I was proud to serve as president of Les Dames d’Escoffier. Every year, we honored a star from our dining and drinking galaxy. During this time, I stumbled across the writings of M. F. K. Fisher, and I applauded her designation as America’s so-called “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’s private dining room was the destination for the event. A committee formed to plan the evening. Tables were set with beautiful floral cloths, upon which her books were placed as 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 our destination. The host of the hospitality committee stepped forward to greet us. “Welcome, welcome, Ms. Fisher!” she gushed addressing the old lady.
Crumbs, thought I.