Julia, page 23
“Funny,” Julia said, although she was pleased at the idea, even if Paul was joking. She moved out of bed, and he groaned in protest. “I’m going to write to her now and mail it in the morning. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep if I wait on this.”
Paul reached for a book that he’d set on the nightstand, resigned to Julia’s late-night letter writing even when they’d both had a full day. Julia was too keyed up to sleep quite yet, both about heading back to Paris and about possibly enrolling in the most reputable cooking school in all of France.
Once they returned to Paris with Dort, who was still staying in their apartment, Julia set up a tour of the school. Dort had no interest in accompanying her. Dort had joined a theater group, which kept her busy most of the time, and somehow managed to speak her own version of French, which no one minded.
Julia toured the school on June 2, once she found the drab-gray building at 129 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, on the corner up from the American Embassy.
The sign on the front of the building was barely legible and read École de Cuisine. Julia opened the weather-beaten door and stepped inside. What she might have expected of a world-renowned cooking school wasn’t much to look at inside. The building contained four small classrooms, and the two kitchens were in the basement. Not a modern appliance in sight, not even a mixer or an electric blender.
Despite the confusion she felt at the actual interior, she promptly enrolled in the cooking school’s six-week course that would start in October. The rest of the world outside of France might be heading toward the more modern conveniences of packaged meals and making sauces from canned soup, but Julia wanted to re-create the layers of flavor and freshness that she so heartily enjoyed. And Le Cordon Bleu was where it would start.
Chapter 22
Paris, France
October 1949
“At 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday, October 4, 1949, I arrived at the École du Cordon Bleu feeling weak in the knees and snozzling from a cold. It was then that I discovered that I’d signed up for a yearlong Année Scolaire instead of a six-week intensive course. The Année cost $450, which was a serious commitment. But after much discussion, Paul and I agreed that the course was essential to my well-being and that I’d plunge ahead with it.”
—Julia Child
“You don’t need to walk me,” Julia told Paul as she pulled on a short jacket. The morning was cool, and rain clouds threatened a decent downpour. She then collected her white apron, white cap, a notebook, a kitchen towel, and a set of knives. All of which she’d been asked to bring.
“Of course I’m walking my wife to her first day of class at the famous Le Cordon Bleu,” Paul said.
Julia smiled as he pulled her close and kissed her neck. “Come on, then; I can’t be late.” The cat meowed and rubbed against her leg. Julia bent for a final pet goodbye. “See, Minette agrees.”
The class started at 9:00 a.m., and nothing in the world would make Julia late, so she was leaving extra early.
Thankfully, Paul was ready, and as they headed out onto the street, he said, “We’ll meet for lunch and celebrate your first successful day of class.”
Julia linked her arm through his. “That would be delightful. And delicious. I’m sure I’ll be starving after a few hours of intense instruction.”
Paul laughed.
The early-morning sunrise breaking through the clouds painted the buildings lavender, while scents of baking bread wafted around them. Julia breathed in her favorite smells of Paris, but by the time they reached Le Cordon Bleu, she was feeling jittery. She wasn’t nervous to take the class, but she was nervous about falling behind when most of her cooking skills were self-taught.
“You’ll do well, dearest,” Paul said, kissing her. “Do you want me to walk you in?”
“I’ll be fine.” Julia patted her hair as the wind picked up. She squeezed his hand, then headed inside. She’d probably be the first student to arrive, but it was better than being late.
Once she found her class, she stepped into the room where hundreds of hopefuls before her had breathed the air. Two other young women, her fellow classmates, joined her. One was French, the other English. They greeted each other, made introductions, then Julia asked them, “Is this your first class? What are you hoping to learn?”
The English woman said, “Well, I’m hoping to make a good pot of tea.”
The other woman smiled. “I’d love to learn that as well. But isn’t that what all English know from birth?”
“Not me.”
They all laughed, but Julia’s stomach sank. Were these ladies really here to learn such basic knowledge?
Before Julia could ask more questions and determine if these two women really didn’t know how to make tea, the instructor strode in.
“Gather around,” the instructor said in French.
The instructor wasn’t one of the famous chefs whom Mari had told Julia about. Julia joined the other women at a table that looked as though it had endured decades of knives.
The instructor set down a container with several items in it, garlic cloves among them. With a flourish, he picked up the garlic cloves, handed them each one, then proceeded to instruct them how to peel the cloves.
