What made celebrated food critic Gael Greene a passionate gourmand and an empathetic friend

That she hadn’t been able to see Chuck and me during this time of calamitous national loss was personally frustrating and nothing she could stomach. She used her journalist credentials to cross the high-security zone and made it to our home for dinner with two other couples, Madhur Jaffrey and Sanford Allen, and Lilly Brett and David Rankin. For months I had been wanting to get these three most successful and celebrated women to our table, for them to forge close relations and come together to do even more wonderful things for our city and the world it inspires globally. That the fateful dinner was happening on the 19th of September 2001 made the evening even more compelling. It wasn’t the food we ate that made a stir. It was the conversation about the Palestinian people and the horrors that Madhur had seen firsthand as she travelled there on assignment. Gael and Lily were shocked and saddened; they were for once at a loss for words. But they soon found their shared history as Jews had them feeling the same way and seeing the same fears cloud their reactions.

Gael Greene, the much celebrated and much feared restaurant critic of New York Magazine, wasn’t just the food critic who alongside a handful of journalists from the New York Times helped propel my Indian cuisine beyond curry buffets to a Michelin Star fine dining experience. Steven Richter, the man who completed her persona and supported all her daily chores in silence and in the dark, often unnoticed but always magically present when the check needed its payment or when a familiar hand or voice would make a difference – he and Gael were my family in America. Their Jewish holidays would include Charlie and me at the table, and our Christian and Hindu holidays and celebrations would see the two of them at our table. It was a surprise to Gael’s long-term socialite acquaintances that this high-powered woman, for whom the most powerful and famous men would open their wallets charitably and do just about anything she dreamed of, was admiringly supplicant at the home and table of two much younger gay men who were just beginning their lives.

Disciplined in what to do and what not to do to further her dreams and aspirations, Gael came of age in a moment in American history when women were seen, heard, and in the workforce, but the woman who was showing, saying, performing, and toiling hard was still a woman, an unequal citizen, for whom every challenge would be presented to make her crumble. Gael was tall and towering; she was a force to be reckoned with. Hers was a one-woman show, with soliloquies she carried through and to her success. The real Gael Greene was sharp and tough, almost ruthlessly so when in the public’s eye. Few knew of the pre-dinner bath soak that she indulged in daily. This was a most sacred ritual and one where the wordsmith wizard, the intellectually provocative raconteur-critic, and the most ardent champion of chefs and restaurateurs would put her artistic and creative hat to rest and unwind through the catharsis of a warm bath, preparing herself to don the hat of a food critic Diva, a society-gal, a celebrity host, a world traveler with a point of view, a brassy gal with a biting and unforgiving wit and charm, and a New Yorker who wielded power and could curry favours. Whenever we planned to meet for dinner, which was at least every ten days, she would call me from that bath and speak like close friends do, without fear, with heart and soul, full of care and concern, and betraying her own self to share something poignant that she felt would make Charlie and me stronger in our futures. Ever practical, she would also tell me who else was coming to dinner that night and why she had chosen them as our dinner mates for a restaurant review.

Gael was the hardest-working professional I have ever met. She could party and keep up with the best, and then wake up to tackle the day with exercise and carefully chosen first bites, a page-to-page reading of our favourite paper, the New York Times, and then dump a short account of the night before into her computer. Memories from dinner noted, she would work on the column for the next week while making sure others were being helped with the challenges of their lives. She would help her aspiring friends, reaching out to others on behalf of them when these artists would be bashful and shy themselves. Her fundraising and her work on the annual gala for City Meals on Wheels and the power luncheon took a great deal of wheeling and dealing from her end to scratch the backs that needed it most and to do so more generously than deserved, to make sure she wasn’t asking for more than was correct. Gael was very clear about her integrity as a critic, never being sullied by anyone doing anything that would even remotely make her criticism come under scrutiny. She was a networker of networkers, and one who had mastered the art of connecting people. Better still, she kept up with the friends she connected to make sure they were following through with their needs and finding in each other the necessary complement that had been missing. Gael cared, and Gael showed that care through giving to her loved ones most generously of her time and thoughts.

Gael, you were one of two New York sisters that I gained in my early days in Manhattan in the 1990s, and you took our friendship to places of rich associations, tense debates, comforting discoveries, shared pleasure, and unfiltered and strong advice that only a family member can give. You were my most diehard fan and advocate, and you were one of two persons I made sure I visited on every trip to NYC. Now I have you closer to me still as you live, guide, protect, and observe from your celestial blue-skyed abode, which today with your blinged-up presence, shines brighter than ever with the sparkle of candy.