Julia, page 21
Paul looked up from the oyster shell he’d discarded. “‘Sole as God.’ It’s a rather simple dish, cooked in Normandy butter, which is incomparable to other butters.”
Julia didn’t know there could be more than one type of butter.
When the waiter finally arrived with their plates, the smell alone of the still-sizzling fish fillets lightly browned by the Normandy butter almost sent Julia into a swoon. That was nothing compared to the first bite of the delicate, textured fish. The taste seemed to burst in her mouth in a combination of lemon, parsley, creamy butter, and supple fish.
She closed her eyes and swallowed, then opened her eyes to find Paul smiling at her.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Paul . . . this is . . .” She shook her head because she wondered if she was dreaming. Maybe she’d fallen asleep on their drive. She took another bite, finding the second bite was as heavenly as the first. She moaned as the flavors startled her senses.
“I guess I should stop worrying if my wife will like French food. I mean, we’re going to be living here a few years.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything more delicious in my life,” Julia said, forking another portion. “In fact, I know I haven’t. This is divine. Absolutely made by the gods.” She took another bite, then another. When she finished, she hadn’t left a speck behind.
Her stomach had registered as filling up, but she knew she could eat plate after plate of sole meunière, and she’d happily go broke doing so. “I feel like I’ve just been born on earth. As if I’ve never truly eaten before. Tell me, what makes the Normandy butter so delightful?”
Paul dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, proper as ever. “It’s made from Normandy cream that’s unpasteurized and unprocessed. Churned by hand.”
“And the sole? I’ve never had such tender fish in the States.”
Paul nodded. “And you won’t,” he said. “This is Dover sole. In the States, they serve flounder and call it sole.”
Julia shivered, in a good way. “Now what is he bringing?”
The waiter appeared at their table again to clear their plates. He presented a green salad, a cheese course, a dessert that Paul called crème fraîche, followed by café filtre.
Julia had certainly entered another existence, one in which she didn’t want to leave. As all good and beautiful things come to an end, though, so did their meal, despite their having eaten slowly. As if they’d had all the time in the world. It reminded her of their meals in Ceylon, which had never been in any rush, and every bite had been pleasurable. And now, Julia was pleasantly satiated and more than ready to declare her devotion to the town of Rouen.
“Let’s walk for a bit,” Paul said, grasping her hand and bringing her to her feet.
After settling the bill, they stepped outside and strolled along the cobbled streets, taking in the Rouen cathedral and the rest of the war-torn city. The old structures and the damages and the rebuilding seemed to spark a fire inside Julia. She turned to Paul and kissed him, not caring if they were in a place full of strangers.
“I love you, and I love that you brought me here,” she gushed. “I love everything about this place.”
Paul pulled her close, into a warm embrace. “We’re not even in Paris yet, dearest. Just you wait.”
They arrived in Paris at twilight. The horizon outlining the Parisian buildings in a lush magenta color took Julia’s breath away. “Is that the Eiffel Tower?” she asked, pointing to the icon in the distance. Of course it was, but it was hard to believe it was real—that she was truly here.
Paul grasped her hand briefly as he navigated the narrow roads. “Yes, she’s watching over her city.”
“It’s beautiful, Paul,” she said, reverence vibrating through her. “Absolutely gorgeous.” Her gaze didn’t know what to settle on next—the majestic buildings, the bridges over the gently flowing Seine River, the graceful statues, the people, the shops, the scents from the cafés coming in through the car windows.
When they arrived at the Hôtel Pont-Royal, which the embassy had temporarily booked for them, Julia was still reeling from all the sights and sounds. While Julia waited in the lobby for Paul to park the car on rue Montalembert, she tried to decipher the buzz of conversation from other guests around her. She could pick out only a word here and there, but she loved the melody of the language.
Paul strode in through the lobby doors, scanning for her. When he reached her, he said in a rush, “There’s news from the States. Harry Truman defeated Thomas Dewey in the presidential election.”
