Ahem: “John Edwards, Salad, and Me.”

If you were unfortunate enough to read Rielle Hunter’s What Really Happened: John Edwards, Our Daughter, and Me (I didn’t have much choice; some things in life are beyond our control), the first thing you probably noticed is that she’s an absolute idiot. The second is that she loves salad.

With each new chapter of this slender — but not slender enough — volume, it seems she’s traveling to yet another dreary hotel for an assignation with Edwards. (She calls him “Johnny” almost as relentlessly as she eats salad, for “Johnny” is what’s on his birth certificate and thus most representative of his true self. If you search the Kindle edition of her book for “Johnny,” the device will pant and wheeze before the results exceed 500 and it stops counting.) He is so busy with campaign commitments and marital spats that a bored Hunter has no choice but to console herself with salad. Lots of salad.

Let’s stroll with her down a lettuce-strewn memory lane, shall we, and revisit these tender scenes from her past.

On the night she first crosses paths with Edwards, Hunter is with a friend at a hotel bar. He is there with associates. They look at each other several times but do not interact. “I can’t believe that was John Edwards,” she remarks. “He is so hot.”

Hunter could sense his “depth and awareness,” you see, and knew they would meet again. And they did, later that evening, in a scene she remembers even more breathlessly than a dinner order:

And then out of nowhere it happened: Johnny Reid Edwards came waltzing around the corner and into my life.

This was the moment. Not a “love at first sight” moment but it was the moment when something electric exploded between us. For me it was a little like one of those slow motion movie moments; it felt like an eternity and yet it all happened very quickly.

As he rounded the corner, he saw me and just lit up. I was very surprised to see him so soon, even though I had felt certain our paths would cross again. I could feel his joy when he saw me and I responded to it. Much to my own astonishment, “You are so hot!” came flying out of my mouth. Not a usual greeting for me. And his friend Tony was right — he did like it. His smile got even brighter. He shook my hand so eagerly it felt as though he might jump into my arms as he said, “Thank you.”

And then another little surprise flew out of my mouth: “I can help you.”

He replied, “I want your help. I need your help.”

rielle hunter, what really happened: john edwards, our daughter, and me

Consider for a moment how ludicrous that sounds, given that it encompasses the totality of their interaction up to that point. Hunter considers herself a spiritual guru and a life coach (albeit one with extremely limited qualifications). She undoubtedly believes she can help liberate his consciousness and get voters across America to recognize all the impressive, authentic qualities he projects in person but not on TV.

All Edwards knows for certain is that she just called him “hot.” He believes she can help liberate something from his pants and tells her the name he’s using at his hotel. But to Hunter, it’s much more meaningful than that. She continues along to dinner with friends when a phone call from Edwards interrupts her. Naturally, he’s seeking her… help.

“Let me finish my Caeser salad. I’ll be there in about fifteen, twenty minutes.” […] So I finished my Caeser salad, said goodbye to my friends, and headed back to the Regency to help John Edwards become more aware, to help him see his mind patterns. That really was the plan. At least, it was the part of the plan that I was aware of.

RIELLE HUNTER, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: JOHN EDWARDS, OUR DAUGHTER, AND ME

And so concludes our first, but certainly not last, mentions of salad. From there, things proceed as you’d imagine.

Hunter goes to his hotel room. She listens, something she clearly believes his wife Elizabeth doesn’t do. Edwards claims to be a prolific philanderer, but the existence of his three fabled mistresses will later be called into question in the manner of a Brady Bunch plot. She surrenders, another thing she clearly believes his wife doesn’t do. She allows him to lead:

And lead he did. He led me toward the most extraordinary night of my life.

RIELLE HUNTER, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: JOHN EDWARDS, OUR DAUGHTER, AND ME

Let’s pause for a moment to cleanse our brains and souls with a tangentially related musical break:

With that out of the way: more salad. As their affair continues, Hunter frequently travels to see him. She discusses modes of transportation in even greater detail than salad, but for whatever reason I find myself more haunted by the food:

I again took the Acela down to DC to see him. The Acela rocks. It is the greatest way to travel. I loved eating at the Daily Grill in Georgetown while I waited for him. It’s just a few blocks from his townhouse. It was a restaurant chain I ate at frequently in LA; they serve a great Cobb salad. 

RIELLE HUNTER, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: JOHN EDWARDS, OUR DAUGHTER, AND ME

On a later occasion, once Hunter has rather hilariously secured a job following Edwards on the campaign trail, she is reunited with her other great love besides Johnny.

I went to the Daily Grill, ate my favorite Cobb salad, and checked into the Georgetown Inn, where I stayed the night. Johnny came to visit me later that night for a few hours, which was easy for him because it was just a few blocks away from his house.

RIELLE HUNTER, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: JOHN EDWARDS, OUR DAUGHTER, AND ME

Between all these mentions of salad plays the ballad of Johnny and Rielle, which mostly goes like this: Edwards acts like an asshole and Hunter makes excuses. She keeps the excuses coming like Olive Garden’s endless breadsticks, the better to illustrate how much more accepting she is than his wife.

Together and apart, the pair are monstrously selfish, and in one of their more bizarre misdeeds fleece Bunny Mellon. At every opportunity, Hunter smears the hell out of Elizabeth Edwards, virtually everyone who worked for the Edwards campaign, and even the Edwards family’s household staff.

Those stories, of course, are everywhere; the scandal has its own Wikipedia page. None of it fully explains the shaky foundation of Johnny and Rielle’s bond, but I think the book’s final mention of salad (it seemed like there were so many more), which again occurs along the campaign trail, provides a hint:

It was my first trip to Vegas. Ever. Every time I vetoed Vegas as a destination, my friend Angela Janklow would say, “Vegas is the exact opposite of everything you are about.” She was right, but it was fun anyway. We stayed at the Paris Las Vegas. It was like an indoor Disneyland. After Johnny spoke that morning, we all stopped by some walk-in restaurant at the Paris, one of the many in the hotel lobby; Johnny was looking at salads. He turned and asked me if I was hungry.

RIELLE HUNTER, WHAT REALLY HAPPENED: JOHN EDWARDS, OUR DAUGHTER, AND ME

Sex and salad. That was their bond, and what should have been the name of Hunter’s memoir.