The Kingdom and the Power (43 page)

While Catledge’s relationship with Dryfoos was cordial, it was not to be compared with the friendship enjoyed by Reston, or by a vice-president of
The Times
named Amory H. Bradford. Bradford was a lean, lanky New Englander, the son of a Congregational minister and a graduate of the Yale Law School, former intelligence officer who had married Carol Warburg Rothschild—an altogether formidable man. When Amory Bradford addressed the other executives on the fourteenth floor, he seemed to know everything that was going on within the building, seemed to have even the most infinitesimal facts at his fingertips, and Dryfoos was pleased to have such a man on his staff.

Catledge did have a fine relationship with Arthur Hays Sulzberger’s son, Arthur Ochs Sulzberger—known as “Punch”—but Punch Sulzberger had little power, and if he had any ability or promise, he had so far concealed it. He had a reputation within the office as a playboy, and Dryfoos would often complain that Punch did not even
read The Times
. At thirty-one, Punch Sulzberger held the title of assistant treasurer, although nobody in the news-room knew precisely what he did. They knew only that he had done badly in the schools he had attended, had joined the Marines, had been married and divorced, and that he was an amiable young man who often ended up in Catledge’s back office late in the afternoon, after the news conference, when Catledge was mixing drinks for some of his
Times
cronies.

But Catledge himself seemed at loose ends now, and he had
been out of the office so much that many staff members assumed that Theodore Bernstein was running the department—although this assumption required adjusting later in 1957 when Catledge promoted Clifton Daniel to the rank of assistant to the managing editor, a position from which Daniel could peruse the daily practices and prerogatives of Bernstein.

After Catledge had returned from Russia, he was off again to San Francisco to attend a convention of the American Society of Newspaper Editors. It would turn out to be a fortunate trip. One editor at the convention introduced Catledge to a fine-looking, dark-haired woman from New Orleans who appealed to Catledge very much, and when he returned to New York he seemed more refreshed and decisive than he had been in a long time.

One of the first items on his schedule was to hire a new food editor; the woman who had held the job for years had just resigned because her husband’s business required that he be transferred out of New York, and the applicant for her job that Catledge was to see on this day was a man—a somewhat shy, blushing man with a round, smiling face and rosy cheeks who, upon entering Catledge’s office, introduced himself as Craig Claiborne.

The idea of a man holding the food editor’s job had never occurred to Catledge, because, in addition to making the rounds of restaurants and writing knowledgeably about them, it was also important that
The Times
’ food editor be able to cook well, to compile recipes, and to feel comfortable while working within a circle of lady journalists in the Women’s-news department on the ninth floor.

“Where did you go to school, son?” Catledge began, after Claiborne had sat down.

“Mississippi State, suh,” Claiborne said.

Catledge nodded approvingly. Then he asked, “Where did you live down there?”

“Polecat Alley,” Claiborne said, referring to a somewhat run-down row of student quarters on the campus.

Catledge smiled.

“So did I.”

When Catledge asked if Claiborne felt qualified for the job on
The Times
, Claiborne said that he did. He had, after leaving Mississippi State, obtained a journalism degree from the University of Missouri; and in 1953, after his release from the Navy, he had graduated from the Swiss Hotelkeepers Association in Lausanne,
which some gourmets consider to be the best cooking school in the world—although Claiborne
did
admit that
The Times
’ food editor’s job was an awesome assignment, one that no cooking school could entirely prepare him for. He also said that he had heard that Mr. Markel already had someone in mind for the job.

Catledge reddened in anger.

“
I
do the hiring and firing around here, son,” he said.

Then, calm again, Catledge asked Claiborne to tell more about himself, and Craig Claiborne, relaxing as Catledge seemed to relax, proceeded to tell something of his personal life, although not too much, for there were parts of it that made him uneasy, even petulant at times, emotions that he usually concealed nicely behind his smiling friendly face.