“That’s an unexpected upset,” Julia said. When they were leaving the States, all speculation was pointing to Dewey for the win. “I’m more than happy about it.”
Paul squeezed her hand. “Me too. Now, let’s get settled, then walk through the city until we find a café where we want to have dinner.”
Julia couldn’t think of a better plan.
Chapter 20
Paris, France
November–December 1948
“On November 5, a banner headline in the International Herald Tribune proclaimed that Harry S. Truman had been elected president, defeating Thomas Dewey at the eleventh hour. Paul and I, devoted Democrats, were exultant. My father, ‘Big John’ McWilliams, a staunchly conservative Republican, was horrified.”
—Julia Child
The first weeks in Paris were dreamlike, that was the best that Julia could describe it. She awakened bright and early with Paul for the routine they’d established: having their morning café complet at a literary café in St. Germain des Prés, a place Paul had frequented when he’d first lived in France. Julia tried not to think of the fact that his previous stay had included Edith—someone Julia never found productive to mull over.
Julia was making new memories with Paul, and she jumped in with both feet. Paul’s working hours were long, so they had free time only on the weekends, in which they explored the city, with Julia loving every moment of it. They’d walk along the Seine, visiting restaurants and finding new favorites like sole à la normande at La Truite and shellfish au gratin at Lapérouse. They wandered through museums, medieval churches, theaters, and the Louvre. Paul told her of his work on the stained-glass windows of the American Church on the Quai d’Orsay, though some things had changed in the eighteen years since Paul had lived there, due to both time and war.
The effects of war were still felt with the gasoline and food rationing, as evidenced in the long lines for ration coupons for items such as coffee, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, and sugar. Every so often, they’d come across streets and buildings surrounded by rubble, and occasionally the electricity cut out at a restaurant or their hotel. Every time they saw a plaque commemorating a fallen French citizen, they’d stop to read it.
Their evenings were filled with diplomatic dinners and getting enmeshed in the social life, which, for Julia, meant a lot of standing around and politely smiling while others spoke French. They also spent time apartment hunting, but with Paul’s long work hours, it was Julia who did the legwork and had the conversations—in very rough French—with potential landlords. They wanted to live on the Left Bank, where most of the university professors, artists, and publishers lived. The embassy was on the Right Bank, where businesses and shops lined the streets.
If it was possible to fall in love with food, with each passing day, Julia was falling headlong in love with French cuisine. And buying fresh baguettes every day only helped cement her growing affection. Each time they went out, Paul ordered something different so Julia could try all sorts of dishes, from rognons sautés au beurre to poulet grantiné, because if a restaurant menu included sole, that was what Julia ordered, which Paul took upon himself to tease her about. But she knew he was pleased with her response to France since he’d shown her the letters he’d written to Charlie.
Julia determined, with all the social events, to take French lessons right away, so she enrolled at Berlitz three times a week. And on most days, she tried to speak only French when she was out and about, taking buses about the city and shopping and eating out by herself. The French people seemed to appreciate her efforts and were more than patient.
She gushed about her days to Paul over dinner, many times at their favorite restaurant, Michaud, where the dishes weren’t extravagant, but every bit of food was delicious, many of them with sauces containing butter and the scarcer cream. “I know people have warned me that the French might be dismissive of Americans and difficult to communicate with, but everyone I’ve met here is delightful.”
Paul smiled. “You turned this old curmudgeon around, so I’m not surprised that every French person you meet becomes your friend.”
Julia smirked. “I don’t know about that, but I do know that the French are charming and so very wonderful. I wouldn’t mind living here forever. Of course, my sister and brother need to come for visits. And maybe my father?”
Paul didn’t comment on that as he took another bite of escargot d’or, which Julia had also come to love. “What was your favorite part about today?”
