M.F.K. Fisher, The Goddess

M.F.K. Fisher

I was proud to serve as President of Les Dames d’Escoffier. Every year we honored a star from our dining and drinking galaxy.

I had stumbled across the writings of M.F.K. and applauded her description as “America’s epicure laureate.” I unhesitatingly chose M.F.K. when it was my turn to choose the honoree for our annual dinner.

The New York Public Library private dining room was the destination for the event. A committee formed to plan the evening. Tables were set with beautiful floral cloths on which her books were the centerpieces.

I stepped into the library elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. At that instant, a seemingly homeless woman shuffled through the closing doors.

“Crumbs!,” I thought.

What could I say? “GRRUMPH! Madam! This is a private dinner. Buzz off?”

No, I couldn’t possibly say that.

But what? How could I explain the situation politely?

It took only a moment to arrive at the destination.

The host of the hospitality committee stepped forward to greet us.

“Welcome! Welcome. Ms. Fisher!,” she gushed.