His mother had run a boardinghouse in the small Mississippi town of Indianola, and she was a fantastic cook. There had been an article in
Liberty
magazine years ago about her cooking, and even after he had returned from school in Lausanne he still made use of the manuscript cookbook that she had once given him. She had been born Mary Kathleen Craig in Alabama, a veritable Southern belle when she was younger. But though her family was prosperous, there had been drinking problems bordering on alcoholism not only among her kin but also among some of their friends—and as a result, she would never allow whiskey in her own home except at Christmas time, when she made eggnog heavily spiked with bourbon, and she was not above soaking bourbon into the fruitcake. Craig Claiborne remembered that in order to get the bourbon, his mother would give money to one of the boarders and ask that a bottle be obtained from the bootleggers. Like many good Mississippians, she condoned bootlegging but loathed whiskey.

She had married a man fifteen years her senior whom she always referred to as
Mister
Claiborne—even, Craig suspected, in bed. Mister Claiborne was a quiet man, an accountant by trade who might have done better as a minister. He never missed the Methodist church services on Sunday mornings, or the prayer meetings on Wednesday evenings. As a boy he had gone to tent meetings with other zealously religious members of the Claiborne clan across the border in Tennessee, where he had been born, and he had a sister who had served as a missionary in China and had known Henry
Luce when he was a boy. Until her dying day she believed that Luce was the founder and editor of
McCall’s
.

Mister Claiborne’s failure to make money was the main reason that his big rambling white house eventually took in boarders; but he seemed not to notice them, nor was he distracted or influenced by their habits. He read his Bible, and milked the cows each morning, raised chickens and grew vegetables that were served at the table, and he never drank anything stronger than Coca-Cola, which he called “dope,” and the only time he was heard to say “damn” was when the pickup truck that he was driving collided with another car. Though the boarders tried often to entice him into a game of cards on Sunday afternoons, he always smiled softly and shook his head. Then one Sunday, someone opened the door to his upstairs bedroom—and there he was, playing solitaire.

Young Craig Claiborne learned whatever he learned about the facts of life from Negro nurses. His mother, when she was not cooking or otherwise supervising the house, was usually playing bridge. At Indianola High School, he was shy and unathletic, and the football coach—who was also the mathematics instructor—called him “sissy” in front of the class, and even now Craig Claiborne cannot cope with arithmetic. During World War II he enlisted in the Navy, then reenlisted during the Korean War, finding in this shifting existence a marvelous escape from the sense of suffocation that he felt in the house dominated by his mother, whom he alternately adored and despised, and with whom he would ultimately compete—and surpass.

He can remember precisely the moment when he felt the culinary calling. It was in 1949 while he was a passenger aboard the
Ile de France
, about to see Paris for the first time, and at dinner he was served fillet of turbot princesse—turbot with a white-wine-and-mushroom sauce—and, as he later described it to a friend, it was a little like getting religion, or more exactly, it was the
dépucelage
of a palate.

Previously he had done much of his own cooking, but now he had savored cooking as an art, and he began to contemplate a career that would somehow combine cooking and writing and earning a living. It was with this in mind that he went to Lausanne in 1953, and he graduated eighth in a class of sixty. Settling in New York, he tried to get a job on
Gourmet
magazine. When there were no openings at first, he took an interim job as a bartender
and continued to call
Gourmet
until there was an opening as a receptionist; he accepted this, and eventually worked up to an editorial position. He had meanwhile met the woman who was
The Times
’ food editor, having called her one day shortly after returning from Lausanne suggesting that a story be written about himself: “How would you like to interview a young Mississippian who’s just graduated from the best cooking school in the world?” She wrote the story, and the two became friends. Thus he knew in advance about her plans to resign in 1957, and at her suggestion he applied to
The Times
; and one morning he was called to appear in the office of Turner Catledge. It was a perfect time for Claiborne to apply. Catledge had not had an easy or uncomplicated decision to make in a long time, and the appearance of a young man from Mississippi wanting to become the food editor appealed to Catledge’s fancy. And when Claiborne mentioned that Markel had someone else in mind for the job, that cinched it—“
I
do the hiring and firing around here, son”—and Claiborne was hired.