Julia followed along, wondering if it was really necessary to spend so much time on peeling garlic. Even she knew how to do it, but from the other women’s comments, apparently they hadn’t learned this either.
Julia wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that she already had foreknowledge or disappointed that this was part of the curriculum.
Once they had all apparently mastered peeling a garlic clove, the instructor announced, “Now we’ll learn to hard-boil an egg.”
Julia waited for the other two women to laugh, but no one laughed. Should she say something? Ask if this class was meant for housewives who’d never cooked a day in their life?
When she met Paul for lunch, she was stewing over the first day of lessons. “Do you think it will continue like this?” she asked him. “The other ladies are perfectly content, but I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.”
Paul patted her hand. “Maybe it’s just the first day? You’ve been so excited about this school. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”
But by the time class ended on the second day, Julia was more than done. They’d learned only basic skills that should be commonsense. She might not have a lot of expertise, but she was miles ahead of her two classmates, and she absolutely could not endure this for an entire year. When she spoke to the instructor after the class about transferring into a higher-level class, he told her she’d have to make the request of the director, Madame Élisabeth Brassart.
That, Julia was happy to do. Once she found the woman’s office, which was in one of the narrow hallways that seemed busier than a train station with all the comings and goings and doors opening and closing, Julia met the petite, elegant Madame Brassart for the first time.
It wasn’t lost on Julia that Madame Brassart wasn’t interested in a friendly conversation. The woman spoke in such rapid French that Julia probably missed more than half of what she was saying, yet some things were very clear.
“You have no experience in sophisticated French food preparation,” Brassart said, her eyes narrowed and intent. “Not only are you American and barely speak our language, but you’ve also nothing to recommend you.” Julia opened her mouth to respond, but Brassart plowed onward. “The haute cuisine course is for competent cooks, and you’re not even close to that.”
“I can do some demonstrations to prove which dishes I’m proficient in,” Julia cut in.
Brassart waved her off. “It’s a six-week, complete-immersion class, and you’ve paid for a year’s tuition. It’s out of the question.”
Julia tightened her jaw, then said, “I can’t take a beginning class. Surely there’s another option.”
Brassart’s mouth pinched so tight that her lips disappeared. “There’s one other option. Another class started this week that’s for professional restauranteurs, and it’s taught by Max Bugnard. You’ll also have afternoon demonstrations by Claude Thilmont.”
Julia had heard of these famous teachers. Claude Thilmont had been a pastry chef at Café de Paris, and he was known for his wonderful desserts. She’d heard of Max Bugnard, too, who had worked in many restaurants in Paris before the war and had been teaching at Le Cordon Bleu the last several years. “What’s the schedule like?” Julia asked.
“It’s a ten-month course.” Brassart hesitated. “Twenty-five hours a week, organized by morning hands-on cooking and afternoon demonstrations.”
“I’ll take it,” Julia said.
The following morning, she arrived early once again and stepped into a classroom filled with eleven men—all wearing white aprons and white caps.
“Bonjour,” Julia said immediately to the men staring at her. “I’m Julia Child.”
“You’re American?” one of the burliest men asked in English.
Julia grinned. “I am.”
In moments, she discovered they were all American GIs, and the US government was covering their four-thousand-one-hundred-francs-a-week tuition. She told them about her service in the OSS, and they all seemed duly impressed. There was enough teasing and comradery among the men that Julia felt like she’d gone back in time to her OSS days.
“So you all want to open restaurants?” Julia asked.
“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” one of the men said. “I want to open a bakery.”
“A hot dog stand for me,” another man said, and everyone laughed.
“We’re mostly mess hall cooks,” a third man said. “And sure, maybe some of us will end up in the restaurant business. We’ll see where the next ten months take us. What about you, madame?”
“Oh, please call me Julia,” she said. “I’m—” She cut off when a stout man who had to be at least seventy walked into the room, wheeling a cart behind him, stacked with . . . dead pigeons.
He wore chef whites and a wiry mustache. His step slowed when he peered at Julia through his round, horn-rimmed glasses. “You must be the new student,” he said in French.
“I’m Julia Child,” she said, extending her hand.
“Max Bugnard.” He shook her hand, and Julia found his grip warm and inviting.
“Welcome,” he said, then turned to the other GIs. “Today, we’ll dress pigeons.”