“Only today?” Julia sighed in rapture as she cut off a bit of brie from the cheese platter between them. She popped it into her mouth, savored it, then chewed, and swallowed. “I suppose it was speaking to a craggy fisherman on Ile S. Louis. His accent was a bit hard to follow, but we managed, somehow, to have a few laughs.”
Paul shook his head.
“Oh, I’m also getting to know one of the chestnut vendors,” she continued. “I buy chestnuts almost every day, you know.” She glanced out the restaurant window, where a woman was passing by, walking her pristinely groomed white poodle in the light of the fading embers of sunset.
“The white poodles are so adorable,” she added. “Paris must be full of them. They’re everywhere. Oh, and the cats. They hang out on street corners, like newspaper boys.”
Paul chuckled.
As they headed back to their new lodgings that Julia had secured in the Left Bank, she looped her arm through Paul’s, enjoying the brisk night air. Their apartment was on the third floor of a townhouse at 81 rue de l’Université, owned by Madame Perrier. At a hiked-up American price of eighty dollars a month for their apartment, they considered themselves fortunate. Julia called the place Roo de Loo for short.
Here Paul could park in front of their building or drive under the front of the building and into a stone courtyard. Parking was always scarce, and there was always the risk of another car passing too closely and nicking their car.
Once they reached the building, they stepped into the cage elevator that creaked as it ascended, and Paul talked about the struggle to organize his office with little money. “The Marshall Plan is funneling money into Europe by the millions, yet I don’t have the funds to fully do my job.”
“You can only do what you can,” Julia soothed as they unlocked the door to their apartment. The Marshall Plan, named after US Secretary of State George C. Marshall, and also known as the European Recovery Program, was a US program that provided aid to Western Europe, with billions of dollars funneling into rebuilding efforts. “And you’re the best man for the job.”
Paul opened the door, and she stepped inside first. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “I have photo archives enough to put on dozens of displays, but everything is lagging because of such a sparse staff. We’ve been promised Marshall Plan funds for the USIS, but nothing has come in.”
Julia heard the frustration in his voice, and it was the first time he’d talked about the complications of his job. Without turning on any interior lights, he walked through the apartment to the window overlooking the night skyline. Lights twinkled from various buildings, breaking through the fog that had started to gather. Their view included the twin green spires of the church of St. Clotilde, and Paul had already begun a painting of their view of the Paris skyline, which was now propped against an easel in the corner of the room.
She joined him at the window and leaned against him. The moon had cast a spell over the city—like a translucent web of hope and possibility.
Paul slipped his arm about her. “We’re in Paris. Despite all the frustrations of my job, I’m happy to be here, happy that you’re here too. It really is the City of Light—attracting people from all over the world.”
And it was true, Julia and Paul had heard of so many artists and creatives in Paris. Some of them they’d met. Despite the city being a juxtaposition of beauty and light contrasting with crumbling buildings, cracked plaster, and burned wood, Julia discovered new wonders each day.
Even their apartment was a hodgepodge of the old and the new—well, mostly the old. The walls were covered in aged and faded leather, and the thick brocade curtains were in need of a good cleaning. Julia had moved out several of the rundown furniture pieces and stored them in the attic, which Paul called the “forgettery.” Otherwise, Julia loved the open spaces and how the windows bathed the upstairs kitchen in full sunlight during the day.
“Everything will smooth out eventually,” Julia said.
In the late evenings, he often became melancholy. It didn’t bother Julia, not really, because she understood the feeling. He was probably homesick a little for his brother too. They’d had a great time living so close to Charlie and Freddie the past two years.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Paul asked idly, his hand stroking her arm.
“After French lessons, I’m going to the market with Hélène. I think I learn more from her and interacting with the shop keepers than I do in class.” Hélène Baltrusaitis was a new friend of theirs, recommended by George Kubler. Her husband was teaching at Yale for the semester, so she had plenty of free time on her hands. “Besides, I need to be cooking more things than eggs and toast for breakfast and lunch. The only time we eat something exciting is when we go out to dinner.”