It was a decision that Catledge did not regret. Within a remarkably short time, Craig Claiborne became one of the best-known by-lines on the paper and possibly the most-feared customer of restaurants in New York. Unlike his predecessor, whose reportorial eye reflected more the viewpoint of a market browser and home-maker than a critic, Claiborne placed great emphasis on restaurant criticism, eating all of his meals out, including breakfast, and he began publishing in
The Times
a restaurant-rating system—four stars for superb, no stars for heartburn. Soon, the headwaiters of dozens of restaurants were on the alert for his visit. A few had obtained from mysterious sources small photographs of him, which they posted behind the cash register or in the kitchen. But even with a photograph Claiborne is not easily picked out of a crowd, having no distinguishing facial characteristics, and being neither tall nor short, thin nor fat. He also never makes a reservation in his own name, either appearing without a reservation or using the name of his guest. He prefers dining with at least one other person, and sometimes two or three; this allows him to sample a wide variety of dishes. He will often order for everybody at his table a different dish, and he will taste a bit off each plate. He
never
finishes a single dish, and as a result he keeps his weight to where he wants it. Each morning before leaving his apartment in Greenwich Village or his home in East Hampton, he weighs himself, usually registering exactly 150 pounds. Each evening he weighs 160 pounds. He can tell during the day from what he is eating how much he is weighing at that moment, and he can also predict what effect, if any, it will have on his skin coloring (which occasionally breaks out into a rash in the line of duty), and on his digestive system. Though rarely dyspeptic, he always carries in his pocket, in a small black enamel box, several digestive pills. So far he has never been poisoned.

If the food in a restaurant that he is visiting for the first time is especially good or bad, he will most likely return and dine again before writing his critique, hoping to determine whether the chef had previously been lucky or unlucky. While sampling the food, Claiborne is also attentive to the decor of the restaurant, the table arrangement and sound (he hates Muzak), the efficiency of the waiters, their speed at emptying ash trays, and their general appearance. There are restaurateurs who consider Claiborne a jinx: as soon as he arrives, it seems, something awful happens. The air-conditioning may fail, or a tray of dishes may crash to the floor, or an argument may erupt between an intoxicated diner and a rude waiter because of the restaurant’s policy against credit cards. Claiborne himself has had bread rolls bounced on his head and shoulders, has had silverware knocked out of his hands, has been doused with ice water and hot soup. He accepts all this with resignation and good humor—as the stars recede in his mind—and even when trying to digest an indigestible mouthful, he attempts to repress his reaction, although a look of mild pique creases his face occasionally as he softly complains to his guest: “There is
margarine
in the hollandaise.”

His favorite restaurants (four stars) are both French—La Grenouille and La Caravelle, whose prices are no object because he is on an expense account. Even when he is displeased with a restaurant, however, he is not—like
The Times
’ drama and film critics-capable of mayhem. At the very worst, Claiborne may chastise an otherwise commendable New York restaurant because “the tables are too close for total comfort, a recent bottle of Valpolicella was too tart for pleasure, and the restaurant’s ventilation leaves something to be desired” (one star); or, in the case of a restaurant that
he visited in Washington, D.C., he complimented the “exuberant smile and enthusiasm” of the owner-chef and then wrote that “the decor is gauche modern, with starburst chandeliers and sparsely covered walls, and the quality of the cooking is uneven, ranging as it has on occasion from an excellent rack of lamb to a small plate of overcooked asparagus with tasteless hollandaise and an ordinary preparation of duck à l’orange” (no stars). In addition to writing his reviews and feature stories, Claiborne also edits the recipes and does his share of food testing in the office with the newspaper’s home economist and the second-string restaurant critic, who refers to herself as “the Craig Claiborne of the depressed areas.” Claiborne has also found time to edit a number of cookbooks. One of them,
The New York Times Cookbook
, has sold more than 200,000 copies. But he is extremely modest about his success, attributing much of it to the fact that he is published in
The New York Times
and has little competition from other daily connoisseurs—cribbing a line, he comments on his fame: “It is not that I am the ultimate in my profession but it may be that I am the only one.”