Julia wanted to clap with glee, but she restrained herself. She’d be learning something, at last. The next hour was spent learning about how to properly prepare a pigeon, stuff it, and cook it. Julia’s turned out nearly perfect, and she was so proud of herself, she couldn’t stop grinning. After cleaning the preparation table with salt and vinegar, she rushed home to prepare lunch for Paul. She’d return later for the afternoon demonstration, and she couldn’t wait.
“Tomorrow night, I’m making dinner since Dort will be home early enough for it,” Julia announced to Paul when he walked into their apartment. “Pigeons rôtis délicieux. You’re going to love it.”
Paul crossed to her. “Good class this morning?”
“The best class. Sit down and eat, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Paul listened, laughing at the interactions with the GIs, and Julia realized that she was in heaven with such an instructor as Chef Max Bugnard. “He’s a darling little man. Very dignified yet warmhearted. He told me he knows every French dish imaginable. Did you know he worked with Chef Escoffier?”
Paul had been the one to tell her about the famous Escoffier.
“Bugnard has all kinds of experience in restaurants, galleys of steamships, and London’s Carlton Hotel,” she continued.
Paul listened to every word, asked a few questions, and fed Minette a few scraps at her perch on one of the kitchen chairs.
Julia told Paul how Max Bugnard began each morning with a flurry of instructions, demonstrating everything, including proper chopping techniques, like how to make the seven-sided cut on all vegetables. Bugnard explained everything he demonstrated, unloading volumes of details that made Julia’s mind spin. He laid out the elements of creating sauce bases, including soubis, madère, béchamel, bordelaise, hollandaise, and béarnaise, for starters. Then he moved on to the custards—the delectable crème anglaise and crème caramel . . . And the students didn’t just listen. They interrupted with questions, and the conversations twisted and turned, buzzing around Julia like a horde of bees. She fumbled to write everything down in her notebook.
Bugnard didn’t just cook one dish and have them learn it, but he cooked entire meals, from the appetizer to dessert. This helped the students balance their time while preparing multiple dishes and illustrated how to break down the steps, making them simple to follow.
After the morning sessions, she’d rush to the market, purchase everything, and experiment at home. Then she’d hurry back for the afternoon sessions that lasted until dark. Some nights, she made the recipes more than once until Paul had to drag her off to bed.
“Is it possible to be a Cordon Bleu widower?” he murmured against her ear as they lay in bed one night only a few weeks into classes. “We never go out anymore. I come home to a tornadoed kitchen, a wife elbow deep in stuffing a chicken, a duck, or a goose, and a mewing cat who can’t wait to sample what you prepare next.”
Julia laughed. Her stomach was full from all the cooking and eating that night, and she could have easily fallen off the cliff of sleep to Paul’s soothing baritone voice if he hadn’t expected an answer. During some cooking sessions, he’d help her in the kitchen, but mostly, she told him to read to her. Just as he had in Ceylon. His most recent picks had been Faulkner’s short stories and Boswell’s London Journal. “I’m right here, dearie,” she murmured. “You’re not a widower.” She turned to face him and looped her arms about his neck. “I’m . . . so thrilled to be in this class. I can’t learn everything fast enough. And the reward is eating the wonderful food after all the work.”
“And my stomach and palate thank you,” Paul said with a chuckle.
“The afternoon demonstration class today had my head spinning,” she said. “It’s like watching an orchestra of one person playing each musical instrument—and keeping the melody going. The instructors start everything from scratch; nothing is chopped or mixed beforehand. I took pages and pages of notes, although my handwriting is barely legible.”
“What was on the menu today?” Paul asked in a murmur.
“A woodcock roasted with vegetables, glazed carrots, rouget en lorgnette, and a dessert of hand-mixed chocolate ice cream with ganache spread between layers of cake. Oh, and buttercream icing, of course.”
“Of course.” Paul pulled her closer. “Your cooking is improving with each meal, and you have a new air of authority about you. In the past few weeks alone, you’ve made quiche Lorraine, rabbit terrine, Alsatian-style choucroute, chicken Marengo, spinach gnocchi . . . just for starters. If you’re going to keep up all this cooking, we need to do more than give our neighbors leftovers. We need additional people to join us at our little La Maison Schildt. Otherwise, I’m going to double in size.”
Julia nestled against him. “You’re probably right. Why don’t you invite a few people for tomorrow night. I’m going to make my best boeuf bourguignon yet.”
