Julia, page 22
She was further inspired when she and Hélène took a five-day excursion to Nice, where they also visited the vacationing Mowrers. Seeing more of France only added to Julia’s appreciation of the food and culture. Once back in Paris, she found herself testing the recipes in Ali-Bab’s cookbook. And instead of feeding Paul something boring for lunch, most of her experiments weren’t half bad.
“What do I smell today?” Paul asked, coming into the apartment on a lunch break, a fresh loaf of French bread under his arm.
Julia turned from the stove, where she was whipping up a sauce that might be overcooking. It was hard to tell exactly. “I’m making sautéed cauliflower, and there’s duck à l’orange in the oven.” The bulky oven was temperamental, but Julia had grown accustomed to it.
Paul set the bread on the table, then stepped close to her and wrapped his arms about her waist. “Smells heavenly.”
Just then, Julia caught a whiff of something . . . burning. “Oh no.” She moved away from Paul and opened the oven. No smoke billowed out, so she took that as a good sign.
“It looks perfect,” Paul said, crossing to her, hot pads in hand. “Let me.”
She stepped aside as he removed the duck from the oven. It looked . . . well, not exactly burned but quite crispy.
“When did you start this?” Paul asked, picking up the boning knife.
“Right after breakfast,” Julia said. “I knew I had to start early, or it wouldn’t be done in time for your lunch.”
He began to slice pieces off the duck, and Julia fetched a platter.
“The cauliflower—almost forgot.” She set to work on stirring the cauliflower. She wasn’t exactly sure what it should look like when it was done, so she popped a small piece into her mouth. It was sizzling hot, but she rolled it around until she could stand to chew it. “Why, that’s pretty good.”
Paul turned off the gas element. “Let’s eat, then.”
“Good plan.” In minutes, they were seated at the table, Paul having poured wine for each of them.
Julia took a tentative bite of the duck. It was a bit dry, that was all. So she dipped the next piece into the extra sauce—which was a tad too bitter.
Paul ate with relish and only offered compliments. “I think you’ve nearly mastered duck à l’orange,” he said magnanimously.
“It certainly tastes better than it looks,” Julia said, “but I’ve learned a few things that I’ll do differently next time.”
Paul set a hand over hers. “It’s wonderful, dearest. Thank you.”
His soft words went straight to her heart. “You’re my biggest fan, P’ski, I’ll have you know. Even when I ruin something, you find a way to make it enjoyable.”
He merely shrugged and leaned over to kiss her cheek. Well, she couldn’t let him stop with just a kiss on the cheek. She scooted her chair to loop her arms about his neck and gave him a real kiss.
“You’ll make me late for the office if you keep that up,” Paul murmured.
She kissed him again. “Maybe that’s the plan.”
“If only I didn’t have to return today. You and your lunch have been the only bright spot.”
Julia drew away. “What’s going on?”
Paul rubbed his temple. “The usual bureaucratic red tape. Every decision has to go through a chain of command, even the simplest ones. Nothing I haven’t complained about before.”
She stroked the side of his face. “Everyone’s trying to figure out their roles with this new division, and you’re probably overqualified.”
He seemed mollified for the moment, but the issues would start to bother him again soon enough. Julia felt fortunate to be surrounded each day by the people she wanted to interact with. Shop owners were always willing to answer her questions, and the growing brood of friends she and Paul had made were preferable to any embassy society connections.
“Did I tell you that Dort is coming in April?” she asked.
“Is it certain now?”
“Yes, she’s bought her ticket,” Julia said. “She’ll be so impressed with my French speaking and French cooking.”
“I’m already impressed with both.” Paul pulled her close again.
“Oh, and I’ve made a doctor appointment.”
Paul’s expression filled with concern. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”
“I’m not quite sure.” Julia pressed a hand to her belly. “I feel different, and I’ve had some cramping and weight gain . . . so I wondered . . . or I suspect . . .”
When she didn’t finish, Paul said, “Are you pregnant, Julie?”
His gaze was intense, concerned. They hadn’t exactly discussed when they wanted to have children—Paul had lamented once that he was probably too old, but it had never turned into a serious discussion. Julia wasn’t too old at thirty-six, but she was definitely on the riskier side.
“I don’t know,” Julia said. “That’s why I wanted to see the doctor. I don’t want to keep waiting and wondering.”
Paul cradled her face and kissed her. “When’s the appointment? I’m coming with you.”
Chapter 21
Paris, France
March–June 1949
“Parisian restaurants were very different from American eateries. It was such fun to go into a little bistro and find cats on the chairs, poodles under the tables or poking out of women’s bags, and chirping birds in the corner. I loved the crustacean stands in front of cafés, and began to order boldly. . . . As we explored the city, we made a point of trying every kind of cuisine, from fancy to hole-in-the-wall. In general, the more expensive the establishment, the less glad they were to see us, perhaps because they could sense us counting our centimes.”
