“I thought you had a plan.” She looked at him quizzically.
Warren gave a long sigh and looked toward the thick gray clouds on the horizon.
“Yeah, except the real world isn’t exactly playing ball at the moment.”
“It rarely does.”
“I need to get off the news desk. I’ve been there three years, and they’ve still got me doing puff pieces; chasing down opinions from the person on the street about new airport runway proposals and shopping malls. I just”—he set his jaw—“I crave my own column. I know I could do it well, if they gave me the chance. Marcus Tenbury is leavingand it’s the perfect time to prove to my editor that mine is a voice that will sell papers, and yet here I am writing about Christmas markets. No offense, you have a very nice market.”
She smiled. “None taken. Do you mean Marcus Tenbury, the restaurant critic?”
“Yeah, he’s got a column at theDaily News. But the old coot is finally retiring to live out the rest of his days rollicking around his estate, shooting at birds and complaining about his gout.”
“It sounds like his retirement falls right in with your five-year plan.”
“If only.”
“Well, somebody’s got to fill his boots, it might as well be you. You certainly seem like you want it badly enough,” she offered.
He gave a self-deprecating chuckle, “Desperate for it, more like. I’ve been knocking on the door for so long it’s a wonder my knuckles aren’t dented.”
“What is it that draws you to food writing?”
He looked thoughtful and then answered. “Food writing is a real skill; you have to be able to bring the experience to the reader, make them understand the flavors through your words alone. The word of a food critic holds its own kind of power. Look at Grace Dent and Jay Rayner. Restaurants are in awe of them, readers love them; they’re respected writers. Marcus Tenbury was all pomp and no passion. The ordinary person doesn’t care about beluga caviar, they want to read about food that’s accessible to them, and that’s where Iwould come in, if I ever got the chance. I could bring my own unique brand to food writing.”
“You have a brand already?” she teased, an eyebrow raised.
He grinned at her, his cheeks coloring. “Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
“And?” she pressed.
“Street food and sass?” he said slowly, as though testing the words out.
She nodded in agreement. “Street food and sass. I like it.”
“Thanks,” he said, looking like a pleased puppy who’s just correctly obeyed a command.
“Do you have a background in food?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I like food, and I can tell the difference between what’s good and what’s bog-standard fare. At the end of the day, it’s as much about how I sell myself as it is about the product. You’ve worked in advertising; you know the score. It’s not only the product’s USP that sells it, but also how you make the consumer think they willfeelif they buy it.”
“Riiiight. So, you’re going make your readers feel, what?”
“Compelled to read my column.” His grin was cocky, and she laughed. “I just need to convince my editor that I’m the man for the job.”
“And how’s that going for you?”
He pulled a face. “Not so good, as it happens.”
“Are they not moved by your brand?”
He gave her a side smile. “I know you think I’m full of it.”
“No!” She laughed. “Well, maybe a little bit, but that’sokay, there’s nothing wrong with having ambition. What does your editor say?”
Warren’s brows knitted together. “She keeps saying I’m not there yet. She likes the style of my writing, but she doesn’t know if it’ll translate to food writing.”
“Okay, so what would you say is your style of writing?”