Chapter 23
Paris, France
November–December 1949
“In late 1949, the newspapers informed us that something called ‘television’ was sweeping the States like a hailstorm. People across the country, the papers said, were building ‘TV rumpus-rooms,’ complete with built-in bars and plastic stools, in order to sit around for hours watching this magical new box. There were even said to be televisions in buses and on streetcars, and TV advertising in all the subways. It was hard to imagine.”
—Julia Child
“What’s all this?” Paul asked when Julia led him to where she’d parked the Blue Flash in front of their building. He’d come home for lunch, but she needed some manpower first.
“I stopped to buy a few kitchen supplies at the BHV,” she said, opening the trunk with a flourish. The rainy day had morphed into a cloudy day, making the perfect shopping trip.
The trunk teemed with new pans, pots, casseroles, knives, choppers, a timing clock . . . and that was only the trunk. In the back seat, she’d added a scale, jars, skewers, grater, rolling pin, double broiler, and a marble slab.
It wasn’t her first shopping trip to Le Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville and wouldn’t be her last.
Paul scratched at his forehead. “Where is all this going? The counters already look like a science lab.”
“It will fit,” Julia said in a cheerful tone. “You’ll see.”
Paul didn’t move for a moment, and she finally nudged him. “I have lunch to prepare, so the sooner the car is unloaded, the sooner you’ll eat.”
This sent Paul into action, and after multiple trips, Julia was happily preparing seafood risotto with her blue denim apron secured about her waist and a dish towel tucked under the apron strings.
Someone knocked on their door, and Paul went to answer it. Moments later, Dort arrived in the kitchen, a new polka-dotted scarf about her neck and smelling of Chanel N˚5. “Just in time for lunch, I see?”
Julia set a hand on her hip. “Just in time to set the table. Paul’s been busy.”
Paul huffed. “Carrying stacks of kitchenware up from the car. Have you ever seen so much stuff?”
“No . . .” Dort picked up one of the bowls. “Is that a new copper bowl?”
“It’s for beating eggs,” Julia said without looking up.
She sensed the exchanged silent looks between her husband and sister.
“Want a tour?” Paul asked. “Don’t touch anything, or it will all come tumbling down. Who knew we needed a long needle for larding roasts, three small frying pans that can be used only for crêpes—”
Paul reached for a book that he’d set on the nightstand, resigned to Julia’s late-night letter writing even when they’d both had a full day. Julia was too keyed up to sleep quite yet, both about heading back to Paris and about possibly enrolling in the most reputable cooking school in all of France.
Once they returned to Paris with Dort, who was still staying in their apartment, Julia set up a tour of the school. Dort had no interest in accompanying her. Dort had joined a theater group, which kept her busy most of the time, and somehow managed to speak her own version of French, which no one minded.
Julia toured the school on June 2, once she found the drab-gray building at 129 rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, on the corner up from the American Embassy.
The sign on the front of the building was barely legible and read École de Cuisine. Julia opened the weather-beaten door and stepped inside. What she might have expected of a world-renowned cooking school wasn’t much to look at inside. The building contained four small classrooms, and the two kitchens were in the basement. Not a modern appliance in sight, not even a mixer or an electric blender.
Despite the confusion she felt at the actual interior, she promptly enrolled in the cooking school’s six-week course that would start in October. The rest of the world outside of France might be heading toward the more modern conveniences of packaged meals and making sauces from canned soup, but Julia wanted to re-create the layers of flavor and freshness that she so heartily enjoyed. And Le Cordon Bleu was where it would start.
Chapter 22
Paris, France
October 1949
“At 9:00 a.m. on Tuesday, October 4, 1949, I arrived at the École du Cordon Bleu feeling weak in the knees and snozzling from a cold. It was then that I discovered that I’d signed up for a yearlong Année Scolaire instead of a six-week intensive course. The Année cost $450, which was a serious commitment. But after much discussion, Paul and I agreed that the course was essential to my well-being and that I’d plunge ahead with it.”
—Julia Child
“You don’t need to walk me,” Julia told Paul as she pulled on a short jacket. The morning was cool, and rain clouds threatened a decent downpour. She then collected her white apron, white cap, a notebook, a kitchen towel, and a set of knives. All of which she’d been asked to bring.
“Of course I’m walking my wife to her first day of class at the famous Le Cordon Bleu,” Paul said.
Julia smiled as he pulled her close and kissed her neck. “Come on, then; I can’t be late.” The cat meowed and rubbed against her leg. Julia bent for a final pet goodbye. “See, Minette agrees.”
