bell and gave my hand a squeeze. I sensed her anxiety, which added to my own.

We were greeted at the door by another Michael, Bauer’s boyfriend, Michael Murphy, who ushered us inside and, rather than offer us a drink, showed us where we could pour them ourselves. I’d arrived thirsty and in need of social lubrication, but Heather correctly insisted I first meet our host— the most feared man in the San Francisco restaurant industry.

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We found him in the open kitchen of their townhouse, meddling with a couple of roasting chickens. He wiped his shaking hand with a clean towel before extending it and greeted me warmly. The tip of his index finger was bandaged, which led me to think he must have cut himself while preparing dinner. He apologized for being stuck in the kitchen and suggested we both make ourselves at home. I took that to mean “feel free to pour your own drinks”, but Heather decided it meant “please help me clean the kitchen”.

He didn’t seem terrifying at all. Quite the opposite.

“Oh, I’m fine,” he replied to her offer. “Everything’s under control here.” But my party date kept insisting. I took her by the elbow and led her away gently, but not too gently.

“You’re a guest here. I don’t think it’s a good idea to offer him help,” I warned. “If you start helping now, you’ll be helping all night.” It’s one thing to render assistance when you’re an old friend of the host or a family member, but very much another when you’re a person who regularly supplies unpaid labor at the host’s place of work.

“Just relaaaaaaaxxxxx,” I added, feeling as though I was attempting to soothe a frightened raccoon.

It was clear my calming skills were found wanting, because Heather returned directly to Michael Bauer and insisted she help him in some way. He looked at first confused, then resigned as he pointed out the dirty dishes in the sink.

I’d been there not three minutes and had already lost my date to the irresistible lure of voluntary servitude. It wasn’t Bauer’s fault. In fact, I had the feeling he sensed it might put her more at ease, so he just let her do it.

There was no question that I absolutely needed a drink.

I found the liquid refreshment on a tray in the living room: a bottle of vodka, one of white wine, a bucket of ice, and some mineral water. I was at a holiday party, wasn’t I? Where was the mulled wine? The bourbon? I scanned the room for other options. Not a bowl of eggnog or Tom & Jerry mug in sight. What I did find, however, was cream colored carpeting and furniture upholstered in pale hues.

I was left with the impression that the drink selection at a holiday party for food journalists in one of the world’s most culinarily sophisticated cities was designed around a fear of spills. I poured a prodigal amount of vodka into a glass, added a couple of thoughtfully-provided ice cubes, and made my way into the main room. I took a generous sip or two of alcohol to steady myself before I introduced myself to a roomful of strangers, since there was no one present to do it for me. I quickly understood why.

Shortly after I vacated the pigment-challenged drinks room, it was taken over by the two Michaels, who had a short but heated exchange in hushed voices and big hand gestures, which resulted in Murphy sulking out of the house and returning about twenty minutes later with two Rubicon chocolate cakes.

Someone, it would seem, had forgotten dessert.

Thanks to the argument, someone else must have forgotten about the chickens in the oven, because they were exceptionally parched. My instinct was to offer the unfortunate birds some of the Chardonnay from the other room, but I resisted because, as a guest, it might be considered an overstep.

Mr. Bauer seemed unfazed. The dry birds were set aside and he moved on to preparing the salad.

I looked around the general area. Where were we going to eat this salad and chicken and chocolate cake? There was no table set as far as I could see and nothing on the menu was finger food-friendly except maybe the drumsticks. I hoped there’d be no fighting over them when the time came.

I told myself not to worry about how or when we ate—a change of attitude aided by a second visit to the beverage room. I was now in full party mode, chatting up my future co-workers and avoiding eye contact with Heather as people handed her dirty cups and napkins, when I heard the words “Oh god!” being quietly gasped by Michael Bauer. The sound he emitted I interpreted as a combination of horror, embarrassment, and mild disgust— an amalgam of emotions I have experienced many times myself.

Not everyone heard it, but none of us who did had the slightest idea what to do. Or how to react.

I found the moment deliciously uncomfortable.

Bauer lowered his head closer to the salad bowl, clearly searching for something within it. There was no violent spray of blood which might have suggested a severed finger, so what was in that salad that could illicit such a specific mix of emotions? After a short and slightly panicked rummage, he found what he was looking for among the mesclun and organic cherry tomatoes:

His Band-Aid. Presumably the one I’d noticed when I shook his hand.

He picked it up and held it over the bowl between his thumb and previously cut index finger and looked at it in wonder, as though he were holding something as rare and wondrous as the Christ Child’s foreskin, which it may have resembled.

Next, he laughed. Still holding onto that vinaigrette-soaked bandage, he quipped something to the effect of, “Better not let this get around…”

I was relieved he found humor in the irony of his party foul, and delighted to discover that the most feared man in the San Francisco restaurant world managed to throw the least holiday-like holiday party I’ve have yet to attend.

I owed Heather a big thank you for taking me to that party. I got to familiarize myself with a marvelous group of people, get an intimate glimpse into the home life of a food critic, gain a deeper understanding of how not to throw a party, and—most importantly—learn that I had absolutely nothing to be afraid of from my soon-to-be non-paying boss.

I don’t recall a single thing that happened at that party after the Band-Aid incident because nothing else mattered after that moment. Did he end up serving the salad? Did anyone later attempt to blackmail their host into giving them a pay raise? At the very least, I hope I talked Heather out of Turtle Waxing The Michaels’ cars.

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When the holiday season ended, I looked forward to spending the next several weeks working for Michael Bauer at the San Francisco Chronicle food section, hoping to learn a thing or two about journalism and restaurant criticism from this man with whom I shared an embarrassing culinary secret.

But it wasn’t to be. About a week after starting my internship, he handed me over to his assistant editor, Maria Cianci, for mentoring, stating that he was going to Antarctica for three weeks.

When I asked him why he chose such a desolate place for a holiday, he sighed and said in a low, almost sad voice, “Because there are no fucking restaurants in Antarctica.”