“I don’t mind eggs and toast,” Paul said.
Julia scoffed. “I don’t either, but we’re in Paris, surrounded by the most beautiful foods. I mean, they cook with fresh vegetables here, not out of cans, like in the States. Their turnips are huge, and their asparagus unmatched, and you can buy beans still in their shells.”
Paul chuckled, but Julia continued in her excitement. “The potatoes are the creamiest I’ve ever had, and there are so many new things I’ve tried here, like chard, leeks, truffles, and zucchini flowers—who knew we could eat flowers? It can’t be that hard to learn to cook like a French chef, right? Freddie can cook wonderful things. She’d be so impressed if I came back to the States with an entire arsenal of dishes I can prepare.”
“You’ve had some successes.”
Julia winced. “I think they were more good luck than actual successes.” She moved to a lamp and turned it on. “I forgot to show you this. Hélène loaned me her Encyclopedia of Practical Gastronomy.” She held up the well-read tome.
Paul crossed to her and took the book in hand. “Gastronomie pratique: études culinairs by Ali-Bab.” He thumbed through a few pages. “This is serious business.” He lifted his gaze. “You’re going to read this?”
“I’ve already started.”
Paul looked impressed, as he should. “You know that the author’s real name is Henri Babinski.”
“Hélène told me,” Julia said. “Just look at the index. There are thousands of recipes. He includes variations of standard dishes, then variations of those. It’s endless.”
“You’re getting pretty serious about this, aren’t you?” Paul asked. “I really don’t want you thinking you need to outdo anyone in the cooking department. I knew who you were when I married you.”
Julia laughed and shoved at his shoulder, which almost caused him to lose his balance with the heavy cookbook. “This wouldn’t be for you, Paulski. It would be for me. I mean, what else am I good at, except eating?”
Paul set down the cookbook and drew her into his arms. “You are good at eating, and I love eating as well. You have my blessing, even though you don’t need it, to buy out the markets and try every recipe in that book.”
“Maybe I will.”
Over the next weeks, Julia began to experiment with cooking more and more at home. Not to replace dinner. Never to replace dinner since there were simply too many exquisite restaurants to be tried and to be patronized again and again. They often met friends for dinner, including the Mowrers, who were in their fifties and quickly became close friends. Paul had known Hadley Mowrer from his previous time in Paris—back when she’d been married to Jack Hemingway. Hadley’s second husband, Paul Mowrer, was the foreign editor of the New York Post. But Julia wanted something decent and exciting for Paul to eat when he came home for lunch. It was a nice reprieve for them both.
And Julia felt inspired to create good food at home when she was surrounded by good food wherever she turned in Paris. Every corner, every street had a bistro or café or restaurant that turned out mouthwatering dishes—terrines, cassoulet, boeuf bourguignon, veal blanquette, ragoûts . . . the menus were endless. The smell of freshly baked French bread was her favorite scent in the entire world now. She could spend years and years in Paris and never tire of the food.
Of course, eating out so much put a tight grip on their pocketbook, with Paul’s income at ninety-five dollars a week, which covered their rent and a few basics. So Julia frequently dipped into the inheritance from her mother, and did so happily, knowing that living in Paris was something that might not last forever.
But making ends meet remained at the back of her mind, which was probably why she enjoyed speaking with a produce vendor named Marie des Quatre Saisons. Not only was it good for Julia to better her expanding French, but Marie was also a cook who knew her vegetables. She instructed Julia on which vegetables were in season and how to prepare them correctly. Through Marie, Julia was directed to other vendors and grocers whom she eventually became friends with and could trust their choices, including the butcher and the crémerie and fromagerie as well as the wine merchant. She alternated between her neighborhood market on the rue de Bourgogne and the market on the rue de Buci, a short walk away. Then, a couple of days a week, she’d walk to the large outdoor market off the Pont de l’Alma across from the Eiffel Tower.