The class started at 9:00 a.m., and nothing in the world would make Julia late, so she was leaving extra early.
Thankfully, Paul was ready, and as they headed out onto the street, he said, “We’ll meet for lunch and celebrate your first successful day of class.”
Julia linked her arm through his. “That would be delightful. And delicious. I’m sure I’ll be starving after a few hours of intense instruction.”
Paul laughed.
The early-morning sunrise breaking through the clouds painted the buildings lavender, while scents of baking bread wafted around them. Julia breathed in her favorite smells of Paris, but by the time they reached Le Cordon Bleu, she was feeling jittery. She wasn’t nervous to take the class, but she was nervous about falling behind when most of her cooking skills were self-taught.
“You’ll do well, dearest,” Paul said, kissing her. “Do you want me to walk you in?”
“I’ll be fine.” Julia patted her hair as the wind picked up. She squeezed his hand, then headed inside. She’d probably be the first student to arrive, but it was better than being late.
Once she found her class, she stepped into the room where hundreds of hopefuls before her had breathed the air. Two other young women, her fellow classmates, joined her. One was French, the other English. They greeted each other, made introductions, then Julia asked them, “Is this your first class? What are you hoping to learn?”
The English woman said, “Well, I’m hoping to make a good pot of tea.”
The other woman smiled. “I’d love to learn that as well. But isn’t that what all English know from birth?”
“Not me.”
They all laughed, but Julia’s stomach sank. Were these ladies really here to learn such basic knowledge?
Before Julia could ask more questions and determine if these two women really didn’t know how to make tea, the instructor strode in.
“Gather around,” the instructor said in French.
The instructor wasn’t one of the famous chefs whom Mari had told Julia about. Julia joined the other women at a table that looked as though it had endured decades of knives.
The instructor set down a container with several items in it, garlic cloves among them. With a flourish, he picked up the garlic cloves, handed them each one, then proceeded to instruct them how to peel the cloves.
Julia followed along, wondering if it was really necessary to spend so much time on peeling garlic. Even she knew how to do it, but from the other women’s comments, apparently they hadn’t learned this either.
Julia wasn’t sure whether to be pleased that she already had foreknowledge or disappointed that this was part of the curriculum.
Once they had all apparently mastered peeling a garlic clove, the instructor announced, “Now we’ll learn to hard-boil an egg.”
Julia waited for the other two women to laugh, but no one laughed. Should she say something? Ask if this class was meant for housewives who’d never cooked a day in their life?
When she met Paul for lunch, she was stewing over the first day of lessons. “Do you think it will continue like this?” she asked him. “The other ladies are perfectly content, but I feel like I’m crawling out of my skin.”
Paul patted her hand. “Maybe it’s just the first day? You’ve been so excited about this school. Let’s see what happens tomorrow.”
But by the time class ended on the second day, Julia was more than done. They’d learned only basic skills that should be commonsense. She might not have a lot of expertise, but she was miles ahead of her two classmates, and she absolutely could not endure this for an entire year. When she spoke to the instructor after the class about transferring into a higher-level class, he told her she’d have to make the request of the director, Madame Élisabeth Brassart.
That, Julia was happy to do. Once she found the woman’s office, which was in one of the narrow hallways that seemed busier than a train station with all the comings and goings and doors opening and closing, Julia met the petite, elegant Madame Brassart for the first time.
It wasn’t lost on Julia that Madame Brassart wasn’t interested in a friendly conversation. The woman spoke in such rapid French that Julia probably missed more than half of what she was saying, yet some things were very clear.
“You have no experience in sophisticated French food preparation,” Brassart said, her eyes narrowed and intent. “Not only are you American and barely speak our language, but you’ve also nothing to recommend you.” Julia opened her mouth to respond, but Brassart plowed onward. “The haute cuisine course is for competent cooks, and you’re not even close to that.”
“I can do some demonstrations to prove which dishes I’m proficient in,” Julia cut in.
Brassart waved her off. “It’s a six-week, complete-immersion class, and you’ve paid for a year’s tuition. It’s out of the question.”
Julia tightened her jaw, then said, “I can’t take a beginning class. Surely there’s another option.”
Brassart’s mouth pinched so tight that her lips disappeared. “There’s one other option. Another class started this week that’s for professional restauranteurs, and it’s taught by Max Bugnard. You’ll also have afternoon demonstrations by Claude Thilmont.”
