"I was that writer who had followed the Le Coze star for New Yorks impressionable readers, the properly smitten Pied Piper whose lyrical waxings had prompted a flow of impressionable mouths from America. Small saucers of new dishes I must taste punctuated the meal. Gilbert urged me to join him after the kitchen closed that night at Castel, the late-night hangout for chefs and food-world habitués, Gilberts usual haunt, where he smoked relentlessly and downed cognac after cognac. And we danceddisco but tightrubbing into each other, provocative vertical seduction. Suddenly, we were in a taxi, kissing, caressing, zipping, unzipping. I hugged myself together to get through the lobby of my hotel.
Inside my room, I had time only to drop my handbag on a chair. I need to sleep a little, he said afterward, in French. He had me set my alarm for 4 a.m. I was deep in sleep when he woke us. He pulled me close and kissed me, and just when it seemed like we might be leaping off a cliff again, he jumped out of bed. I cant be late for the market, he said. In 1986, when they opened Le Bernardin in New York...I wrote a rave. The Times followed with highly un-Timesian speed, dropping a four-star benediction."
Professional to the core.