—Julia Child
It wasn’t that Julia had been desperate to have a child. She liked children and imagined she’d enjoy motherhood. Paul got along well with Charlie’s kids, although Julia could see that his patience ran thin as a twig sometimes; surely that would change with his own child.
But tears stung her eyes as she lay in bed with darkness surrounding her, listening to the sound of Paul’s relaxed breathing as he slept and a light rain pattered against the window. She hadn’t known how much she wanted children until she’d thought she was pregnant. Only to have a Paris doctor tell her that she was not pregnant. Her stomach cramps were from too much indulgence. Imagine! She’d overeaten. She hadn’t been limiting her desserts. She’d been indulging in sauces full of cream and butter.
Sure, she’d felt foolish, but she’d laughed it off when she’d been with Paul. He’d hugged and kissed her, although she didn’t know if it was in relief or comfort. She wasn’t pregnant. And she’d be thirty-seven in a few months. Perhaps she’d missed her chance. Or perhaps there was still time.
Would she want to have a baby in France though? Would she be able to manage mostly on her own with Paul’s intense work schedule? These questions swirled in her mind as she finally drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, when she awakened to the scent of brewing coffee and the sound of Paul’s humming in the kitchen, she decided to be grateful for each day. No matter what it brought. She had a happy marriage, a wonderful husband, a family who was well and answered her many letters, and an entire world outside her window.
It wasn’t like she’d had a miscarriage or anything. She’d simply misunderstood her symptoms. It would be funny one day in the future, and maybe that future would include an actual child. A child with her hazel eyes and Paul’s intellect.
She turned her head when she heard Paul’s footsteps.
He took a seat on the edge of the bed, coffee cup in hand, its warm aroma filling the room. “I made you this. I think you should take the day off. Keep off your feet. Rest or read or do nothing. Skip your French class. I’ll bring something for lunch.”
Julia pushed up on her elbows. “I’m not sick.”
Paul’s smile was gentle. He’d already showered, shaved, and dressed. “I know, but the doctor didn’t give you the news you wanted.”
Her throat went tight. “Was I that obvious?”
He set the cup on the bedside table, then leaned close and kissed her. “You don’t need to be obvious. We’ve been married long enough that we can practically read each other’s minds.”
Julia sat up more fully and wrapped her arms about him, breathing in his familiar scent of musky soap. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” he murmured.
After a long moment, he finally pulled away and left her in bed to wait for his return at lunchtime.
She tried to stay in bed, tried to rest, tried to read, tried to let her mind coast, but she began to feel agitated about twenty minutes after Paul left. The best time to shop at the markets was in the mornings when everything was fresh. Besides, Marie’s daughter was due with a baby any day. What if the baby had been born the night before? Julia wanted to hear all about it.
And the wine merchant Nicolas would want to tell her about his son’s upcoming wedding. Julia would miss out on all the morning chatter on the streets. And she knew her instructor wouldn’t be happy if she missed class right before a long weekend. Plus, she wanted to try a new recipe. Paul could bring home lunch, but that wouldn’t stop her from experimenting with dessert, and today felt like a good day to make a chocolate cake—un gâteau au chocolat—and indulge.
Julia’s feet hit the floor less than thirty minutes after Paul left, and she stayed busy the rest of the morning. Perhaps it was a coping skill to mask her disappointment, but she could truthfully admit that she felt better when she was kept occupied and didn’t let her thoughts take a deep dive off a cliff.
By the time Paul arrived with lunch, the apartment was filled with the aroma of a baking chocolatey deliciousness.
“You’re not in bed,” Paul said, a teasing chastisement in his tone as he set a couple of paper sacks on the table.
“I’ve been too busy,” she said.
He pulled her into his arms, his gaze locked on hers. “Feeling better?”
“I’m feeling grateful. For you. For this old apartment. For a beautiful spring morning in Paris. For flowers.”
Paul’s brows arched. “I did notice quite a few vases about the apartment on my way to the kitchen.”
“I was in the mood to buy flowers,” she said with a shrug.
He chuckled, then was interrupted by a meow. He dropped his hands immediately and turned to see a small furry creature walk into the kitchen as if she owned the place. “Who’s this?” Paul asked in a tentative tone.
“Her name is Minette. We met about an hour ago, and well, she was hungry and needed a place to stay.”
He bent to pet the cat, but it sauntered past him, straight to Julia.
“She’ll warm up to you, don’t worry.” Julia scooped up the cat, who immediately began to purr.
“So . . . we have another cat.”
Julia flashed her husband a smile. “We have another cat.”
Paul unpacked the lunch he’d bought. “Frankly, I’m surprised it took you this long.”
She set the cat down, and it hopped up on a nearby chair, content to watch the activity. The cat kept her company during Paul’s long work hours, and the weeks flew by as she waited for her sister’s visit to France.
On April 8, Dort arrived in Paris, becoming the perfect distraction for Julia. Reuniting with her sister was delightful. It was also wonderful not to feel like the tallest woman in Paris. With Dort by her side, they attracted a lot of attention, especially at the markets.