Julia had heard of these famous teachers. Claude Thilmont had been a pastry chef at Café de Paris, and he was known for his wonderful desserts. She’d heard of Max Bugnard, too, who had worked in many restaurants in Paris before the war and had been teaching at Le Cordon Bleu the last several years. “What’s the schedule like?” Julia asked.
“It’s a ten-month course.” Brassart hesitated. “Twenty-five hours a week, organized by morning hands-on cooking and afternoon demonstrations.”
“I’ll take it,” Julia said.
The following morning, she arrived early once again and stepped into a classroom filled with eleven men—all wearing white aprons and white caps.
“Bonjour,” Julia said immediately to the men staring at her. “I’m Julia Child.”
“You’re American?” one of the burliest men asked in English.
Julia grinned. “I am.”
In moments, she discovered they were all American GIs, and the US government was covering their four-thousand-one-hundred-francs-a-week tuition. She told them about her service in the OSS, and they all seemed duly impressed. There was enough teasing and comradery among the men that Julia felt like she’d gone back in time to her OSS days.
“So you all want to open restaurants?” Julia asked.
“That’s a bit of an overstatement,” one of the men said. “I want to open a bakery.”
“A hot dog stand for me,” another man said, and everyone laughed.
“We’re mostly mess hall cooks,” a third man said. “And sure, maybe some of us will end up in the restaurant business. We’ll see where the next ten months take us. What about you, madame?”
“Oh, please call me Julia,” she said. “I’m—” She cut off when a stout man who had to be at least seventy walked into the room, wheeling a cart behind him, stacked with . . . dead pigeons.
He wore chef whites and a wiry mustache. His step slowed when he peered at Julia through his round, horn-rimmed glasses. “You must be the new student,” he said in French.
“I’m Julia Child,” she said, extending her hand.
“Max Bugnard.” He shook her hand, and Julia found his grip warm and inviting.
“Welcome,” he said, then turned to the other GIs. “Today, we’ll dress pigeons.”
Julia wanted to clap with glee, but she restrained herself. She’d be learning something, at last. The next hour was spent learning about how to properly prepare a pigeon, stuff it, and cook it. Julia’s turned out nearly perfect, and she was so proud of herself, she couldn’t stop grinning. After cleaning the preparation table with salt and vinegar, she rushed home to prepare lunch for Paul. She’d return later for the afternoon demonstration, and she couldn’t wait.
“Tomorrow night, I’m making dinner since Dort will be home early enough for it,” Julia announced to Paul when he walked into their apartment. “Pigeons rôtis délicieux. You’re going to love it.”
Paul crossed to her. “Good class this morning?”
“The best class. Sit down and eat, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Paul listened, laughing at the interactions with the GIs, and Julia realized that she was in heaven with such an instructor as Chef Max Bugnard. “He’s a darling little man. Very dignified yet warmhearted. He told me he knows every French dish imaginable. Did you know he worked with Chef Escoffier?”
Paul had been the one to tell her about the famous Escoffier.
“Bugnard has all kinds of experience in restaurants, galleys of steamships, and London’s Carlton Hotel,” she continued.
Paul listened to every word, asked a few questions, and fed Minette a few scraps at her perch on one of the kitchen chairs.
Julia told Paul how Max Bugnard began each morning with a flurry of instructions, demonstrating everything, including proper chopping techniques, like how to make the seven-sided cut on all vegetables. Bugnard explained everything he demonstrated, unloading volumes of details that made Julia’s mind spin. He laid out the elements of creating sauce bases, including soubis, madère, béchamel, bordelaise, hollandaise, and béarnaise, for starters. Then he moved on to the custards—the delectable crème anglaise and crème caramel . . . And the students didn’t just listen. They interrupted with questions, and the conversations twisted and turned, buzzing around Julia like a horde of bees. She fumbled to write everything down in her notebook.
Bugnard didn’t just cook one dish and have them learn it, but he cooked entire meals, from the appetizer to dessert. This helped the students balance their time while preparing multiple dishes and illustrated how to break down the steps, making them simple to follow.
After the morning sessions, she’d rush to the market, purchase everything, and experiment at home. Then she’d hurry back for the afternoon sessions that lasted until dark. Some nights, she made the recipes more than once until Paul had to drag her off to bed.
