Any thoughts that Marisa Key was an anorexic were quickly dispelled over dinner. I watched her steadily plow through a bowl–not a cup–of gazpacho followed by a main course of Mexican stuffed meatloaf with grilled zucchini and chipotle-cheese smashed potatoes. When she was finished, the plate looked like it had just come out of the dishwasher.
"Still hungry?" I said, looking at my half-eaten braised brisket sandwich with a side of fresh fruit.
"Sure," she said, sliding her plate out of the way and sliding mine in front of her.
And the whole time she ate, we kept editing the manuscript.
It was going faster now as I learned to trust her advice and she figured out my own predilections for sentence construction and word choice.
The waitress approached as Marisa finished the last of the fru