“Perhaps I will stay in Europe,” Dort told Julia on one of their weekend picnic excursions. They’d finished their meal and were lounging on an old blanket, surrounded by wildflowers, with Paul a few dozen feet away, taking some photos of the blooming cherry trees beyond. “There’s an English-speaking theater group here, and it might be fun to get involved.”
“You should do it,” Julia said. “You have nothing stopping you right now.”
“You mean I don’t have a husband or father to care for?” Dort teased.
“Exactly.”
Dort stretched her long legs in front of her. “Anything specific I need to pack for Lyons?”
“No, just a raincoat for England.”
After they visited the exhibit that Paul had been working on for months, which demonstrated how the Marshall Plan had made improvements in Europe, they’d drive to England in the Blue Flash for a ten-day excursion. They’d be visiting friends and acquaintances along the way, including Nigel and Sally Bicknell, who they’d known in Georgetown.
“Paul wants to see the University of Cambridge,” Julia told Nigel and Sally one night over dinner with the couple. It was, in fact, a goose dinner that Julia had proudly prepared.
“Nigel’s brother Peter and his wife, Mari, live there,” Sally said. “You should visit them. Mari is a ballet instructor. We’ll ring them up and let them know you’re coming.”
Within a short time, it was all arranged, and Julia, Dort, and Paul were on their way to Cambridge. Julia connected immediately with Peter and Mari, who loved to cook. They spent time in the kitchen, Julia showing Mari some of the dishes she’d learned, including veal blanquette and navarin printanier.
“These are excellent dishes,” Mari said, leaning against the kitchen counter as Julia poured broth over the veal.
“I’ve mastered only a few things.” Julia turned up the heat and continued skimming the broth over the meat. “I have trouble following recipes sometimes—or maybe it’s more coordinating the preparation and cooking of a meal to have everything ready at the same time. Poor Paul has sometimes waited hours for his dinner when I cook at home. It’s why we eat at restaurants most nights.”
Mari only smiled. “It does take time to learn, and you said that you didn’t cook much growing up?”
“Rarely.” Julia enjoyed visiting with the Frenchwoman, which helped because even though England was a lovely adventure, Julia missed France already. “But I’ve fallen in love with French food, so that’s all I’m attempting right now. It gives me immense satisfaction when I get a dish right and when my husband compliments it.”
Mari’s brows shot up. “Is Paul really so picky?”
“Not at all,” Julia said. “He’s helpful in the kitchen, and he’s also a very good sport when I overcook things, or simply mess something up.”
“I know that feeling,” Mari said. “You know . . . if you really want to learn French cooking, you should enroll at Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris. I graduated from their course.”
“You did?” Julia added chopped vegetables and an herb bouquet to the veal, then partially covered the casserole. “This isn’t all intrinsic?”
“Maybe some of it is since I grew up helping my mother, but I learned so much more at Le Cordon Bleu,” Mari said. “The famous chefs Claude Thilmont and Max Bugnard were some of the instructors. Bugnard trained as a boy with Escoffier in London, at the Carlton Hotel. His specialties are fish, meats, and sauces. Le Cordon Bleu is a pretty intensive course, so you need to be able to commit the time.”
Julia gave a slow nod. She’d heard of the famous cooking school. Jean Friendly and her husband, Paul’s associate, had suggested it. But Julia hadn’t thought to enroll because although she was getting better at speaking French, she wasn’t exactly fluent.
Mari seemed to read her mind. “Your French is coming along fine. You’ll just have to work harder to impress the instructors. But something tells me you’d be a great student.”
Julia had to laugh at that. “I wasn’t a great student in college, but I’m much more grounded now.”
“We all grow up, and then we figure out what we really want to do with our lives.” Mari picked up one of the pearl onions that Julia had set out and began to peel it. “Now, what are these onions for?”
“Oignons glacés à blanc, of course,” Julia said.
“Of course,” Mari said. “Dinner will be divine.”
That night, after everyone had retired and Julia was alone with Paul, she said, “What do you think about me taking classes at Le Cordon Bleu? They start in the fall.”
Paul paused in pulling back the covers of their bed. “The cooking school in Paris?”
“Yes—Mari suggested it,” Julia said. “She’s a graduate.”
Paul didn’t say anything for a moment. “Are you really that serious about French cooking?”
Julia grinned. “I think I am. Every morning when I wake up, my first thoughts are what I should cook next, and when I fall asleep, I’m cataloging recipes in my head.”
He climbed into bed and patted the space next to him. “You mean you aren’t dreaming of me?”
Julia slipped in next to him and nestled against him. “I dream of you first, then cooking second.”
Paul pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. “I think you’d sail through the cooking school. They’d be lucky to have you, and my stomach wouldn’t complain if you wanted to test recipes at home.”
“Of course I’ll be doing that.” She moved up on her elbow. “I just thought of something: Maybe Freddie should come over and take the course with me. She’d love every minute of it.”
“Perhaps, although it would be a big move for her family,” Paul said. “But it wouldn’t hurt to ask, and with your combined skills, you could open a restaurant together.”