“Is it possible to be a Cordon Bleu widower?” he murmured against her ear as they lay in bed one night only a few weeks into classes. “We never go out anymore. I come home to a tornadoed kitchen, a wife elbow deep in stuffing a chicken, a duck, or a goose, and a mewing cat who can’t wait to sample what you prepare next.”
Julia laughed. Her stomach was full from all the cooking and eating that night, and she could have easily fallen off the cliff of sleep to Paul’s soothing baritone voice if he hadn’t expected an answer. During some cooking sessions, he’d help her in the kitchen, but mostly, she told him to read to her. Just as he had in Ceylon. His most recent picks had been Faulkner’s short stories and Boswell’s London Journal. “I’m right here, dearie,” she murmured. “You’re not a widower.” She turned to face him and looped her arms about his neck. “I’m . . . so thrilled to be in this class. I can’t learn everything fast enough. And the reward is eating the wonderful food after all the work.”
“And my stomach and palate thank you,” Paul said with a chuckle.
“The afternoon demonstration class today had my head spinning,” she said. “It’s like watching an orchestra of one person playing each musical instrument—and keeping the melody going. The instructors start everything from scratch; nothing is chopped or mixed beforehand. I took pages and pages of notes, although my handwriting is barely legible.”
“What was on the menu today?” Paul asked in a murmur.
“A woodcock roasted with vegetables, glazed carrots, rouget en lorgnette, and a dessert of hand-mixed chocolate ice cream with ganache spread between layers of cake. Oh, and buttercream icing, of course.”
“Of course.” Paul pulled her closer. “Your cooking is improving with each meal, and you have a new air of authority about you. In the past few weeks alone, you’ve made quiche Lorraine, rabbit terrine, Alsatian-style choucroute, chicken Marengo, spinach gnocchi . . . just for starters. If you’re going to keep up all this cooking, we need to do more than give our neighbors leftovers. We need additional people to join us at our little La Maison Schildt. Otherwise, I’m going to double in size.”
Julia nestled against him. “You’re probably right. Why don’t you invite a few people for tomorrow night. I’m going to make my best boeuf bourguignon yet.”
Chapter 23
Paris, France
November–December 1949
“In late 1949, the newspapers informed us that something called ‘television’ was sweeping the States like a hailstorm. People across the country, the papers said, were building ‘TV rumpus-rooms,’ complete with built-in bars and plastic stools, in order to sit around for hours watching this magical new box. There were even said to be televisions in buses and on streetcars, and TV advertising in all the subways. It was hard to imagine.”
—Julia Child
“What’s all this?” Paul asked when Julia led him to where she’d parked the Blue Flash in front of their building. He’d come home for lunch, but she needed some manpower first.
“I stopped to buy a few kitchen supplies at the BHV,” she said, opening the trunk with a flourish. The rainy day had morphed into a cloudy day, making the perfect shopping trip.
The trunk teemed with new pans, pots, casseroles, knives, choppers, a timing clock . . . and that was only the trunk. In the back seat, she’d added a scale, jars, skewers, grater, rolling pin, double broiler, and a marble slab.
It wasn’t her first shopping trip to Le Bazar de l’Hôtel de Ville and wouldn’t be her last.
Paul scratched at his forehead. “Where is all this going? The counters already look like a science lab.”
“It will fit,” Julia said in a cheerful tone. “You’ll see.”
Paul didn’t move for a moment, and she finally nudged him. “I have lunch to prepare, so the sooner the car is unloaded, the sooner you’ll eat.”
This sent Paul into action, and after multiple trips, Julia was happily preparing seafood risotto with her blue denim apron secured about her waist and a dish towel tucked under the apron strings.
Someone knocked on their door, and Paul went to answer it. Moments later, Dort arrived in the kitchen, a new polka-dotted scarf about her neck and smelling of Chanel N˚5. “Just in time for lunch, I see?”
Julia set a hand on her hip. “Just in time to set the table. Paul’s been busy.”
Paul huffed. “Carrying stacks of kitchenware up from the car. Have you ever seen so much stuff?”
“No . . .” Dort picked up one of the bowls. “Is that a new copper bowl?”
“It’s for beating eggs,” Julia said without looking up.
She sensed the exchanged silent looks between her husband and sister.
“Want a tour?” Paul asked. “Don’t touch anything, or it will all come tumbling down. Who knew we needed a long needle for larding roasts, three small frying pans that can be used only for crêpes—”
